Oscar: An Accident Waiting to Happen (4 page)

On one level I think Oscar really thrived in our large and robust family.

I understood his need to belong all too well. Since my own parents had divorced when I was a child, I felt we had something in common and I could empathise with him. The thing is, in all the time that Oscar was a part of our lives, he never let on that his parents’ divorce had affected him in any negative way. But his silence around the subject probably said much more than words.

What he did mention a couple of times was that he had had absolutely no communication with his dad for years, although he never elaborated on the reason why.

But seeing him relaxing and laughing at family events, bonding with my kids – especially the boys – and watching sport on TV together, brought joy to my heart and helped me to understand just how much he enjoyed being a part of our family unit.

The one thing I noticed quite early on, after meeting him back in mid-2011, was that he had the air of a child who had had to fend for himself early on in life. I think this had a lot to do with the divorce but it also had to do with the way his father
taught Carl and Oscar to be tough and never complain. In
Blade Runner
Oscar tells how the words “I can’t” were forbidden in the Pistorius household.

But there were times, when he wasn’t aware that I was watching, that I sometimes caught a glimpse of a very lost and lonely soul. Despite all his success and the vast material things he had, I had a sense that deep within he was filled with a kind of pain that was hard to fix.

I have often wondered why I felt such a strong urge to mother him. Maybe it was because I instinctively knew about the hole in his soul, despite his determined bravado.

But then, I suppose, ever since I can remember, being maternal has been a very central aspect of my identity. Even as a little girl I was mothering anything and everything in sight. I could never resist holding babies, or playing with little kids.

But when it was time to have children, I had to endure a long period of sadness and disappointment before my children were born, making them doubly precious to me. When I was just 25, and already married for three years to my husband, Henry, I experienced real loss for the first time in my life. Intent on starting a much-longed-for family, and halfway through my first pregnancy, I inexplicably miscarried. What had been a simple routine checkup and scan with the doctor became one of the most shocking days of my life when the doctor discovered our baby had no heartbeat.

I was consumed by a huge numbing grief. We asked no questions at the time and we were told nothing. I never knew if I had lost a little boy or a girl.

But the pain didn’t stop there. The emotional roller coaster continued for the next four years, during which I lost a total of five unborn babies. The joy and excitement of falling pregnant and the devastation of losing baby after baby was indescribably hard to bear. Each loss became more painful and devastating than the previous one.

At a point of total devastation, we finally decided to adopt and successfully went through the whole lengthy legal process of qualifying to be adoptive parents.

But then, out of the blue, I unexpectedly fell pregnant again and, this time, managed to carry the baby full term. Finally, seven years into our marriage, our first child, our baby daughter Kerri–Lee, was born in April. After she was born, all my difficulties with having children suddenly seemed to disappear.

Our next three children, Tyron, Samantha and Greg, would all be born over the next five years.

I now had my perfect pack of dream children. Who would have believed that after losing six babies, after all that heartache and believing I would never hold my own child, we now had four!

I have never forgotten those years of loss and the anxiety that I would never hold a child of my own. I still retain the scars of what I lost and the feelings of utter gratitude for what I have today. And I know that I will carry them forever. Over time, the memory of those sad years has reinforced my impulse to mother.

With Oscar, there were times that you had to be very careful not to let him know that you could see his carefully hidden vulnerabilities and his neediness. Most of the time he liked to give the impression that he had everything under control and that he was more than okay. (There were other times, of course, when the carefully walled-off emotions broke through the barriers and floods of grief and pain would threaten to drown everything in sight.)

I have seen that extreme control in kids who have been to boarding school or who have come from broken homes, whether due to divorce or the death of a parent.

When Oscar was ready for high school, I am sure his mother would probably have wanted him to stay at home, but for some reason I am not aware of, she agreed to let him go to boarding school. In his book
Blade Runner
, a whole chapter is dedicated to attending Pretoria Boys High School (a well-known English boarding school, established in 1901). He enrolled as a boarder for the five years of high school. Although a highly respected institution, Boys High used to be well known for its controversial initiation practices, according to some past pupils. While my kids were being tended to and nurtured daily, Oscar was having to cope in a very challenging macho environment. There was no quarter
given to those who were judged to be “sissies” or who showed vulnerability and emotion, let alone who cried.

There were no allowances or special treatments for Oscar due to his disability; in fact, if anything, the fact he wore prosthetics made things even more difficult for him. Despite trying to make light of “schoolboy” pranks in the book
Blade Runner
, one incident he endured at school always strikes me as particularly sadistic.

In his first year of high school he awoke one night to see the dormitory in flames. Reaching for the foot of his bed where he had left his prosthesis, he discovered to his horror they were missing. With flames engulfing the room and boys scrambling to get out, Oscar began to panic badly, as he was unable to escape what seemed to be a life-threatening situation. Suddenly, the flames disappeared and his peers came running into the room, laughing. They had doused the steel cupboards with lighter fuel and hidden Oscar’s legs as a joke to “welcome” him. Incidents like these were common practice in this all-boys’ school. Oscar was a particularly vulnerable and easy target.

Losing his mother at 15, and estranged from his disciplinarian dad, Henke, while still a teenager, he chose to live on his own after he finished high school. Despite his determination to be independent, he must nonetheless have felt very isolated at a tender age. He must also have found it very difficult to trust people as a result of all these losses and changes.

While he spoke fondly of his brother Carl, their relationship was not without its ups and downs. Although there had been a time after their mother’s death when they had not been in communication, by the time we met Oscar they had grown extremely close once again. Carl had become quite religious and was a good support system and mentor for his younger brother. Sammy spoke fondly of Carl, and experienced him as friendly and kind on the few occasions that they interacted.

Aimee, three years younger than Oscar, acted like an older sister or even like his mother – she regularly helped him pack for his trips, kept track of his diary and even made his hair appointments for him. On a few occasions he told us how emotional Aimee was
and that she would often burst into tears. She was only 13 when their mom died and was very affected by the tragedy. Sammy and Aimee got on well but never became very close. Oscar often spoke about how particular he was about the men Aimee dated and that he was always concerned that they treated her with respect. “That is the way women should be treated,” he always said. Ironically, while he was very overprotective of his sister, he appeared to treat women the way he didn’t want men to treat her.

Whereas our family saw each other all the time, Oscar saw his siblings pretty infrequently due to the fact that he travelled so much. I think the time he spent away made him feel isolated and he often told me how hard it was coming back after long periods of time spent away and trying to reintegrate himself back into a social life that had carried on for everyone else.

On one of the occasions that Sammy met Oscar’s siblings, Carl invited her to join him and Aimee for dinner at Oscar’s beautiful home for the anniversary of their mom’s birthday, 8 May.

Sammy told me how Oscar and his siblings were very emotional that evening. They all sat outside and had a lovely dinner. She told me later how welcome she felt that night. But I don’t remember them ever getting together as a family again until they joined him in London in August.

After relocating from the rat race in Joburg, our new home in Somerset West was a perfect place for Oscar to escape to. Built on an eco-estate, it’s set against the backdrop of a mountain range with a dam lapping at the edge of the house. Opening onto a view of the sea, there is amazing beauty everywhere one looks. It’s like a piece of paradise. We have little buck roaming around and our garden path leads straight down to the water, to a log garden where we often sit and have dinner, watching the ducks and the fishermen.

Sam and I often run on the beach in the mornings. The kids take the dogs for walks up onto our mountain or onto the beach – it’s a fantastic life.

But, perhaps best of all, we get to watch the sunsets. Every single evening they are different and more and more beautiful; every night God paints this amazing picture just for us to warm our souls.

It was here that Oscar was able to leave behind and forget all the pressures and expectations of the outside world and relax in our home and make himself comfortable. He got on well with all of us, especially our other children, Kerri-Lee, Ty and Greg and my husband, Henry.

I run an open house, bursting at the seams on weekends with young people who often call and visit when they need a “mom”. I love cooking and feeding everyone, too. Our youngest son Greg often tells people, “My mom would have had 10 children”, and I always say that no, I would have stopped after four. But actually, when I look at all the kids congregating in our home, I realise that I have “adopted” many more.

So, just as with all the other kids who flocked to our new home, Oscar was welcomed into this big happy family with open arms.

On a certain level, even though Oscar seemed to thrive in our family, I can imagine that all our closeness might have been almost too much for him to handle, pushing certain buttons that created deep feelings of inadequacies and resentment.

I think while outwardly he bonded with us and he experienced real happiness being part of the family, he also confessed a number of times that he sometimes felt “envious” of the family and the closeness we enjoyed. And he admitted to us that there was something inside him that made him do stupid, self-destructive things, especially when everything was going well. In fact, he confessed to me a number of times his own self-sabotaging patterns both in emails and phone calls.

An incident in spring 2012 illustrates how Oscar’s perplexing behaviour could ruin an otherwise happy family gathering. Sammy and Oscar had been going out for about eight months at this stage, so we were all pretty relaxed with each other by then. It was Greg’s 16th birthday, which we were celebrating during the weekend of 29 April 2012, just a few weeks before Oscar left for Europe to start serious training for the London Olympics. From the moment Oscar arrived that Friday in Somerset West, it was clear that he was tired.

I knew he was under a lot of pressure because of the Olympics, but I also sensed he might be in one of his black moods, so I tried to keep things upbeat. We had decided to go out for dinner all together to start the weekend celebrations but he said he didn’t want to because he was too tired and couldn’t handle being seen in public. I had become quite used to that excuse from Oscar, which he used quite regularly. On one level I understood it, but I also found it strange as he was quite comfortable being out in public when it suited him, like going out with friends ’til all hours of the night in highly public places like clubs and restaurants.

So we ordered sushi in, his mood eased up, and as the night progressed, he got more relaxed and we ended up having a lovely dinner and a joy-filled evening. We spent time watching all his ads and clips on YouTube – there was one particular snippet filmed at Pretoria Boys High that I really loved.

The next day his best friend Alex joined us for the weekend. We had known Alex and his siblings for years, so he fitted right into our family group.

On Saturday morning Samantha, Oscar, Alex and I went wine tasting, at Warwick Wine Estate, a beautiful wine farm with green lawns, huge shady trees and a dam, just outside Stellenbosch.

We had the most amazing day. When Oscar was on top form he was just fantastic; he had a great sense of humour, and thankfully, unlike the night before, on this day he had brought his A game.

While taking a tour of the estate, Sam and Oscar drank out of the love cup, especially created for two people in love, which Oscar had specially requested. When they drank out of it, everyone around them was struck by what a divinely romantic couple they were.

All that day, Oscar was very demonstrative in his affection for Sam and vice versa; they both seemed to bring out the sweetest parts of each other. Sam loved it when Oscar held her on his lap and this Saturday was one of the loveliest times I remember of them being together.

We got home that evening, had an early dinner, and went to bed. The next day was the actual day of Greg’s 16th birthday. I got
up early and asked everyone to sign the card. I must say I did find it quite odd that he hadn’t bought Greg a present, not even a token gift or a card or anything. I had begun noticing this side of Oscar. Despite being incredibly well off – he was earning millions a year at this stage – he found it very hard to give. He seemed to hold on to everything. He was always saying how much richer everyone else was than he was.

The day before, for instance, while we were driving to the wine tasting, Oscar had begun talking about all the Nike shoes he had – he used to get in the region of R100 000 ($10 000) worth of free sponsored Nike goods every month – whatever he wanted, he could get.

So as he was driving he jokingly said that he wanted to ask Nike to give him a pair of shoes in every age from baby size to adult, so that when he had kids one day, he would have a pair for each milestone. We all laughed and enjoyed the story, but there was an awkwardness left hanging in the air after he finished.

He always used to say to Sam that she should choose a pair of Nikes, and he would get them for her, but in all the time they were together he never produced them… I found it strange that he didn’t seem to have any recollection of his promise as he told us the story of Nikes and his future children.

Sam, who was studying for her marketing degree and working part time for me, wasn’t earning much money, but always gave him presents – beautiful Christmas and birthday presents – whereas he almost never gave her anything, not even a Christmas card. It was very strange that he couldn’t even give a token of his good wishes.

It’s not that Sam expected it, but she was over the moon when he did give her a bunch of flowers on Valentine’s Day.

He would often say things like: “I’m shopping for your Christmas present” or “I am going to get you this or that.” There were always promises, but then nothing would come of them.

I was often amazed that he would come visit or stay at our house and never bring a thing, not a slab of chocolate, or a bottle of wine, as most people would, when visiting. It just never seemed to enter his head. He didn’t seem able to think beyond his own needs.

But once, when we were all out with friends of his and I took out my purse to pay, his friend stopped me, saying Oscar would never allow me to pay, as he always took care of the bill. I noticed then that whenever there were friends of his out with us, he always paid the bill graciously.

I must say he was generous to his brother and sister – he bought Aimee a car, he often gave to charity and he gave freely to people like car guards and the homeless.

But over time I got to witness something in Oscar that just couldn’t or wouldn’t allow himself to give and I don’t only mean material things, I mean giving from the heart, from a space within. It seemed to stem from a much broader, much deeper, much sadder place… I think it had a lot to do with him feeling isolated, like a poor neglected little boy who had no real family. It was as though he felt deprived on a very core level and as a result it felt to me like he couldn’t relate to the emotional needs of those around him. In fact, when he was around our family, amongst people who found it easy to give and take, I think sometimes it brought out the worst in him. There were times that he appeared to me to almost regress into a dark and semi-infantile space after spending time with us, like during that weekend of Greg’s 16th birthday.

Greg had also invited Ashley, a good friend, who flew in from Johannesburg for the celebrations, and Greg had made a plan to go ten-pin bowling. We Googled places and found what sounded like a cool alley at Canal Walk in Cape Town.

As usual, my older son Ty, like a typical varsity student, had a Sunday-morning hangover and was running late, so things started a bit slowly. Oscar began to get antsy. Gone was his laid-back, relaxed vibe from the previous day. He seemed anxious and kept saying we needed to get moving.

When Oscar was in a good mood, he was great, but as soon as he got into a foul one, it was hard not to be affected by it. I always felt very uncomfortable when his moods switched from good to bad.

We were still getting ready when Oscar started to become restless, pacing, getting up, looking for things in his bags, then
sitting down again. Eventually I couldn’t take the tension and told Sam, Oscar and Alex to go ahead to Canal Walk and we would meet them there once Ty arrived. They went ahead and once my oldest son got to the house, we were ready to join Sam, Oscar and Alex who were having breakfast at Mugg & Bean.

They had just finished breakfast when we arrived. We sat down to order and, as we did, Oscar immediately wanted to get up and do something else. I kept quiet, trying not to get tense, since it was Greg’s birthday.

Oscar, Alex and Sam decided to go and see what the ten-pin bowling looked like. Off they went while we finished our breakfast and waited for Greg’s friend Ashley to join us.

As we were finishing, Sam phoned and said, “Mom, the ten-pin bowling here isn’t nice, I don’t think we should play.” Well that really infuriated me, since the ten-pin bowling was Greg’s special request; it had nothing to do with whether Oscar liked it or not. But Sammy kept insisting that the ten-pin bowling really wasn’t “very nice”. I assumed she was being prompted by Oscar in the background.

So we paid the bill and joined them. Even though we had come all the way into town because Greg had wanted to play, eventually they convinced all of us that the ten-pin bowling was a bad idea. So we returned to our cars, still unsure of what we should do next. I could see my birthday son was disappointed.

It was becoming obvious that this day was no longer about Greg, it was becoming all about Oscar.

Now with our plans in pieces, everyone got on their phones, trying to decide what to do. Oscar suddenly said he wanted to go back home, with the usual “I can’t handle being seen in public” line. Then Sammy and Oscar convinced everyone to go to Caprice in Camps Bay for cocktails. It was lunch time by now, that’s how much time we had wasted, just milling around doing nothing.

The weather wasn’t great, it was overcast and windy, perfect ten-pin bowling weather, but not really suitable for Camps Bay cocktails. We all arrived at Caprice and everyone ordered drinks. I felt very uncomfortable – it was my 16-year-old son’s birthday,
so going for cocktails was not actually appropriate. Here he had his young friend with him, and they were wanting to have fun, go bowling, not spend hours sipping on adult cocktails.

At that point, Oscar got on his two phones,
SMS
ing, instant messaging,
BBM
ing and intently texting. He definitely seemed agitated, angry about something. It felt like something was up. But he wasn’t divulging anything. I was acutely aware of how all of this was ruining what should have been Greg’s special day, and was very distressed.

With each text it seemed his mood was growing fouler. It was clear there was something amiss.

Later, I wondered who on earth he could have been having such intense communication with. I couldn’t help but feel suspicious. What was he hiding?

As the afternoon progressed, from initially being irritable and anxious, he now grew incredibly quiet and sullen. The atmosphere at the table was heavy from his mood. I kept trying to keep the fun element going, for my son; I was all too aware that this day was being entirely spoiled by Oscar’s strange behaviour. What really struck me was how unaware he was of the uncomfortable atmosphere he was creating, of how inappropriate his behaviour was. What should have been a joyous occasion was now ruined.

Finally I asked him what was wrong.

He said he couldn’t talk about it, didn’t want to be there… wanted to go home. He mumbled something about one of his friends’ dads passing away, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Now the only reason we were at Caprice in the first place was because of Oscar and Sam. I certainly didn’t want to be there! I felt anxious and sad and sick to my stomach that Greg’s birthday had turned out this way, after all my planning. I should have put my foot down at Canal Walk and insisted we play ten-pin bowling. But now it was too late.

Eventually I said to Oscar, “You know what, let’s just pack up and go.” Then he smiled and I told him, ironically, that this was the first time he had smiled all day.

I suggested we all go home, hire a few movies, get takeaways and try to salvage what little was left of Greg’s birthday, so we went back to Somerset West.

Once we were all back home, my older son Tyron told me how, all the way home, Oscar had shouted and sworn at his friend Alex who was driving the car.

Oscar and Alex then picked up some exercise gear and went straight to the gym. Not a word was spoken – no apology, nothing. Not a single word of acknowledgement that he had ruined the day. That was Oscar.

In my opinion, Oscar fell easily into playing the role of a victim, the main star in his own tragic movie. It was as though he had a screen filtering out the world, like he couldn’t see anything else besides what
he
felt, what
he
needed. Over the time we knew him, the hole in his soul seemed to get bigger and bigger. He had a constant need to fill it up with adulation and attention from admirers, especially from beautiful women; indeed, this need was so apparent in Oscar, it appeared to have no bounds.