Death - By Carine Hartman

Written By: Carine Hartman

Category: Creative Non-Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the profound narrative "Death," Carine Hartman delves into the intricate emotions surrounding loss and the ensuing journey of resilience. As a participant in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Hartman presents a compelling piece in the category of Creative Non-Fiction. The submission captures the heartache and inner turmoil faced when confronted with the inevitable reality of death, offering readers an unfiltered glimpse into personal grief and the strength required to navigate it.

About the Work

Carine Hartman's "Death" is an evocative exploration of the raw, emotional aftermath of losing a loved one. Through vivid and poignant storytelling, she captures the tumultuous journey of grief, anger, and acceptance. The narrative is rich with personal reflections, intimate dialogues, and striking imagery that convey a deep sense of vulnerability and strength. The piece resonates with themes of love, resilience, and the unyielding human spirit in the face of profound loss.

Death

Original Submission by Carine Hartman

Death visited me. Full-on with its black tentacles. And it’s not pretty.

I know.

As you do. We all read the handbook. We all know about grief, separation anxiety, anger, acceptance. Four stages, they call it? Well, they know nothing.

Because that’s my beef with Death: anger.

Not because You took my Beloved. He died beautifully. He wanted to – and had to. His body was broken; eaten away by melanoma cancer.

He wanted to see the sea one last time? We went. I knew he was dying. As did he. We just didn’t know it would be six days later.

For the first time in four months the kids and I heard the words we never wanted to hear: “I’m dying. Maybe tomorrow”.

I now know he had a calm; an acceptance that I didn’t even comprehend then. He spoke wisely, with no tears: ‘Lovey, I need to talk to you about sex. I need to acknowledge that I failed you the last six months.” And I needed to hear just that. “That’s why I’ve put on weight; I am sexually frustrated,” I teared. And he absolved me: “Do what you need to do…” I left throwing the kids a victory sign, glibly declaring: “My fat days are over.” Not knowing that was all he had to say to me.

When the boys partied and grabbed each other by the throat he sent me away. Each boy had Dad’s wisdom: not for me to know; not for me to pry into. I got called in to hear a clear picture of each and every child and how I must handle him. And her, our 10-year-old Emma. He had but one word: “Precious.”

And then he wasted away.

I cut the holiday short with one night and chose to speed through from early evening just to get him home: hospital. At 170 km/h we went through the silent, dark night. Him touching my knee: “Look at the stars.” A million milky ways looked down on us. And the last reassurance I had to give: “Lovey, do we have money in the bank?” “Yes.” “Good.”

By 1 am he was at the emergency room. Frail. And a freak. Every staff member on duty came to stare. But still him and I joked and loved each other. Just before sunrise I was in my bed. So, forgive me, I only woke up at lunchtime taking the jammies and toothpaste. With little Ems.

And our lives changed forever.

Dad wanted to say… “Send Ems out, please,” he pleaded. She stood outside the door. And I heard the harshest words ever: “Lovey, I need to die. They say human instinct is to live? Mine is to die. I need to tell you, in authority. Tell Them. I need to die”

Ems is back. I tell her; in front of him. And he talks and talks to her: “I need you to remember me strong… Not like this…” Her heart is broken. As is mine.

I tell Them: “No more food. No more medicine. Rodney wants to die.” We cry – and phone the boys; all three. They must come.

They did. Ollie the same day; Just from Cape Town sent a goodbye letter. “Mommy, please read it to Dad.” I phoned Rodney that night to tell him: “Yes. I’ve told Them you want to die. No food. No nothing. But don’t die yet; I’m bringing Justin’s letter…”

I did. On our 32nd anniversary. Just to remind him we did That Thing on 18 May 1979. He plays with his wedding ring and asks me to keep it. “My gift to you: a long holiday from me.” And he read Just’s letter. For a full half hour. I see him slipping in and out; and rub his hand to keep him with me: “Darling, nice and calming as it is, you are letting me slip into my comfort zone. I need to read. So stop it.

“What a beautiful letter from a son to his father.” Words he tells Justin hardly an hour later when he lands from the fair Cape. “But Mommy, he is gone. And so happy when he talks to whoever in his fantasy world.”

I know the end is here. But Ems wants to see her dad. “Please? One more time?” We go at 4 pm and stay exactly 5 minutes. His eyes are rolling. But he still loves us. “My darlings. Don’t go.” We do. And walking out of the hospital full knowing we’ll never see him again, my precious one states matter-of-factly: “Mommy, this is not a mean wish, but I wish my daddy would die.”

He did. Beautifully. At midnight.

And then Death reared its ugly head.

Or the black dog. Thirteen years old he gets rolled under a car when I leave to organise the funeral of R14 000. That nobody asked me whether I can afford. I laughed.

Then the funeral on Friday. “Awesome,” as 600-times world boxing champ Brian Mitchell puts it. But not if you wake up the next morning to a geyser that is running cold; or automated gates that just started opening averse; or hearing from your bank that your dormant account has been closed down just as someone promised to pay live money into it.

So I scream at some incompetent woman at business banking, explaining why I’m screaming. She doesn’t understand about dead husbands and threatens to put the phone down. I do the honours. And promptly open a new account with a cheque from a do-gooder that’s not signed. I still laugh.

The plugs in the lounge trips; the Renault’s clutch packs up; my Merc decides it’s not automatic anymore. Of the three cars on the property not one is mobile. My smile wears thin.

Ems has her first full-scale epileptic fit since Dad dies and needs an MRI. “Sorry, Mrs. Hartman, you cancelled the medical aid.” I didn’t. My first phone calls when I lifted my head were to ensure we’re insured (Hubby conveniently lapsed both car and house insurance); and to make me the principal member of the medical aid. They were good to us. I thought.

Another screaming match and I am reinstated. The MRI-girl can phone and authorise. We’re there promptly an hour later only to hear: “The medical aid says no. You are allowed two scans a year per family. Your husband had three.” Find R9 500, I’m told.

I shop around. Find one at a state hospital for R7 500. Cash. Booked for Thursday. But it becomes Friday and Sunday I realise I have Mrs. Feldman’s MRI of her knee. My smile is a thin line.

Home loans phone to say my first payment on the house is going through tomorrow. Middle of the month? Are you quite mad? I learn to not scream and can’t smile anymore. But the dog will pant only the 7th of next month.

Am I angry he left me? No. At Death’s sting? I’m foaming at the mouth. What did the antenuptial contract mean? Really? He owned half of the house and the creditors are waiting…

Some little girl in some far away city watching over his solitary investment can’t tell me four weeks after his death what that investment is worth or what forms I must sign; his work says there’s a sizeable “death in service pay-out, once the Board of Trustees meet. You might have to wait six months”.

And I need. Oh, do I need. Thousands to keep this family’s heads up. Where are you all? Where did I go wrong?

I’m angry.

But what a merry widow…

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and stories from across the globe. It seeks to inspire creativity and innovation, inviting submissions in various categories such as poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing. This competition is a confluence of artistic expression, offering participants the opportunity to share their unique narratives with a global audience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Carine Hartman for her poignant contribution, "Death," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her narrative offers a powerful exploration of love and loss, resonating deeply with readers. Thank you, Carine, for sharing your story and enriching our understanding of grief and resilience through your evocative writing.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.