Blade Runner

• Title
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Introduction
  
• Picture
  
• Chapter 1 Fingerprints
  
• Chapter 2 Made to Measure
  
• Chapter 3 The Princess and the Pugilist
  
• Chapter 4 Carpe Diem
  
• Chapter 5 The Coldest Summer
  
• Chapter 6 The First Time
  
• Chapter 7 One of a Kind? Normal versus Special
  
• Chapter 8 Golden Boy
  
• Chapter 9 Swimming against the Tide
  
• Chapter 10 The Finishing Line
  
• Chapter 11 Beijing
  
• Letter One: Carl Pistorius to Oscar Pistorius, Pretoria, 4 May 2008
  
• Letter Two: Henk Pistorius to Oscar Pistorius, Cape Town, 6 June 2008
  

BLADE RUNNER

Oscar Pistorius

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9780753521397

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Virgin 2009

First published in 2008 as
Dream Runner
by Rizzoli, RCS Libri, S.p.A., Milan

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Oscar Pistorius 2009

Translation copyright © Rebecca Servadio-Kenan 2009

Oscar Pistorius has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be
identified as the author of this work

Rebecca Servadio-Kenan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988 to be identified as the translator of this work

Image on page 145 © Getty Images

This book is substantially a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of
Oscar Pistorius. In some limited cases names of people have been changed to protect the privacy
of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such minor respects not affecting
the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9780753521397

Version 1.0

Pretoria, June 2008

'The real loser is never the person who crosses the finishing
line last. The real loser is the person who sits on the side, the
person who does not even try to compete.' My mother wrote
these words to me in a letter when I was still a small baby,
about five months before my surgeons performed my bilateral
amputation. She kept the letter for me to read as an
adult.

I have always wanted to participate and compete. I wanted
to run, to swim, to play cricket and rugby, to drive a car and,
of course, a motorbike. I have always wanted to live life
normally. To tell you the truth, I don't think of myself as
disabled. I have limits, but we all have limits and like anyone
else I also have many talents.

This attitude is integral to how my family approaches life
and their philosophy has made me the man I am today: 'This
is Oscar Pistorius, exactly as he should be. Perfect in himself.'

My brother, my sister and I were brought up with one iron
rule – no one was allowed to say: 'I can't.'

Perhaps this is what has made my life so special. Over the
years I have had the opportunity to speak with many people
(and I have also read their letters and messages to me), and
I have come to understand how my example can be an
inspiration to those who, like me, have experienced and
struggled with a physical problem, but who don't want to
give up and settle for second best. This can also be true for
others who have had to overcome obstacles of a different
nature in their lives.

It is for this reason that I have decided to tell my story: the
story of a young boy surrounded by love, support and the
courage of his family; of a young man who experienced the
most profound grief with the loss of his adored mother and
of a man who is chasing his dream – a dream to become an
athlete. Not a disabled athlete, simply an athlete.

Oscar

BLADE RUNNER

M
Y NAME IS
Oscar Carl Lennard Pistorius. I was born
to Sheila and Henk Pistorius on 22 November 1986
at the Sandton Clinic in Johannesburg. According to my
parents I was a beautiful baby, weighing in at a healthy 3
kilos and 300 grams, but unbeknownst to them, I had been
born with an important bone missing in each leg: the fibula.
Along with the tibia, this bone extends from the ankle to
the knee and supports the full weight of the body. In
addition my feet were malformed: they were lacking in the
outer part. Simply put, each foot had only two toes – the
big toe and the index – the inner bones and the heel. None
of the medical staff present at my birth noted the malformation
of my little feet; it was my father who first noticed
their difference, and so it was that my parents began asking
the first in a long series of questions. It was clear in their
minds that they would do whatever it was going to take to
find a solution.

Fortunately for me, I have never needed to press those
around me for answers: right from the start everything was
out in the open, and countless times I have heard the story
of the trips my parents made to various medical luminaries
to ask their advice in the months following my birth. My
parents have never been shy or embarrassed to discuss my
situation, both with me and in front of me, as well as my
siblings, or for that matter with the many friends and
acquaintances who made their way to our house for different
reasons and inevitably asked for updates on my medical
situation. My parents took the time to answer the questions
clearly and simply, explaining what they knew, why they had
set out on a pilgrimage of sorts to consult the best doctors in
the field and why they sought second or third (often totally
different) opinions on my case. Each step along the road gave
them greater knowledge, both of the physical problem and
what my options would be. No one was able to discourage
them. I have a profound respect for them because it cannot
have been easy, but then again the Pistoriuses are a stubborn
people.

The confusion must have been particularly difficult for my
parents because my situation was not straightforward: my
condition was both complicated and rare. With the malformation
of my lower legs at birth, the fact that I would never
walk and that I would be wheelchair-reliant seemed to many
a foregone conclusion. My parents saw things differently,
and so they began to research all the alternatives that would
allow me to lead the most 'normal' life possible. By the time
they came to a decision they had met with eleven amputation
specialists and worked their way through a barrage of ideas.

At the end of every consultation, my father would ask the
surgeon one question: 'If it was your child, and you were
unable to operate yourself, who would you turn to?' In this
way, my parents were able to tap into a network of
extraordinary surgeons and trusted hands; although this was
not absolute protection from charlatans, it was more effective
than you might initially expect.

Over time my father developed quite an expertise on the
subject: he had read and researched the condition extensively
and listened attentively to the explanations given by the
various experts, so that when he found himself in front of a
surgeon who recommended what was in his opinion too
drastic an amputation (i.e. above the knee as opposed to below
the knee, which made no sense given that the joint was
perfectly fine) he steadfastly refused to pay the bill. This is an
excellent example of the Pistorius attitude to life; my father
could not forgive the doctor the flippancy with which he had
given his advice. In his view it was professionally irresponsible.
The surgeon must have understood the error of his ways
because when my father replied to his bill with a bill of his own
itemising his own expenses, we never heard from him again.

Throughout that consultation period my parents kept an
archive, which contains all the medical opinions and documents
relating to my condition. They were totally preoccupied
by what and who I would become and also how, as
an adult, I would feel about their decision. They wanted to
make sure that if, when I looked back and reflected on their
choices, I was unhappy with the turns my life had taken, I
would be able to go back and understand the rationale
behind their decision. They had to take decisions on my
behalf, but the wide-ranging views of the various doctors
they had consulted made them doubly conscious of the
gravity of their choice. I can only imagine how hard that
decision must have been for them, and how heavily the
enormity of that responsibility must have weighed.

Certain doctors proposed to amputate the right foot only
and attempt reconstructive surgery on the left, as it was
slightly less malformed. After a worldwide search my parents
decided to approach the three doctors whom they had found
to be the best and ask them to join forces and discuss my
case. As luck would have it, one of these three doctors, Gerry
Versveld, was South African. Should my parents decide to go
ahead and agree to the procedure he would be the surgeon
chosen to perform the operation.

Gerry was convinced that if my parents were prepared to
make a bold and courageous decision and amputate both my
legs below the knee while I was still sufficiently young, I
would learn to walk with prostheses and would encounter
fewer problems. Basically, if the double amputation was
performed before I learnt to walk, I would never know what
it was like to walk on my own feet and so would not suffer
from the trauma of having lost them. Gerry also told my
parents that he had already successfully performed this type
of operation and that the results were very good. In addition,
he had presented my case for discussion at an important
American international amputation congress in which the
top specialists worldwide were participating, in order to
garner further information and generate more opinions on
the case: he had encountered unanimous support for the
option of a bilateral amputation.

What proved decisive for my parents was when they asked
to meet a couple of young children who had already
undergone the operation, in order to see how they walked
and to gain an idea of what they could expect for my future.
They were amazed as they arrived at the Prosthetics Centre
in Pretoria when they realised that the young man they had
been watching run around the garden a few minutes earlier
was the same young man who was waiting to meet them.
They had never imagined that anyone who had undergone a
bilateral amputation could be so agile and were terribly
impressed by the young man's quiet confidence as he calmly
told them his story.

Mirroring what certain doctors had suggested in my case,
this boy, who was twelve at the time of the meeting, had
undergone various reconstructive surgeries as a baby. Somehow,
and with considerable effort on his part, he had learnt
to walk, but it was not easy, and he moved with such
awkwardness and lack of coordination that his first two
years at school were nightmarish as the children continually
mocked him. The youngsters teased and excluded him from
their games because he was different and they assumed his
lopsided gait meant that he was mentally deficient. He was a
lonely and sad child. Then his parents met Gerry Versveld,
and together they decided to abandon the project of reconstructive
surgery and moved to amputate both legs. After the
operation, and with prostheses, he learnt to walk easily and
even play sport. His family decided to change schools and
give him a fresh start as an 'ordinary child', and he was now
very happy and felt he and his parents had made the right
decision.

Meeting this young man made all the difference for my
parents. There before them was an adolescent who was
happy, healthy, sporty and independent, a perfect example of
what my parents hoped I could become in the future. His
opportunities and freedoms were exactly what they dreamed
of for me.

And so, months after that initial round-table discussion,
the decision was taken to undergo the amputation. When I
was eleven months old Dr Gerry Versveld went ahead and
operated. He is a wonderful human being and a true
gentleman; over the last twenty years he has become a dear
friend to both my family and me. We have a very special
relationship: Gerry has played a vital role in my life, both as
a physician and as a friend, and I was simply delighted when
he travelled to support me during the Paralympics in Athens
in 2004.

One of my father's favourite stories from this period in our
lives concerns the day of my operation. He was out of town
on business and in the midst of an important meeting when
the tension proved too much. He stood up, excused himself,
and explained that he needed to leave as his son was
undergoing a bilateral amputation. He took the next available
flight but only arrived at the hospital that evening, long
after the operation was over. As he stepped into the ward he
heard me wailing in agony. He asked the nurses if I had been
given enough or the correct dose of pain-relief medication,
and as none of the nurses seemed capable of answering his
question, with typical Pistorius grit he managed to get his
hands on my medical folder. He discovered to his horror that
as the nurses had been unable to find the correct pain-relief
medication they had given me a much milder analgesic. He
immediately phoned Gerry, who rushed to the hospital still
in his pyjamas and kicked up a storm; from then on I was
treated like a little prince.

Just over six months later, at only seventeen months old, I
received my first pair of prosthetic legs. Constructed of
plaster and mesh, with a lycra 'skin' that was even flesh-coloured,
they were made to measure for me and surprisingly
comfortable. I loved them; from that day onwards I became
invincible, a wild child. It became my raison d'être to find the
highest and most unlikely places to climb, succeed and then
start all over again. My energy was boundless, and I saw no
reason why my new legs would not be able to take me
everywhere I needed or wanted to go.

I believe that it was at this time in my life that my
personality was shaped, and that my family was instrumental
in laying the foundation stones of my competitive nature and
of the man that I am today. Carl, my brother, was eighteen
months old when I was born, and it was clear from the start
that I would follow him wherever he led me, and certainly into
any mischievous adventure. He would push me to my limit and
then beyond; we were just like Buzz and Woody in
Toy Story
.

Wherever Carl went, I was by his side, and our parents,
instead of stopping me or slowing us down – after all, I was
a child that people labelled 'disabled' – pushed me forward,
encouraging me to try everything, especially every type of
physical activity. With hindsight, I have begun to appreciate
just how difficult it must have been for them to give me all
that freedom, fighting their natural instincts to shield me
from potential harm. In allowing me that freedom my
parents taught me to be independent, to defend myself and
to take care of myself whatever the circumstances, however
daunting the challenge.

By the age of two I was a real menace, with blond
shoulder-length curls and a short fringe (I am still mortified
today when I see pictures of myself and the mullet); it was
around this time that I received my first pair of legs with the
wooden foot part covered in rubber. In the eighties Nike had
not yet started producing Nike Total 90s for babies, but I
loved my little shoes with Mickey Mouse emblazoned on
their toes. They were extremely cool and allowed me to start
putting distance between the more traditional trainers –
known in South Africa as 'takkies' – and myself.

At around three years of age I began fully to understand
that my feet were different. I had no interest in whether they
were better or worse than other feet, just that they were
different. Every morning while Carl put on his shoes, I would
slip on my prostheses; it was all the same to me. I had two
pairs of shoes: my Mickey Mouse pair was for everyday use
and another smarter version for my Sunday best and parties.
If for some reason I missed church on Sunday I could wear
the same pair of shoes for two weeks solid. I realise that it
may strike the reader as odd, but the thought that I could
wear the same shoes for a hundred days in a row and they
would still smell new tickles me silly even now. I consider it
one of the advantages of not having any feet.

In February 1989, Aimée our sister was born. My mother
used to tell me that during her pregnancy Carl and I never
left her side, always wanting to stroke her tummy. We would
squabble endlessly, saying, 'She is my sister!', 'No, she is MY
sister!' From birth I was spellbound by her feet and kept
kissing them. As a small child I was unable to pronounce her
name and so I called her 'Gugu'. She would be asleep in her
cradle and I would bound up, welcoming her with a 'Helloo
Gugu' or by humming her a tune. Inevitably I would wake
her, which would then set her off crying, so my parents took
to hiding her in places I could not disturb her. I don't
remember much more from those days – I was too little – but
clearly we have always been a tight-knit family.

Then came the dogs. Each of us had one and, what's more,
we had been allowed the dog of our choice. Carl chose a
Doberman, Aimée a basset-hound and I selected an American
pit-bull called Vivian who, despite the stereotype, was not at
all aggressive. If the truth were told Vivian was entirely
useless and rather dim and she just slept all day long. Vivian
also snored, very loudly. Once my father recorded her while
she was sleeping and then went to my mother and played it
to her, tricking her into thinking she was listening to herself.
Our mother fell for the ploy hook, line and sinker. She was
so embarrassed that she went out and acquired the latest
'cure all' medicines. The entire family played along and I
don't think we ever told her that it was a joke. What my
father never knew was that my mother had bought the
incredibly expensive magical anti-snore cushion on his credit
card (it cost well over £400 in today's currency). Unfortunately,
after a while, Vivian's personality changed and we
caught her attacking one of the tortoises we had in the
garden. My dad became increasingly concerned that Vivian
might do us children some harm, and eventually took her to
a veterinary practice. We never saw her again.