No.9 - Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to OT we go........

(But, before I post this next blog. A bit of housekeeping is needed. I didn’t click all the right icons to activate my blog to receive ‘comments’. I’m a little ‘IT Challenged’. I’ve now done that, I think, so please comment-away. I hope you’re enjoying the ride so far. It’s surprisingly emotional and raw, reliving an ‘interesting’ time in my life. Be patient, there’s more to come. Oh, and with a degree of trepidation, I’m now on facebook).

....more accurately, it’s off to OT – I go. We had a couple of no-shows this morning. It appears I’m the only starter. It’s something I’ll need to get used too. When it comes to Quads, some days good, some days are bad, some worth facing, others, are just all too hard to get started.

Late, the previous evening, I quizzed one the nurses about the role of an ‘OT’. I was advised an Occupational Therapist, is a University Graduate and has a myriad of roles to play in rehab. In my case, they basically help people recover from injury and regain their skills. Sounds exactly the direction I need to be heading in.

My ready, willing and able ‘pusher’, Julio (the ‘J’ in Julio’s name is pronounced ‘H’ as in, Julio Iglesias, the much loved and swooned-after Spanish singer who sold over 300 million records), was on the job 15 minutes ahead of our agreed time and a big friendly smile on his dial to match.

“Ello Mister Brad. Are you ready?”

I could come to like this young chap.

“Let’s hit the road Huleo - my main-man.  I’m in your capable hands.”  I bounced back with, in my best Spanish accent of course.

“No Sir. I’m sorry Mister Brad we must stay on the path, ‘at-all-times’. If I’m being seen pushing you down the road, or holding you up in my hands, I have been told - I am losing my job. And then Mr. Brad, I am not able in helping you to get better. So, we must stay on the path, sir, ’at-all-times’, sir, and no holding you in my hands, sir’” he said very apologetically but with a tone of correctness and authority.

God, what could this one develop into once he learns the Queens-English, gets a Qualification, buys a house, gets married, and, starts a family. As it turns out he had the latter 2 boxes already ticked-off. The trip down to OT was a pleasant change. I hardly had to say a word to hold a conversation. Julio opened up about the lot, especially his wife and kids.

We had obviously struck a bit of a language barrier early here. Fair enough. No complaints. I’ve been fortunate enough to have done a bit of travel ‘os’ with Christene, and quickly became respectful and patient of people trying to understand what I was saying and, visa versa. Think about it. I don’t know what your Spanish is like. But let me tell you, he speaks English (my ‘first’ language) a hellava lot better than I speak Spanish. I am going to have to be a little more precise, and a little more proper with my delivery of instructions. And keep the slang down to a minimum. Not to mention, a display of a little more patience (not my best personal trait and something I’d been reminded of on numerous occasions).

The OT’s area was on the 1^st floor of the building adjoining the gym. We rolled down a corridor and entered a room set-out like an Arts &Crafts area. There were about 8 or 10 long trestle-like tables, each scattered with a variety of differing items. The one young lady in uniform came over and said she was just finishing up with a patient and she’d be with me shortly. Well, I was early. She told Julio to be back in an hour to pick me up. Julio deposited me at a vacant table that had half a dozen boxes on it. The box I was closest too had several material zippers in it together with some Velcro strips, buttons and needles and thread.

5 minutes later the young lady, all of about 23 or 24 years of age, came over and introduced herself as Kylie, declaring that she was my OT and here to help me with some of the basics.

“Right Brad what would you like to start with first?” she said in a very soft, very caring voice.

“To be honest Kylie I’m embarrassed to say that up until last night I had no idea what an OT was and what was there area of expertise.” I replied in an equally sheepish voice.

She spent the next 10 minutes explaining the role of an OT in the rehab process. She explained that, if in my case, a Quad, he/she could manage to do the some of the simplest of tasks such as dressing, feeding and washing themselves, life after Hospital would be so much more fulfilling and assist enormously with ones self-esteem. I know they keep saying to me it’s early-days, but I had no intention going home without at least being able to do my basic personal hygiene requirements. But let’s face it, so far, in these ‘early-days’, I couldn’t even wipe my own backside.

I established that Kylie was indeed just 23 years old and this was her first year out of College after qualifying. She had a pretty face, wore no make-up, her hair was what my girls at-home called, ‘some-up-some-down’ (God, how I miss the girls) and the most amazing unblemished white alabaster skin. She didn’t look the sporty-type. I wondered what her interests were outside of hospital-life. I always look for something in someone where we might have common ground, it makes it easier for me to communicate.

She took the lead. “Why not start right here (that box of haberdashery items). We have zippers, a shirt-front with buttons and button-holes, Velcro belts, shoe laces, an old T-shirt and a pair of socks. Here’s as good a place as any.” She announced. “Show me what you can do?”

Julio had already left me with one of my arms on the table, a good start. I tried to crawl and wiggle my fingers towards the box. But things weren’t working at all. Kylie pulled out a zipper with a large key-ring loop attached to the top end and placed it in my lap. “See if you can manage to unzip the fly.” she whispered gently to me, although we were the only two in the room. I tried, I swear I tried, boy how I tried. I took a couple of deep breaths and focused all my energy on my fingers and hands. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I exhaled loudly in frustration. “Let’s go over here and try this.” She said calmly. On this table there were board-games. Chinese Checkers, Draughts, Solitaire and even Chess. She pulled the Draughts board over which was already setup and ready to play. I may have played only a couple of games of Draughts in my entire life. Dad had taught me Chess from the age of about 10 or so and I enjoyed the challenge of tactically taking an opponent’s main pieces from the board and gaining the upper-hand. I explained that to Kylie, but she wanted to start with the Draught pieces, explaining that they could be slid across the board rather than have to be picked up and repositioned. She was a smart young OT. Within 15 minutes of meeting her she had established my present limitations and put me in a position where I’d have more of a chance of achievement rather than failure. Very perceptive, for one so young. I’ll bet she got several High-Distinctions at Uni. She positioned both my arms alongside the board. “OK, I’m white, I’ll go first.” she said. Now back in the Ward I’d had some indications of movement in my little and ring-fingers. That movement, besides, my ‘old-fella’ tricks was all I had. And I didn’t think it appropriate to ask her to pull down my trackies and I’d take her on with Mr. Wobbly. We’d only just met. I think I figured it out. I carefully leant over and my first move came swiftly and surprisingly accurately considering. Courtesy of me pushing my piece with my nose in a diagonal direction I’d done it – pure genius. “Right then, your go.” I mumbled. The problem was that now having played a brilliant tactical move, I was lying face-down on the board game. A little unorthodox maybe and probably a move shunned upon at the World Draughts Championships, but I’d done it. She got up, complimented me on my ingenuity, declaring she’d never seen Draughts played quite that way before. From behind me she put her arms firmly but gently around my chest and pulled me back up into normal seated position. “No, not quite Brad, we’re here at this very moment trying to ascertain exactly what we have to work with, what you’ve got use of, you’ve got to get to you to use your hands.” She’d obviously established there was nothing wrong with my problem-solving capacity. Thank goodness I didn’t dare suggest my new ‘trackies-down’ version of Checkers. “OK, let’s move over to the other table and try this.” The table had crayons, markers, pens, pencils and great reems of butcher-paper on it. She positioned my chair as close to the table as possible and locked the brakes. Then from a table adjacent to ours she retrieved a box of moulded plastic shapes with Velcro tags attached. She fiddled around with a couple of versions and selected what she thought might suffice. The plastic mould fitted snugly to the inside of my hand and was secured to the back by the Velcro tags. She then weaved a ballpoint-pen inside the shape which gave me a hand with a sort of a writing position. Very clever, if not very mechanical. It didn’t feel like my hand at all. “Now let’s see what you can do.” she asked. With my arm positioned at the top of the writing plinth and piece of paper and pen at the ready, she said let’s see if you can draw a straight line. She was determined to let me achieve at least one task in today’s session. Again very patiently, very thoughtful, very clever. I managed, with the help of gravity to drag the pen back in the direction of my belly until it fell off the table and stabbed me in the leg – didn’t feel a thing. “Very good, let’s do that again.” We went through the same procedure again and again. And, albeit basic, I did feel a sense of progress. “That’s great, try to do the line straighter. Here let’s try a marker.” she encouraged. Again same result, a little crooked but near enough to a straight line. Then, all of a sudden, no warning given I felt a growing anxiety begin to well-up inside, longing for home-life. I wanted to hold Christene close to me, have the kids jump into bed with me and have a wrestle and a cuddle. I wanted things to be a little like they used to be. Embarrassed I turned my head away from Kylie as tears began to flow down my cheeks. I started to cry uncontrollably. Blubbering. Kylie got up and moved my chair over to her desk and pulled a couple of tissues from the box in the draw and moped up the flood. She didn’t even blink at also tidying up my nose, which by this time was running like a tap. How embarrassing. Kylie was a little more 10 years older than Jacqui at home and here she is, a veritable stranger cleaning up a near 40 year sniveling old sook. I didn’t know where to look. She repositioned her chair and sat directly in front of me, took my hands from my lap and held them ever so gently on her lap. 3 or 4 minutes passed without a word exchanged as I managed to compose myself a little. “What brought that on, Brad. Do you know?” again she whispered. I took a couple of deep breaths as she again wiped my eyes and nose. “Kylie, I know I’m a quad. If I’m stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life all I want to be able to do is physically hold my wife and children close to me. Is that too much to ask? And please don’t trot out the ‘it’s early days yet’ line.” again I sniffled. “Brad you’re a high-level quad, but your injury is incomplete. There’s hope. You should, over time, gain some shoulder movement, some useful finger movement and I feel some bicep response to assist in lifting and holding things, including your beautiful Family.” she said. By this time I was in the controlled-sob mode. “Kylie, it’s been a big couple of days. I found out 2 days ago that Christene and I are expecting another baby, our 3^rd, due mid September, all things being well.” I used the baby-news as the excuse for breaking down like a big-girls blouse. She continued to hold my hands ever so gently. The only person to show such care and gentleness was my Christene. I found myself looking into her eyes as if she were Christene. Am I losing the plot? I think if I could have, I would have leant over and given her a big hug and a kiss. Thankfully I didn’t attempt that. It would have ended up with me careering forward and landing face-first in her crutch – charming.

“ Hey Brad, here’s Julio. Right on time. Are you OK? It’s been a big first session, let’s call it a day, I’ll see you in a couple of days or so, take it easy”

And with that enormously emotional out-pouring of feelings, it was all over. I did feel a sense of relief, a sense of cleansing. Probably just by the sheer volume of emotion that spontaneously left my crippled body. Imagine, subjecting a total stranger to all that. Still embarrassed, I thanked Kylie for her kindness and thoughtfulness. “Thanks Kylie, you’re a real gem, see you soon”.

“Hey Julio, are you ready. Let’s get back to the ward, mate.” I directed. Again, Julio rabbited-on about his family here and overseas all the way back to the ward. I nodded but wasn’t in the mood for a real chat. I felt completely drained and exhausted and found myself yawning several times in transit.

It's amazing just how much a game of Draughts can take out of you!

Finally.....we have movement....

After 6 weeks of just lying there in virtually the one position (I say virtually, because if it weren’t for the Surgical Dressers having to roll me every 20 minutes I wouldn’t have moved an inch) there is definite signs of movement. I think?

Directly above our beds (those of us who can’t move), each of us have a 1.2m x .6m framed mirror on a swivel-stirruped bracket. For virtually 20 hours a day, 7 days a week, all you can see is your bed sheets and the various tubes protruding from beneath filling up a variety of bags and bottles ready for emptying, recording and analysis by the sisters.

Should you feel in the mood, or a neighbouring bed-mate feel similarly inclined, you could call on a nurse to angle your mirror to view the face of the person you are talking to, rather than just talk to your own mirror and your own reflection. It also gave you the opportunity to keep a check on the ‘facials’ of your intended conversant.

This morning was looking like anyone of the previous 45 or so mornings I’d endured so far. Just before dawn and the ward started to stir from another restless night sleep, courtesy of me. I would say a few words to the Almighty and ask for a sign (any sign) to demonstrate improvement. I would then do my own thing and try to concentrate on different areas of my body. Generally starting at the head and working my way down. My routine took about 10 or 12 minutes and required an intense concentration on one small area at a time. Now, bear-in-mind, this was my technique and theory, not based on any specific scientific data, just another one of my hunches. I was just about to thank the Almighty for yet another ‘no-show’, when... was that movement in the mirror? I’m sure it was. Not a finger or toe, mind you. But, I’m certain there was movement from down around my nether-regions. Now wait. Concentrate. Let’s try that again. No, nothing. I was concentrating so hard I could feel a headache developing. Stupidly I found myself tearing-up with the reality of it all. I wondered whether I should just fob it off as an over-active imagination and plain wishful thinking. God how I missed the simple things we all take for granted in life – like movement.

Now concentrate again. Breath. Focus. Na, nothing. Bugger it! I’m exhausted.

No wait. There it is again. Under my sheets there is movement. There it is again! You bloody beauty.

“Sister, sister”.... I bellowed.

Moments later a not too pleased Sister Rachel appeared and shooshed-me silent. She told me to keep it down and be a bit more considerate before I woke up the entire Ward.

“What’s the matter Brad?, it’s not even 5.30 yet,” She scolded.

“I’ve got movement. Movement under my sheets, look. Watch this!”

I tried again to prove my point. But nothing. I can’t believe it.

“I promise you Rachel there is movement, believe me,” I pleaded.

“Where?” she asked.

“Down around my groin area, I promise.”

She gave me that ‘nice try, you sick unit’ look, but still she carefully peeled back the sheets to see what I was ranting about. There, for all to see, well, for her to see, was my sad looking catheterised ‘old-fella’ lying flaccid and totally disinterested in displaying any sign of anger, movement or involvement to backup my claim. Not a good-look really. She turned and respectfully replaced my sheets. She could see by the disappointment on my face that I wasn’t trying to pull some sort of childish prank. I was shattered.

“Brad, just settle down. OK, it may have happened, but it’s just a reflex. It’s involuntary.”

“No, no”, I insisted.

“OK then. Show me it wasn’t involuntary. Move the sheets.”

Try as I might. Concentrate, concentrate. Nothing, absolutely bloody nothing.

“Hey Brad, relax. It’s early days yet. If things are going to return back to normal, it takes time. Lots of time. Now quieten down and try to get some sleep or at least some rest.” She said in a consultative manner.

Sister Rachel was one of the good nurses, and, not a bad sort either. God, how embarrassing was that. And I was one of the sane ones in the group. She would have been all of 25 years old and here’s a 38 year old married man asking her to check out his goullies and see what my ‘boys’ have doing out in the paddock during the night. She hadn’t quite got back to her nurses-station when there was movement, again, at my ‘station’. Fair-dinkum. I wasn’t game enough to call out again so soon. Then again, was that movement? I decided I’d have to hone my technique so as not to have another embarrassing false-start. And destroy my credibility.

I did have that supposed ‘so-called’ reflex action on 3 more occasions that morning, and, yes I was trying to get some action. Reflex action – my bum. I’m sure things are starting to work again. I decided to have lunch on my own. I needed some clear thinking time. Even the guys wondered if I was OK or if there was something wrong. During lunch I went over and over in my mind what may have triggered these ‘reflex’ actions. There was only one common factor, one thing that kept popping-up. Christene. It was when I thought about Christene, my wife of 16 years. My one and only ever true love. I don’t think my thoughts were purely of a sexual nature. In fact I’m sure they weren’t. They were comfort thoughts, familiar thoughts, trusting thoughts, dependable thoughts. I was indeed a very lucky man, at least on the marriage-front. Christene would be here after lunch and I’d attempt my new ‘trick’ in front of my provocateur. Sure enough, just like clockwork Christene arrived at the Ward about 1pm.

I was so pleased to see her. She’d believe me. I told her the story and although she listened, she wasn’t really listening. She had something else on her mind. When I finished she said we need to talk. She darl, go ahead, what’s wrong? Are the kids OK? Yes, yes she replied. Let’s see if we can talk outside. She went to the nurses-station and asked if they could disconnect several of the tubes, leaving just my catheter in place with a bag strapped to my leg. They wiggled a pair of tracksuit pants on me on put on a fresh sloppy-joe, transferred me into a wheelchair and strapped my chest to the back. 10 minutes later we were sitting on the grass strip just outside the Ward. Boy, how nice did that feel. The sun on my face, some fresh air and my wife holding my hand.

“What’s up darl?” I said

“I’ve got some news. I mean we’ve got some news.” She said, not quite looking me in the eye. She could see I was about to prompt her when she said. “I saw David Little yesterday.” “Oh God no, are you OK, is everything OK?” David Little had been our family doctor since we arrived at Avoca Beach 7 years ago. “Yes, yes. Just that he did some tests yesterday, and......, well......I’m pregnant.”

It must have been the look on my face. There was silence for the next 30 seconds. I looked at Christene, her eyes had begun to well with tears. What does one say? Six weeks ago my life, our lives, and those of our family had taken a drastic turn. Here am I in PHH. A diagnosed C3/4 Incomplete Quad, still heavily medicated, still even having trouble just breathing. Told I would never walk again and the future prospects still too early to accurately predict what my long-term health position could be. Two young girls at home and a new baby on it’s way. “How pregnant are you?” I asked as gently as possible. “About 8 or 9 weeks, probably from around New Years Eve” she said.

“How do you feel about it, darl. You’ve got your hands pretty full at the moment. You got the very real prospect of having to take care of me for as long as I’m around. The 2 girls. And now....” I paused.

“I’ll be fine as long as you’re OK with it. We got a lot of good friends and family fairly close at hand. If you’re OK, we’ll manage.” She said.

I needed to take a minute or 2, to let things sink in. Wow. That came out of left-field. How the hell did that happen. I mean I know how it happened I just thought - how the hell did it happen? We’ve got friends who have tried for years to have children, without success. It appears I only have to have a few Bundy’s ‘n Coke, a bloody good romp and kabam – bullseye.

By the look on Christene’s face there was only one answer she wanted to hear. “Yep darl. I’m happy if you’re happy. But, with one stipulation. We have to get tests done to find out that all is fine with you and the baby. If you know what I mean. Ask Dr.Little if we can have an amnio-centesis done. We can’t risk having any problems with another member of the family. I’m going to be a big enough handful. Better to be safe than sorry.”                                               (An amnio-centesis is performed in the out-patients area of some hospitals. A small amount of fluid is taken from the sac and checks for any abnormalities in chromosomes and fetal infections).

We hugged and kissed each other and both cried for a good 5 minutes. I’m certain they were tears of joy.

“And one other thing, darl.” I added

“What now?” she gasped

“If everything is OK. Let’s find out the sex of this one. No more surprises, please.”

“Yep, deal”, she chuckled.

Christene left within 20 minutes of getting me back inside the Ward. She had the 2 hour drive back home. Gee, I hope she’s going to cope.

To be honest I was pleased to be back in the Ward. I had a lot of thinking to do. And a very aggressive rehab program to rev up. If that wasn’t a motivating moment, I don’t know what was.

What a day! Hey, and guess what. There was movement down below again. I told you so!

New Day Dawning....

The dawn of a new day.......

Sounds promising eh, well, that’s the way I tried to approach every new day. Surely things have got to turn for the better. Hey, I’m not complaining openly. This is a personal issue. I feel I must ‘maintain the rage’, the rage of expecting to get a ‘break’ of some sort, sometime. It’s not a lot to ask. Is it?

Kalam’s bed remains vacant. He hasn’t been slipped back into the ICU of the Spinal Unit. So from that aspect it’s good news. Strange isn’t it, how your priorities alter. The one thing I could be assured of was - he was still alive. Oh well, one step at a time.

To the morning staff things were supposed to happen just as they had for the past week and the week before that, and so on....

The surgical-dressers were rallied into action for the morning ablutions. The regular congo-line to the brasco and back. Record the results. Clean-up the inmates and move on to the next ward.

Put yourself in this situation. There are 3 of us. Andy, Big Al and myself. All individually seated in commode-chairs (plastic wheelchairs with a toilet-seat as the seat), dressed in white surgical gowns untied at the back, ready for action, a good look. We are positioned side-by-side and unceremoniously backed over a toilet bowl each. No partition, not even curtain between each of us and, expected to do the business. How would you go? Now I can drop most forms of modesty if required. Hey, we didn’t have much choice anyway. I just wanted to have a dump on my own. Or more specifically, they wanted me a have a dump. Well the boys bid us farewell, “catchya in 15, boys”, and go about showering other inmates and doing general duties. You sit there, just. Struggling in fact, to sit upright. All of a sudden, there’s a fart. Yes! Next thing, “who was that”. That was Big Al making the inquiry. You see none of us quite knew who made the noise. The only real evidence of achievement is the obvious one, right. C’mon, work with me here. You know, what’s in the bottom of the pan. 3more times the boys gave us another 15 minutes. They tried everything. Humour, a card trick, even juggling. Gee, these guys earned their wages. That’s a total of 1 hour. The nurses are now getting anxious about pressure-sores. OK, nurse arrives, “thanks fellas you gave it your best shot, back to their beds please.” After a quick wipe of the freckle with a damp soapy towel we were washed (sort of) and found ourselves heading back to our beds to be dressed. Boy, how I wish they’d wash all over first, THEN, wash your freckle. You know what I mean. Big Al at the front, followed by Andy and then me. One of the surgical dressers, Tatts, was pushing Andy and still cracking jokes when one of the jokes finally was understood by Big Al who let out a huge roar of laughter, followed by a volley a golf-balled sized nuggets, fair dinkum, you know – turds, dropped ‘em straight onto the lino. Andy and I were killing ourselves laughing and I was buckled over chest on my knees trying to keep balanced on the chair. Then, out of the blue Tatts pirouettes around the front of Andy’s chair, scoops up Big Al’s ‘deposit’ and starts juggling them as if he were a circus clown. And boy could he juggle. I mean really. This all took place right smack bang in the middle of the ward. One of us farted again and created a further round of laughter even from those we’d just woken up with our raucous behaviour. But again, alas, who the farting culprit was, became purely speculative. And yep, wouldn’t you bloody know it Big Al couldn’t stop showing-off and produced another impressive brood of hatchlings from his backside. God, how I wished it was me. That would have meant I’m getting closer to splash-down. Funny, isn’t it how the most basic and I mean most basic things become a priority and a point of great amusement. To the rest of the ward it didn’t look that funny, mainly because Big Al’s nuggets were that perfectly round and smooth they could have been pieces of ornamental onyx or fancy tumbled river-stone. Only Andy and I knew better. Later that day I explained it to Oggy who would have dead-set wet himself, if he wasn’t catheterised. Come to think of it, we were all in the same boat. On the bum-front, the very next day, orders were issued to the troops that for the next fortnight, all 3 of us were to be  administered ‘bombs’ each morning approximately 40 minutes out from scheduled ablutions, to avoid any further embarrassing moments. Whatever the outcome and sometimes, unfortunate repercussions, the ‘bombs’ appeared to do the trick.                                OK, enough of the toilet-talk.

After lunch we, well, Andy and I, were going off to our first Gym session, very exciting. Andy and I were even starting to enjoy each other’s company, I think. I’m not sure what they had in mind for us but at least we’d get out of the ward and see some new faces, new places. Even the trip to the gym would be a welcomed little distraction. Even just a new wardsman pushing your chair, asking the same sort of questions maybe, but at least trying to have a conversation is refreshing. At 2.30pm a young Hispanic (in appearance) wardsman fronted my bedside and announced that he was here to take a “Mister Wit to the gymnasium”, I corrected him and said he was looking for a Mr. B de Wit. “No, no sir thank you sir, Mister B Wit not Mister D Wit”. I could have had an argument for the next 30 minutes with Julio, but thought I’d cover the finer points of the Queens English with him on our way to the gym. I made a mental note that a command of the English language was obviously not a priority for his most privileged position, that of – Wardsman, Spinal Unit, PHH. I now know where a fair percentage of new immigrants go directly to from Sir Charles Kingsford Smith Airport – Prince Henry Hospital, Anzac Parade, Malabar.

On two occasions I had to do a double-take on our journey to the gym. It was downright uncanny. My new buddy, Julio, my new pusher, was either a Fawlty Towers tragic and a bloody good impersonator or directly related to Basil’s infamous Manuel from Barcelona and of same show fame. Same accent, same mannerisms and very amusingly, he wasn’t even trying to be funny.

It was nearly 3pm. A young physio came over and introduced herself as Jodie, looked her watch and told our pushers to be back by 4pm.

“Hey, guys let’s get into it we don’t have too much time.”                  “Ready when you are Jodie, sorry about the time, we had a few bathroom hassles this morning, we’ll be here earlier tomorrow,” I announced as quickly as possible. You don’t want to get off-side with the Physio – Day 1.       “Yeah, well maybe we’ll try that Friday. You’ve got OT tomorrow.”

“Hey Brad, put a sock in it will ya. We haven’t got much time,” says Andy.

We get shuffled over to this huge (4m X 4m and .4m high) low-profile padded table, they refer to as a plinth. The padding is one huge blue gymnasium sponge mat, covered in vinyl and about 1” inch.

Andy and I have 2 helpers each. They lift and transfer us to the plinth with both of us in a seated position, feet on the floor. One of the girls sits behind us and holds us upright and as straight as possible. The other girl sits opposite us on a plastic chair approx. 1 metre away. Each then produces a balloon from their pocket, asks if we’d like to blow it up. I say thanks but no thanks. Honestly, if you offered me $10,000 to blow out a candle, I couldn’t at this stage in my Rehab. They proceed to blow each balloon up, tie a knot in each neck to secure and announce “let the games begin.” They explain that we are going to play a simple game of catch. Now don’t forget the other rehab girls are trying to prop each of us upright. You see, we have no ‘trunk’ control. At our level of injury we have no control over anything below the nipple-line. Scary thought isn’t it? My helper tries to jam my arms by my side, straight down onto the plinth, knuckles clenched for stability. But I need a wider platform (wingspan), which, she adjusts, which tilts me forward, and oh, oh.......... If it were not for my diligent and very strong young physio I would have face-planted onto the lino and been really pissed off. OK, it was less than 1 metre up. But I was completely defenceless. I can’t believe it. I have absolutely no control on how to sit upright. I could not even put an arm out to defend myself from the fall. Boy, haven’t we got a long way to go. Oh, and by the way during my face-plant attempt, I farted. It really was me. Andy had a chuckle. I was just shrank with embarrassment. The girls, well they appeared (thankfully) to not have even notice. I feel like things are starting to take a for the better. It wouldn’t be hard would it?

“Ah, good work wardsman. Right on time.”

“Oh, Jodie we just got here. Can’t we stay and do some more?”

“Sorry, fellas. We have Rounds of the Ward to do before dinnertime. We’ll see you again Friday. Hey, try to get here on time, eh.”

Bugger it.

With that the girls were gone. Andy and I were left with Julio and Abdul toe-tapping for the return trip back to Ward 1. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that ‘knock-off time’ was fast approaching. We got back to Ward 1, uphill all the way, in about 8 minutes. It took us nearly 20 minutes to get down there this afternoon. Duly noted. Let me tell you, that won’t happen this coming Friday.

.......OT?

What the hell’s OT..............

The return Bus Trip

.........“Hey, hey, wait, wait for me fellas”. He’d nearly been forgotten (actually he had been forgotten, amidst all the kerfuffle with Kal and the like).

It was silly bloody Al. Or at least it was his unmistakable voice. You see, all that was visible was this near out-of-control speeding 5 foot tall wheelchair-bound stuffed pink elephant careering in our direction with pusher attached. He’d actually finally done it. Everybody on the bus roared with laughter including Craig. I’m even sure I actually detected a disguised grin on Julia’s face. I had on-purposely avoided eye-contact with Julia until then and understandably, she me.

They physically lifted and shoved Al and ‘dumbo’ onto one of the front seats of the bus alongside a carer and we (well Craig actually), folded up Al’s chariot and transported it back in our Commodore.

Craig waved and I nodded the bus off. He then transferred me to the front seat of the wagon, seat-belted me in and off to PHH we went.

Wow. What an eventful day. A lot better than I’d anticipated. But I didn’t want to let on to Craig. Boy it felt great being in a normal car (unsignwritten). Craig had propped me up so for all intense and purpose, I looked normal – able-bodied. I even enjoyed the simple act of stopping at traffic lights and acknowledging and nodding to the people in the adjoining cars.

We were just approaching Maroubra Junction when Craig’s mobile rang. “Yeah, just monitor his vitals and I’ll alert the Ward”. That doesn’t sound good. Craig rang the Nurses Station direct-line at Ward 1 and explained Kalam had had a dysreflexic episode and was fading in-and-out of consciousness and to have everything, including Doctors on standby. ETA about 20 minutes. Dysrelexia is not uncommon in people with a spinal-cord injury. It’s actually caused by the over-activity of the Autonomic Nervous System and generally happens to those people with an injury to T5 and above. It can be caused by the simplest things like an ingrown toenail or an over-full bladder (which was probably the case with Kal). Most Doctors, unless they’ve worked in Spinal Units are not familiar with the effects, the symptoms or the treatment. With your blood-pressure reaching incredible levels, sometimes 220/150+, your pulse slowing to down to around 35 or 40 and your pasty skin colour even a trained Medical Practitioner gets a little confused and concerned.

We sped into the Hospital within the 10 minutes. Craig jumped out unfolded and set up Al’s chair and left it by the gutter, then mine, scooped me up and handed me over to a Wardsman who was ‘standing by’. There were about 15 people standing-by. The Wardsman took me straight inside and left me next to my bed. But, I wanted to be outside, of course and greet my fellow show-goers when the bus arrived. At this satge I thought I’d better not push my luck.

One of the sisters, Carol, came over and asked what had gone on. Nothing really. Just four relatively normal wheelchair-bound blokes out for an afternoon of fun, adventure and fellowship.

Then the Head Sister approached,

“Brad, are you all right?”

“As a matter of fact Sister, I don’t think I’ve seen it better, since the accident of course and entering the hallowed walls of the Wards of beautiful Prince Henry, but, thanks for asking”.

“Pew what’s that smell?, except, of course for your saturated top and smelling like a brewery.” Charming, I thought. “Look, the bus will be here in 5 minutes, what exactly were you drinking”.

“Beer”, was my confident, honest and instant reply.

“And Kalam?”

“Well he started on beer. But after his 1^st schooner he struggled managing with the size and weight of the glass, so he diversified”.

“Brad, I’m sorry, this is serious. Enough of this BS. What was it? And, how much of it? It’ll help the Doctors with what treatment he may have to be administered - urgently”.

“OK. He changed to Bourbon & coke. Jack Daniels in fact. Just the 5 drinks. Hang-on a tick, they were ‘doubles’, so make that 10 nips”.

“Geez, I know grown men, able-bodied men that’d be on their ear after that much booze and what, in a little over an hour!”

I’ve never struggles having a quick and appropriate response to questions under interrogation. Right there and then I thought about inviting her up to the Rugby Clubhouse, on any given Thursday night after training, if she ever wanted to meet some real grown-up able-bodied men. But, I’d save that invite for another less confrontational moment.

She turned and left with not another word, not a “thanks for your help”, nothing. Manners, please.

Moments later the Wardsman reappeared by my side bedside with a bowl of warm water and sponge to wash me down and a change of top. Obviously, under instruction from a not-amused Head Sister. At least the Wardsman appeared to see the lighter side of things and afforded himself a chuckle and commented that it sounded as though you guys really ‘hung-one-on’.

“Hey, while you’re here. I forgot to get my DJ’s bag out of Craig’s car. Can you grab it for me before he heads-off.” I didn’t think Craig would appreciate couriering around a bag of ‘bullshit’ overnight or worse still leaving it in the car to ferment and who knows, become even combustible.

Sponged and redressed the Wardsman left. A minute later he returned with my DJ’s bag, soon to be Oggie’s Easter Show Sample Bag and plonked it on my bed.

A couple of the younger nurses came over to see how I was, but, really just inquisitive and probe me for further details. I gave them just some of the details and stretched the yarn out long enough to gain their interest so I could persuade them to push me out onto the verandah to wait for the bus.

“Here it is. Everybody got everything?” was the alert for one of the Doctors.

A couple of the Doctors and nurses boarded the bus from the front while the patients were being unceremoniously unloaded off the back hydraulic ramp. Several of the patients from the ‘rehab’ ward, the softies on their way home, passed me by with a look of blame and disdain. They’ve got no idea. God, it wasn’t my fault. Everybody went, or was pushed to their respective areas. I waited on the verandah for Kalam to come off.

Within a minute or two Kalam appeared on the stretcher, oxygen mask on, canular protruding from his neck with 2 bags of fluids drip-feeding his system. Sticky monitor patches with electrodes were attached to his temples, chest and groin and the dreaded ‘crash-cart’ shadowed his every stage and waited for the ‘word’. He was still unconscious, shallow breathing and pale as me. I’ll be the first to admit that he didn’t look that crash-hot. I just wish everybody would stop looking over at me. One of them even pointed. He’s in safe hands now - relax.

I was the last to go back inside the Ward. When I got to my bed the ‘boys’ came over and discussed the trip back to PHH. Obviously, some of the helpers started to panic a bit with the state Kal was in. I’m certain it would have been OK if Craig was onboard. He was not one to panic. And had come across these sorts of incidences and dealt with them on numerous occasions to sporting events and general outings with some of his rehab patients. The most important thing to do in a ‘panic’ situation is NOT to panic. Don’t change your gate and break into a jog. Don’t raise your voice. Craig was a big-one for getting patients back out in the real world as soon as possible. It is quite simple with ’spinals’ to get into a hospital cripples routine of having everything done for you. Become lazy and end up being totally dependent. Everything from someone else dressing them, feeding them, tucking them into bed and in most cases, wiping their poor sorry backsides. It’s not a position I was going to be left in. That was my single strongest and motivational determination.

The boys told me it was pretty cold and quiet on the return bus leg. Andy reckons they were treated like naughty little school boys and given the cold-shoulder.

We needed a distraction from all this gloom and doom.

“Hey boys, don’t forget we’ve got Oggie’s Show Bag”.

Directly opposite me lay Oggie. Sound asleep throughout all the commotion. Gee, I hope he’s alright.

“Hey Sister, could you put the DJ’s bag on my lap and push me over to Oggie?, we bought him something back from the Show.”

“Gee, Brad that’s nice of you. He’s been pretty crook all day you know. I hope it cheers him up”. She did exactly as asked.

“Hey Oggie, you old fag, wake-up. We all pitched-in and bought a bit-of-the-country back for you”. He woke as if he’d been asleep for 24 hours and brought his head out from under the sheets. There it was the old Oggie’s toothless grin.

“Hey Sister could you put Oggie’s present on his chest under his chin and open it up for him?’

“Here, you go Ogg, it’s from the boys.”

Well, you should have seen his eyes. Instantly they welled with tears of joy and he started blubbering and coughing like a baby.

“Hey Sister”, said Oggie. “Could you open it up a bit more and bring it closer?”

Sister did as asked and Oggie took a deep breath, his sizable proboscis drawing in the very essence of Australian country-life. It took him a good 10 minutes to control his blubbering and sobbing. With every deep breath he coughed and wheezed with excitement and smiled as if he’d died and gone to heaven.

“Gee, fellas. You’re the best bloody mates anyone could ever wish for.”

Those simple words just made my day. All of a sudden, all the trouble seemed worthwhile.

“Hey Oggie, don’t forget to thank Physio Julia. She was my personal ‘shit-shoveller’. Maybe not tomorrow, mate. Leave a day or two ‘til things settle down.”

He laughed his head-off, followed by another coughing fit which brought the Sister back over and a sudden halt to celebrations. In fact the Sister had to reposition an oxygen mask around Oggie’s nose and mouth to bring everything back under control.

“Brad, he hasn’t been very well all day. Take it easy will you.”

God, Oggie not being very well. Shit, is that my fault as well?

“Hey guys, back to your own beds. Dinner will be coming around in 15 minutes.”

“You beauty”, said Al. I’m sure bloody Al would eat a shit sandwich if it had tomato sauce on it.

As for dinner, or any other meal dished-up, I could take it or leave it. More often than not – I’d leave it.

When it came to dinner, it was served-up at 5pm sharp, every single day of the week. That didn’t suit me. I was rarely hungry and besides I found the smell of canteen-food an appetite suppressant anyway. Besides, it didn’t really matter what you ordered, you rarely got your chosen cuisine. At our normal suburban family household at Avoca Beach we ate at 6pm, or thereabouts. When the Channel 9 News ID signature tune could be heard or the dulcet tones of Brian Henderson welcoming viewers to today’s “Leading Stories”, the de Wit’s ate. A routine I was familiar with and liked.

All our food, and I use the term loosely, came from the Prince of Wales Hospital at Randwick, a good 30 minutes away. It was prepared and presented on their premises. In all the many months infirmed at PHH, I never received a dinner that was hot. Sometimes insipidly warm, but never hot. And everything ordered tasted the same. The chops tasted like sausages and visa versa. The lasanga tasted like meatballs and visa versa. I’d become a salad eater. Through necessity, not choice. At least the salad came at around the right temperature.

The nurses noted my objection to 5 o’clock ‘feedtime’ and pulled Christene aside and expressed their concern. Subsequent to that chat, a couple of nights a week, Christene would pop across the road to the Chinese Restaurant or the Pizzeria. That way I’d get a piping hot bowl of Short Soup a slice or 2 of hot Pizza or Pasta with flavour. The other guys from time to time would put in an order with Christene and join me. The nurses were not impressed. Not with all the wasted food, but it disrupted normal hospital routine.

On the other side of the road were just 4 shops. The Chinese, the Pizzeria, a Newsagency and a Bottle Shop. The perfect little shopping complex.

One afternoon Chistene even bought me back a cold can of light beer. That was a treat. Even the nurses OK’ed that and said “Hey Christene whatever makes Brad happy and hopefully helps him sleep at night”.

“Hey Sister, any news on Kal?” I inquired.

“He’s still in Intensive Care Brad. No update as yet. I’ll tell you when we know something.”

That was the only downer on the day. Stupid bloody Kal. He’ll be OK. I hope.

That night I did get a couple of hours of sleep. Must have been all the fresh air and excitement of a rather large day.

Let’s hope the morning brings some brighter news...........