Blade Runner Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  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

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

  Virgin Books

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.virginbooks.com

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:

  www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

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

  ISBN: 9780753521397

  Version 1.0

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 1

  Fingerprints

  MY 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 produ
cing 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.

 
-->