Paranoia, fear and loathing

 

 I saw a bumper sticker once that read: "Just because you say I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me."
 We are all the victims and the products of paranoia at times.
 Not a day goes by where there is not a grisly murder perpetrated by someone from a particular race group or a crime committed by a faction of society different from the one with which we identify.
 And left unquestioned, our prejudices and paranoia grow bigger and more terrifying every day.
 I am not immune. I grew up in apartheid, South Africa and have prejudices. I am not proud of it, it's just the way it is - or hopefully was.
 In a few hours I will attend my beloved father's funeral memorial service. He died last week after a long period of illness where he suffered terribly and, in the end, required 24/7 home care, as he was incapable of speaking, moving or even swallowing. Aged 80, my mother needed assistance but simply could not afford the exorbitant fees that professional nursing services wanted.
 And then help came, from the most unlikely of sources. The people who arrived to care for my father, in the last weeks of his life, wanted nothing in return. They washed him, they fed him, they slept beside his bed, they comforted my mother, and they hugged me when I was overcome with emotion and though they only knew him for a few weeks they shed tears when he took his last breath at 18h00 last Sunday.

Guardian Angels

 They were indeed guardian angels -- and they were also the subjects of my personal paranoia and prejudices that've accompanied me throughout my life.
 I felt, ashamed, ridiculous and incredibly stupid and will forever be grateful to them, not only for what they did for my father but for forcing me to look within myself and ask questions.
 My latest short story "I Know You Plan to Kill Me" examines these questions.

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