It’s Father’s Day, and I’m feeling robbed

I believe he let his pride get the better of him, when there is medication out there to help the immune system fight the disease, writes Nomfundo Xulu

When I gave my father a call for Father’s Day last year, we had a long chat about life, work, my relationship and all kinds of interesting issues. I did not expect that it would be the last Father’s Day call I would ever make.

A week later at 2.30am, I received a call from my stepsister, telling me that ubaba uses’shiyile (dad has left us). I hung up on her and spent the next five minutes in bed.

I was trying to figure out what she was on about because when I had spoken to bawe (as I used to call my dad) just two days before her call, he was in high spirits and sounded happy about a new company he had opened up.

For the first time in about a month, I was able to tell him about the difficulties I was having in life without worrying about his health.

It was a Sunday morning when we had chatted on the phone, and he told me to come home for lunch so we could chat further.

I told him I would come the following Wednesday after work but he never made it to Wednesday. He could not hold on for that long.

Whatever it was that was eating him up, it was stronger than him and it took him away before I got the chance to say goodbye.

I’m still overwhelmed with guilt that I was too busy with my own life to see my father for the last time.

I keep thinking that maybe I would have seen something that nobody else could see in his eyes and maybe I could have heard his desperate cry for help. Maybe he wanted me to come home so that he could confide in me and maybe, just maybe, I would have known exactly how to help him.

Call it denial or just plain insanity, but the morning I heard that I would never see my father again, I refused to accept it and a part of me probably never will.

I couldn’t believe that my father, who promised to walk me down the aisle one day, had allowed some sickness to get the better of him.

He had been complaining about breathing problems for a month or two but he never made it sound like something serious.

But seeing him lying in his bed, neatly dressed in his pyjamas, eyes slightly open and without the slightest heart beat, made it clear to me that whatever it was that had been eating away at my dad was nothing small.

At that moment, looking at my stone-cold father, I wailed and it dawned on me that I would not be receiving that daily 5am call that once irritated me.

I realised that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my dad’s contagious laugh and his bass voice when he sang along to his favourite old school gospel songs.

I tried waking him up, just in case he was pulling a terrible prank on all of us — in vain.

I received an autopsy report stating that bawe had died of a combination of pneumonia and bronchitis.

I’m no doctor and my father was no saint, so I already suspected that an HIV-related disease might have been the cause of his death.

The autopsy report increased my suspicion. As far as I know, getting those two infections is unusual when someone has a fully functional immune system.

To put my mind at ease, I decided to ignore it because, firstly, he had looked extremely healthy for a 57-year-old and hadn’t show any sign of having HIV.

Secondly, if he had indeed died from an HIV-related infection, I knew I would never forgive him for not disclosing to the one person who would never have judged him. So I decided to block it out.

But four months after my father had been buried, my stepmother gave me the call I had been dreading.

She said: Ngiyagula — ubaba wakho ungishiye nokugula okubi (I’m sick, your father has left me with an ugly sickness).

I was more shocked than I thought I would be — and the anger I had been suppressing for so long just broke free.

For a few months I cried, not because I was sad that I had lost my father but because I was depressed that he had not told me he had HIV. I felt betrayed by him. I believe he let his pride get the better of him when there is medication out there to help the immune system fight the disease.

My father has left about 20 children orphaned and I’m angry because his death was unnecessary. It hurts to know that he lied to my face when I asked him if he thought he could possibly have HIV because of his rather promiscuous lifestyle.

I guess my asking was like a slap in the face and he told me that the doctors he had been seeing had checked for everything and found nothing but TB, which he was taking medication for.

It’s Father’s Day and I’m feeling robbed because my father is not here with me. He would have turned 58 this Tuesday and we would have been discussing what to do for his 60th.

He is missing out on all the soccer action. He was so passionate about the sport — and even coached some of today’s soccer heroes.

He always said that this year’s Confederations Cup would prove that the South African soccer team was ready for the 2010 Fifa World Cup. I would just laugh at him.

As angry as I am at him, I love him and I will forever treasure the memories I have of him. I love my dad so much and I feel honoured to have known him.

The thoughts I have of the good days with him make me realise that I need to come to terms with the fact that he may have never tested for HIV and possibly did not know. Or maybe he was ignorant and believed that the social stigma attached to the virus would make us see him differently as a person.

I don’t know what the truth surrounding his death is, and I possibly never will.

Nevertheless, I miss him and wish he had hung around a little longer. He was so young and strong for his age.

He was no angel — but my father was definitely my light and I hope his story will be a light for many other fathers like him.