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...........

"Time to go.....mate"

“Time to go....mate”

They were Craig’s only words. He didn’t appear angry. Actually, I would have been surprised if he ever got angry. In his type of job you just have to go with the flow. Be prepared for disappointments and frustrations and move-on. Imagine having to try and motivate a bunch of Quads, each and every day to get them off their collective arses and ‘avago.

We’d only just left the Bar when he pulled over to one side and said “We’d better do something about that”, pointing down to a wet patch on my tracksuit leg, evidence of an over-inflated urinal bag attached to my right thigh that had more than reached capacity. Whoops. I’d just totally forgotten. With all the new found freedom of the Bar, the Bushies and the whole buzz - time just flew by. We all lined up and sure enough, each and every one of us had their bags full to the max and in most cases, leaking. Craig looked to the other pushers, didn’t say anything, didn’t need too. I gather they were supposed to make sure things like this didn’t happen. It really wasn’t their fault either. Quick as a flash, the ever-resourceful Craig retreated 10 metres back into the Bar and within moments returned with an empty Beer Jug. Good thinking mate. He set about emptying the group’s piss contents and made 3 trips back to the ‘gents’ to deposit our indulgences. No fuss. No, tut-tutting. What a champion bloke. I also began to notice, sitting outside in the breeze, it was getting rather chilly. Not surprising really considering I probably had the equivalent of 1.5 schooners spilled and dribbled onto my sloppy-joe.

Anyway, after correctional adjustments completed Craig took my directional advice and off we went. Thankfully for our tied team it was all downhill from here (soon in more ways than one). We were of course in the lead and could quite easily hear Al and Andy having a laugh in the background (God they’re loud) and encouraging their pushers to try to keep up. We went along the perimeter where the ‘horsey’ people accessed their stables and yards, veered around a little to the right and 5 minutes later, entered the infamous Sideshow Alley. Craig slowed and reminded the other pushers we only had 20 minutes to be back at the bus to meet everyone else. As you know by now Sideshow Alley didn’t interest me one iota. But, I knew one pusher that was about to encounter some serious resistance from Al. Al was determined to go back to PHH with a prize for his beautiful little daughter. First of all, Al parted with $3 and tried his luck on the ‘rotating Clown heads’. You’ve all see the ones. Do you know anyone who has actually won something worth more than $3? No, me either. They don’t rotate an entire 360 degrees, like Linda Blair from the Exorcist, they sweep about 150 degrees from left to right and visa versa. You insert your 4 ping-pong balls in the clown’s mouth (one at a time Al), wait for them to rattle down its tinny throat into numbered slots, then simply add up your score and claim your prize. Inevitably, you end up getting a plastic cockroach on a strand of elastic dangling on a stick – big deal. Just the perfect gift for a little 5 year old girl - not. Al had 3 go’s at getting something/anything worthwhile to present to his daughter. Craig slowed to check on Al’s progress. Next stop was the mandatory tossing of the bamboo-hoops around a peg ‘trick’, similar to ‘quoits’. The hoops bounced around and flew in every direction, except the winning direction. Maybe his next go would hit its mark. Yeah right. Another donation to the ‘carnies’. Maybe, if Al kept giving this particular ‘carnie’ more money, he could afford a visit to dentist to purchase another tooth to go along with his other one.

“C’mon guys we’ve 8 minutes to get to the bus”.

Al is nothing, if not determined (read: pig-headed). He again amanged to halt his pusher, this time at the ‘knock-‘em-downs’. Another $3 parted with, Al got his chance at throwing his 3 soft balls at drink cans which generally are half-filled with plaster-of-paris and near impossible to topple. His 1^st go realised no cans hit, bruised or frightened.

That was enough for Craig. “Enough is enough Al. If we don’t go now we’ll miss the bus”.

“Hey Craig. Stuff the bus, I’ll see you there” was Al’s response.

Craig didn’t deserve that. He’d been bloody patient all things considered.

“Hey Al. Pull your head in and let’s get going. I promised you a go. You’ve had it”, I chimed in, in support of Craig.

“Hey Brad you can blow it out your arse as well mate. I’ll be right. I’ll see you at the bus, right, so piss-off”.

Its times like that, you wish for 30sec of able-bodiedness, just once again. Just to walk over and give him a good smack in the mouth and wake him up. He had it coming. Anyway bugger him.

I noticed something weird was going on with Kal. He’d gone really quiet, very pale for Maori and even limper than he normally was and his stupid grin had disappeared. Craig noticed as well and scurried in his direction. Kal was having a ‘dysreflectic’ attack. This can happen to Quads. It’s not common, but not unheard of. I remember having an episode in the Ward about 3 weeks earlier. My blood-pressure went to 210/150 and my pulse was going crazy. The Sister on duty at the time rang the buzzer with a coded sequence and down the linoleumed ward corridor came the ‘crash-cart’ with these cardiac ‘jumper-leads’ flapping, ready for action. I’d only ever seen that happen on the TV. I warned Carol, the nominated zapper and one of my favourites, that if she applied them to me she was definitely off the Christmas list. And added, “Carol me darling, don’t forget, you owe me.” She said “If you need ‘em Brad, you’re getting ‘em. It just may prevent a heart-attack or worse still, a stroke”. Great now there’s a nice choice. That’s all I need, a bloody stroke. I can’t move anything now anyway, please don’t take away my ability to speak. Bloody scary, let me tell you.

Craig went into ‘action’, he’d obviously encountered this before. He tilted Kal’s chair back as far as he could, to the near horizontal position, and headed off in the direction of the bus as quickly and as safely as possible. “Straight down and at the end the Alley, hang a left mate.” I yelled. We all followed, well nearly all. Al refused to budge. He had business to do. What was the pusher to do? Leave him there? I would have.

Everybody was already loaded on the bus and at least our fellow patients looked pleased to see us. Kal had to be lifted up and over several fellow cripples and positioned on one of the bench seats, a makeshift stretcher. Surprisingly, the colour had returned to his face and he even managed to let out a trademark ‘yo-bro’ and a thumbs-up to indicate that it was just a false-alarm. Boy, what a relief. I know I shouldn’t have, but I felt a bit guilty.

During the loading of chairs, bodies and show-bags onto the bus, I managed to convince Craig that it’d be better and of course less disruptive, now, if I grabbed a lift with him in the PHH Commodore wagon rather than have to disturb everybody just to squeeze me in. He agreed. I told you he was a good bloke. You beauty. No ride back to the Ward in the sign-written, “look at us, we’re not the full-quid” bus. Sensational.

With the back ramp automatically closing up, the bus was ready to go. Craig was just about to slap the side of the bus and give the all-clear to the driver, when.....

........the story continues......

We're headed to The Stockman's Bar

We’re headed to The Stockman’s Bar.

All this ducking and weaving to avoid being ‘splintered’ can really build up a thirst.

“Straight ahead Julie, just follow your nose”, were my instructions as the Team was tidied-up, bits and pieces tucked back in and we’d been fed ‘n watered.

One of the things I loved about The Show was all the smells and bantered of the Country comin’ to Town.

Without the expert guidance of our resident ‘cocky’, Oggie, I thought I’d treat the boys to the sites of the Bull Pavillion (actually just Barns) enroute to the Bar. Al was as excited as a an 8 year old. But, I insisted he stay in line in orderly fashion. You see the site of 4 Quads in Wheelchairs strolling through the Barns was probably a 1^st for the keepers and handlers of some of Australia’s finest breeding cattle. And I must admit it’s no easy feat pushing a wheelchair through a carpet of straw and slush. These animals are huge. I mean really huge in all proportions. Nearly all of the stock had their collective heads in the feed-bin and those that didn’t were taking a well-earned rest from displaying their wears around the Parade Ring that morning.

I couldn’t help thinking of Oggie stuck back in the ward. He would have loved this. He hadn’t missed a Show in 20 years and from all accounts had picked up many Blue ribbons along the way for the stock he managed out at Rylestone. A thought! Something to take with me and present to him on my return. I remembered on the back of my chair was a David Jones bag with some emergency clothing, in case of spillage, and additional medication, a spare Popper Juice and an apple or two. I asked Julie to redistribute the contents amongst the rest of the group so I could make up my own ‘Show Bag’ just for my mate, Oggie. Thank goodness Julie was a good sport. She folded the empty DJs bag on my lap and off we went. Naturally, Al had already overtaken me and was admiring the prime cuts T-Bone and Sirloin, still on-the-hoof. Julie hadn’t gone 10 steps when I asked her to stop. “Look, right there, that’s a nice start”. There sitting atop the straw was a neat pile of day-old, semi-dried nuggets of bullshit. “What”, said Julie. “Com’on Jules it’s for Oggie, just scoop it up, use the straw as gloves and put it the bag”. “Bullshit”, she said. “Exactly”, said I and went on to explain it’d make Oggie feel that a little bit on the Country had come to visit Spinal Unit Ward 1 at PHH. Julie was a great sport. Reluctantly we scooped up the prize and plonked it into the bag, straw and all. Perfect. By this time Al was at least 20 metres ahead and somehow had persuaded his pusher to get him right up and personal with the biggest Hereford bull you’d ever seen. Bloody big. I’m 6 foot 3 inches tall, or at least I still think I am, but everything looks big from way down here in a wheelchair. Al had managed to get alongside the beast and was gently stroking it while it contentedly chewed away at his feed bin. And from all accounts the animal didn’t mind a bit. Al should have stopped right there. But, he couldn’t help himself. On retreating back to the straw-covered corridor Al decided to have a feel of the animals “dusters”. Buggered if I know why. Now these “pills”, nestled comfortably into a scrotum of equally enormous proportions to the size of the animal were obviously the beast work-tackle, his future and his pride and joy. You just don’t go and fondle a bulls balls. The animal lead out with a straight right hind hoof that missed stupid bloody Al’s head by inches. Had it connected we would have been 1 inmate down in the Ward 1. What was he thinking? All Al could say was that the bull “was a bit touchy”. I told you earlier he’d hit his head pretty hard during his accident. Tragedy averted we left the Pavillion relatively unscathed, and I had my Show Bag.

“There it is, straight ahead”. Julia needed no prompting, she was just glad she hadn’t lost any patients on her watch. How would she explain 1 dead patient covered in bullshit to the authorities back at PHH.

Before we went into the Bar I rallied the team and asked them to try to be as inconspicuous as possible and warned Al he’d be left in a corner somewhere to fend for himself if he’d step out of line. The organizers try to make the Bar look as Countryifed as possible. A odd Acubra hanging of a peg, some old saddlery paraphernalia and photographs old past Champion-of Champion stock from the main arena. I’ve got to admit I was excited. Being there gave me a sense of the real-world. Away from the hospital smells and the clatter of bed-pans and the groaning of whining patients.

“Right, it’s my shout. What are you having?”

I interrupted the silence with a “I’m having a schooner”. This was followed up by “Me too”, from Al and Kal. Andy, the biggest member of the gang said “I’ll have a Southern Comfort and lemonade”. “Bullshit”, I said. “Hey, Jules make it 4 schooners of VB and whatever you and girls feel like”. I indicated to Julia to get the money from my bum-bag around my waste. With a look of reluctance she took the money and in no time had returned with the beer and several lemon squashes for the girls. And then announced we just having the 1 drink and then moving on. RightO, we’re set. One problem I didn’t see coming was that Andy, Kal and myself didn’t have the hand movement or control to hold a schooner. Come to think of it we couldn’t hold anything. Julia offered to hold the glass to my mouth for me to take a sip. I casually looked around the bar and noticed several of the bushies looking our way. Not staring, just interested. I told Julia I’d be OK, just hold the glass next to my chest, put my hands around the vessel and I’ll give it a go myself. It just wasn’t going to work. Bloody hands, bloody body! It won’t comply. So I asked Julie to prop my arms up, bend my elbows, with the back of my hands touching each other and my fingers pointing towards my throat. Hey, this might just work. Gee, I just want to feel half-man again and feed myself a beer. The guys watched in silence as Julie nestled the schooner in the back of my hands with the rim of the glass touching my chin. Success. I’m holding the schooner at last. Kal squealed out a ‘yippee’ or something just as inappropriate and thankfully shut-up when he saw my glare. Inconspicuous boys, remember. I craned my neck forward and lent back a little and tasted my 1^st beer that I was drinking on my own in over 3 months. Albeit in a very unique manner. Now that’s progress. I must be getting better. The other helpers followed Julia’s lead and positioned the rest, who by now were chomping at the bit. I’ve never been one to lack confidence. Even in these difficult times. God, that beer tasted good. That good in fact, that I continued to lean further back to take a good sized gulp and ended up pouring 10 or so of the 15 ounces straight down the front of me. The boys roared laughing at my untimely beer bath. I’ve got to admit, it must have looked pretty funny and had a chuckle myself. Julia offered to change my sloppy-joe and I said we’d do that later after she’d renewed the round of drinks, “cause I’d only had a sip and spilled the rest”, and promised to be much more careful with the next one. She said “and the very last one”. Yeah whatever Jules. She really is a good sport – our Julia. Naturally bloody Al didn’t spill a drop and looked pretty pleased with himself at sculling his schooner down first. The new beer load arrived and the same manipulation of limbs took place. But, with this one I I’d be was very careful and hardly spilled a drop. Gee, it felt good. Not just having a beer, but feeling semi-normal. Another glancing look over to the bar and I saw the bushies raise their glass in my direction and say “Good onya mate”. Julia announced that we’d be on our way. The boys looked in my direction. Thankfully Andy said we couldn’t go yet “cause he hadn’t bought a round yet”. You should have seen the look on Julia’s face. She looked straight at me and waited for me to take control and redirect Andy’s generousity into leaving the bar immediately. Silence. She took forceful control of my chair and shoved me out of ear-shot of the boys to give me a quick lecture on the state of the other guys health and my responsibilities as team leader and, this drinking should cease now! During the 3 minute dressing-down, Andy had convinced his pusher that not completing the shout was totally un-Australian and he wouldn’t be budging until he’d returned the ‘shout’. By the time Julia had got me back Al was half way through savouring his 3^rd schooner, Kal was having his choice of a double JD and coke and Andy finally got his Southern Comfort and lemonade. My schooner was sitting on the table waiting for someone - me. Julia was fuming. Thankfully, the icey atmosphere was suddenly broken by one of the bushies coming over to say g’day and inquire where we were from. We couldn’t be rude could we? So I started to give a drawn out brief of the team and where/what predicament we 4 now found ourselves in. After a minute or so Bluey, as he introduced himself invited us over to meet his mates. What were we to do. It would have been down-right rude not accommodate such a simple request. “Give us a push Bluey, Julia I promise this won’t take long”. And off I went. I could feel Julia’s eyes piercing the back of my neck. The boys followed in an assisted conga-line. A couple of Blueys mates helped with the transfer and assured the girls “We’ll only be a tick luv, relax”. How good is this. I deadest nearly forgot I was in a wheelchair (nearly). They were a good bunch of blokes. Bluey a wheat and sheep Station Manager from Warren. Gibbo a property worker from somewhere just 30 ‘clicks’ from Blueys joint. Macca a raw-bone mercenary farmhand that could turn his hand to anything, and always found work around Show time. And Robbo, the son of a property owner from out Barrabra way. He just attended the Show every year and met up with old school mates and fellow farmers that he’d played Rugby with either at Private School in Sydney or out around home. Al had finished his drink. One of Bluey’s mates said let me get you guys a drink. I quickly said no thanks and reminded Kal it was his ‘push’. You beauty drink number 4 arrived. Same as before. I wasn’t game to look over in the direction of Julia. The blokes told us a few yarns of what that’d been up to, what they were showing and what they were trying to achieve during the Show. But, in all honesty, I don’t think they would have lost any sleep over missing out on Show ribbon. They were there to have a bloody good time. And soon enough, so was my team. Gee, it felt good. It was as if they bushies didn’t even notice we were wheelchair-bound. What a great bunch. Without so much as a stare Al had asked Gibbo if he could fetch our next round for him. Gibbo even offered to pay, but I quickly insisted that Al was loaded and his money was in the top pocket of his shirt – look out for the moths. Drink No.5 tasted better than the 1^st. I even felt a familiar glow from the effects. Not surprising considering we were into our 5^th in about 50 minutes. It must have taken effect cause the ‘dutch-courage’ kicked in and I looked over at Julia to gauge a response. No sweat. She was nowhere to be seen. Probably gone to the loo. The other girls were ‘tut, tutting’ in a school teacher manner in the corner. Anyway, we didn’t miss a beat. We laughed, joked and were having a terrific time when I received a tap on the shoulder. It was Craig. “Hey fellas, before you get us all in the shit, drink up and let’s go”. Fine with me. “Hey Bluey and boys, thanks for the laughs, take it easy eh, cheers” and we were off. That touch with the real world just made me all that more determined to get better and get the hell out of PHH. Craig became my pusher and the girls followed. I told Craig the quickest way back was around to the left, follow along near the perimeter fence, down Sideshow Alley and that would take us straight back to the bus pick up area. Of course I’d also promised Al that route anyway and he could see it all, or what there was to see on the way out.

“Hey Craig, where’s Julia?” I inquired. “Don’t worry mate she’s waiting for us at the bus, she’s not very happy”. 

The story will continue........

My 'gang' and a funny story from PHH

The following is a brief of ‘my’ gang and just one of the many funny incidences that happened at PHH.

Week 12 – still no movement.

Craig Jarvis was 2 IC of the Physio unit that looked after our group. What a bloke! I believe the absolute and total commitment he gave to his job was the final straw that broke the back of his marriage. He spent every hour of every day preparing us invalids for life on the outside, trying to integrate us back into society. Craig had recently separated from his wife Julia who was in fact his boss, and still In-charge of the Physio Unit. Not an easy assignment, for Julia and Craig.

A couple of weeks ago Craig had announced to my section of the Ward that he’d managed to arrange an outing to the Sydney Royal Easter Show for all those interested. An early and simple “thanks, but no thanks Craig” had made my position quite clear. Being born and bred in Sydney I’d attended the Show from ages 6 to 16 and loved it, but had no desire at all to accept Craig’s kind invitation, particularly now - wheelchair-bound.

The night before the fifteen or so patients were to go to the Show, and about 3 hours after Craig should have left, and gone home to his wife, he came to my bedside and declared that some of the group (mainly my group) had had a change of heart and decided to stay at PHH. Craig proceeded to explain that a few of the boys reneged simply because I wasn’t going, and, I’d be doing him, and them, a huge favour if I’d reconsider and rally the troops into action.

No bloody way!

You see, I’d been there and done that, and basically grown out of that sort of gig. It’s bloody hard to say NO to Craig. He gives and gives so much of himself, and up until then, had never asked me for anything. I reluctantly reconsidered. What else could I do? OK. I’m weak, I gave in, but, on several probably very selfish conditions.

Firstly, Julia was to be my personal ‘pusher’ for the day. Secondly, that I was the sole selector of the route to be taken within the Show grounds. And lastly that only the ‘boys’ – the Pit Pony, Big Al, Oggie, Kal and myself constituted the group, our group. Craig had to agree, just to keep the peace and retain the numbers. The next morning there it was, the bus, an awefully conspicuous mode of transport for invalids. Why couldn’t we have got taxis or something? The bus was to shuttle our group out of the security of PHH and into the real world.

“God, what have I got myself into?”

The ordeal started about 6am with the nurses making sure they had all the necessary individual medications for each patient, along with respirators for the chronic, enough stand-by catheter bags in case of  inevitable ‘wee-accident’ followed by lunch-boxes with the individual dietary supplements, making the exercise seem exhaustingly lengthy and fruitless.

And we hadn’t even departed yet.

But, I’d promised Craig.

Let me introduce ‘my’ Group:-

1.                  Andy (the Pit-Pony) Lucas.

A 6 ft. 8”, 17.5 stone, 21 year old rowdy Cardiff-born and bred Welshman who’d finally fulfilled a life long dream and arrived in Oz for the sole purpose of backpacking around the country with a bunch of equally rowdy ‘boyos’ to sample every local brew in every pub.

9.50am, New Years Day, 1993, Coogee Beach, Sydney.

After taking the advice that the only way to ease the effects of a good old-fashioned New Years Eve hangover was a plunge into the briny. Our intrepid tourist (with nil surf-sense) dived headlong into a broken wave at lake-like Coogee Beach.

A new C5 Incomplete Quad was man-made that very instant.

2.                  Alan (Big Al) Watkins

A 5 ft. 9”, 12 stone, 34 year old motor mechanic from Bargo, 65klms south-west of Sydney, who lost control of his 1200cc Yamaha on a bend in the road and was pig-rooted, air-borne some 40 meters into a 100 year old Great Australian Red Gum. The wards newest T5 Paraplegic, also managed to hit his head very hard. There were a few sheep missing in the top paddock, if you know what I mean.

3.                  Othmar (Oggie) Perchtold

A 5 ft. 9”, 11.5 stone raw-boned ‘bushy’ from Rylestone 40 ks west of Bathurst who by all appearances must have been about 50 years old. Oggie decided to give the local Constabulary a run-for-their-money one Friday evening, after some Christmas ‘cheer’ with the boys at the local. When he regained consciousness by the side of the road, all he had as a keep-sake was the rear-vision mirror from the company-ute in his hand, the last momento prior to exiting the ute via the front windscreen. Oggie did hit his head pretty hard as well. How hard? The medical staff had yet to complete their diagnosis. So far Oggie was a severe C6 Incomplete Quad with ‘other’ problems.

4.                  Kalam (Kal) Wilson

A 6 ft. 1”, lean, 18 year old, street-smart Maori kid from Sydney’s western suburbs with what appeared to be one hell of a ‘chip’ on his shoulder. The details of the ordeal that made him an acute C5 Incomplete Quad were a bit sketchy, but, I was reliably informed, was still subject to ongoing police investigations. But, as yet no charges had been laid, one way or the other. All I know is what he told me. He’d successfully managed to sidestep the first taxi cab on that ill-fated Saturday night in George Street (no mean feat at the best of times) but the second cab, well, it didn’t miss him - all of him.

I’d made my decision. Or at least Craig had persuaded me into it. A promise is a promise. I may as well stop whining and make the most of it. Before we’d even got started we had a late scratching, poor bloody Oggie. Oggie had a piece of skin taken off his bum when being transferred into bed the previous day and the nursing staff were concerned it may develop into a pressure-sore (a quads worst nightmare) if he had to endure being stuck for 8 hours in a wheelchair. It was a real shame because Oggie was the only real ‘bushy’ amongst us. He particularly, would have loved the show ring with all the Prize Bulls and owners parading their ribbons so proudly. The Show was always the time and the place, where once a year, The Bush met The City. Besides, Oggie could have told us the difference between not only a Santa Gertrudus and a Hereford, but for some, a Bull from a Cow. We left Oggie behind, the saddest I’d ever seen him and the first time I hadn’t seen his crooked smile since his arrival. But I vowed I’d bring him back something from the Show.

I thought I’d instructed the nurses pretty well on the gear I’d carefully selected to wear for Show Day. I made sure the sunglasses were in place at all times and the baseball cap was as subtle as possible, so as to attract as least notice as possible. Our bus wasn’t too heavily sign-written, like most. You know what it’s like in traffic when a bus pulls along side with 2 foot-high lettering announcing it’s the “Windgap Spastic Centre” or some other home for the disabled. You can’t help but to peer in the window at the poor unfortunate souls, strapped in their seats, ‘for their own protection’. I’d rather the buses be clean of signwriting. It certainly helps avoid the curious, from gawking at you. There weren’t many seats in our bus, we didn’t need them, we brought our own, we were all in wheelchairs, just a couple of benches for the helpers and parents that accompanied the tour party. And you guessed it, we had secured the services of the next Formula 1 driver, an up and coming ‘Fangio’ bus hoon. The stopping of the bus was immediately followed by the entire party rolling 2 metres to the front, and the acceleration was so severe we all rolled back to our original grid positions. I must admit it got a few laughs though and broke the ice with several of the less daring, wondering if we’d actually make The Show in one piece. The bus route took us along Anzac Parade, past South Sydney Juniors, alongside Uni of NSW and terminated at the entrance to the Horden Pavilion the designated drop-off for the peoples ‘Special Day’ out. We were ceremoniously rolled off the rear cattle-run and herded on mass into two neat lines for the obligatory head-count. I thought, “Cripes, we couldn’t have lost anybody yet!” Thankfully the gate attendants didn’t attempt to shuffle our lot through the turnstiles. That would have been a real disaster. Because we were ‘special’ people we were granted entry through the side gate. Nice work.

It wasn’t paranoia. Craig had got me a beauty. Today, at The Show wasn’t a ‘Special’ people’s day. It was the ‘Special People’s’ day. A bloody big difference. I don’t mean to be unkind. Hell, I was in no position to judge others in wheelchairs, I’m one myself. But everywhere I turned all you could see were people in chairs. If they weren’t in chairs they had a handler helping them stand upright, or just stand still. There were Spastics, Downe-Syndromes, Spinabifetas and every imaginable form of disabled, caroled in the one area. One well-presented, good-looking young bloke who looked as if he had a slight case of Cerabal Palsy stood just a metre away chattering away to his minder and then, for no apparent reason (unless he felt as conned as I did) yelled out at the top of his voice “ Fuck You!, cock-sucking little faggott”. I was later to learn he suffered from the perculiar disorder called Turret’s Syndrome which left the patient prone to sudden outbursts of especially ripe expletives. Sometimes times handy, I suppose, if you can get away with it, I thought.

“Shit Julia, let’s get out of here”, I demanded, as if I’d suddenly contracted a touch of Turret’s myself from sitting too close to the bloke. “Get the boys together, we’ve got to get away from this!” Julia and Craig had a quick meeting and it was decided we would all meet back at the same spot at 4.30pm, sharp – no stragglers please. It was now 10.30am and I told Julia if we didn’t get our act together real quick we’d miss the highlights of Brad’s Royal Easter Show Tour. With my group’s pushers in place we bid farewell to the rest of the PHH clan as I pointed the first of many directions to Julia. I still couldn’t help but think of poor bloody Oggie lying back at PHH. Poor bastard. With Andy, Big Al and Kal in-tow we headed down the first lane to our right - the infamous Side Show Alley. What a rip-off. Both Al and Kal were simply dumbstruck by the spruikers and atmosphere that abounds in Side Show Alley. We hadn’t gone 50 metres when I turned around to point something out to Al and he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. God, this is going to be a long day. Al had convinced Debbie (his pusher) to stop at the rotating Clown Heads. Al was going to win his daughter a ‘Kewpie’ doll or stuffed dog or some other type of worthless trash that seems to get recycled year after year as prizes for the suckers who manage to win a prize. I thought I was pretty patient. I waited until Al had handed over his $3 to the grimy-handed, 3-toothed stall owner and watched as he came up empty-handed. Well not quite, he was rewarded with a rubberized facsimile of a cockroach on a stick, worth about .30c. “Nice one Al, little Suzy’ll love that.” “Now fellas and helpers this is your Tour Guide speaking, please pay attention. If we’re going to get through all this together, in one piece, it’s going to have to happen my way. Right”, I demanded. I promised the boys we would come back the same way and do the Side Show and Show Bag ‘thing’ on the way-out, not in. Both Al and Kal reluctantly nodded as if they were chastised school children caught chewing gum in class. The helpers on the other hand, including Julia would have liked to have pushed me into the nearest corner and left me there until just before 4.30pm. The pecking-order sorted out, we ventured on towards Venue No.1 – the Wood Chopping arena. Of all the events at the Show I always marveled at the Axemen. There seemed to be men of all shapes and sizes. Blokes who would have looked more at home abreasting the bar at the Dubbo Royal with beer-bellies only a mother could excuse. Then there were the wiry, stringy little fellas who you’d have thought couldn’t have swung an axe-handle to save their lives. All competitors had two things in common. Firstly, an almost fervent affair with their respective tool-of-the-trade, their Axe. Usually cradled in a magnificently oiled leather scabbard. The Axeman would peel the safety clip away, as if sensually undoing his girlfriends bra clip, discreetly expose the finely honed, glimmering weapon. You could honestly have taken a shave with most of the blades. They were awesome. Secondly, their hands were like feet. Hands that were gnarled and callused from years on-the-block. There was also usually the odd one or two competitors that had a decided limp. Maybe from a momentary slip in concentration, who knows. I’d never been game enough to ask.

My route took us anti-clockwise around the entire complex. We past a few Pavilions showing off the latest in automotive technology. I knew Al was a bit of a rev-head but he wasn’t game to make whisper after his most recent lecture. Past the Arts & Crafts Pavilion, a favourite with the ‘old-dears’ and up and around the back of the horse stables which housed many of the country competitors and their prized stock. I must admit the smell of the Country sure beats the clinical, Dettol pervading ambiance of PHH’s - Spinal Ward 1. We were just clearing the final row of stables when to my absolute astonishment came a piercing “ Brad! Brad de Wit, God, it’s good to see you.” Of all the places and with my best disguise in place it was part of the Gee ‘clan’ from Avoca Beach. Mad horse people. Never missed a Show. And I thought I’d covered all the bases. Unbebloodylievable. We exchanged pleasantries and they all wished me a speedy recovery.  I escaped any further personal embarrassment with the excuse that we had to meet up with other patients and we were running late, “so I really ought get going”. I was so embarrassed. Pretty stupid reaction in hindsight. I really should have been as pleased to see them, as they me. But I still hadn’t come to terms with my mode of transport just yet. Besides being mad horse people, the Gee’s (at least the men) where known up and down the east coast as the best Surfboat exponents in the business. Old Dickie Gee was the gun sweep. There wasn’t a surf big enough that Dick wouldn’t take on. Often much to the dismay of his crew. Denis ‘Bags’ (nicknamed, I think, on account of his saggy scrotum) was the middle brother and Boat Captain of Avoca for many years. Just as fearless as Dick, but not blessed with quite the same finesse. I’d been in a few crews swept by Bags and reckon we spent just as much time upside down as we did rowing, but a real character. And brother Phil, the quiet achiever and next to take the mantle from Dick. Three years back he coerced my brother, Chris, and I into competing in the Windsor to Hawkesbury Paddle. 111 kilometres of back-breaking torture on one of Australia’s most picturesque waterways, yet, paddled overnight. Completely insane. With two other double-skis we won the teams event. Although our personal effort was without great distinction the huge effort put in by Jim & John Mitchell and Brad & Trevor Gee meant we won the coveted Teams title. I’d vowed I’d never sit my backside in a ski ever again. But at the moment would have given anything just to be able to sit up unaided. Funny how things change.

It was getting towards 11.30 when the Wood Chopping stadium came into view. The finals were scheduled for 12 noon and if we were going to have a chance at securing a vantage spot we’d better get a move-on. So much for the hurry. We needn’t have bothered. An elderly official, known as a ‘green-coat’ and generally voluteers, who looked like he’d swung an axe or two in his youth, spotted our wheelchair congo-line an immediately ushered us to the front row, politely but firmly asking people (who had probably been sitting there half the day) to move along and make way for some ‘special people’. My embarrassment continues. Andy, Al and Kal thought it was great and all part of my master plan. I didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise. Right on 12 o’clock the first of the combatants sauntered into the stadium’s arena. These guys had the task of chopping through a 40cm thick log in the horizontal position. Each competitor carefully stalked around their assigned prey. With the occasional kick delivered to check stability. Some guys had assistants to readjust the claws that secure the log to the stand, while one bloke, sporting a couple of tattoos on arms that looked like legs actually delivered a back-handed slap to the log he was about to cut down to size. The tension mounted as each man was called up to his log and introduced to the crowd, which now filled the Stadium to capacity. The bloke on log 1 would have been half the size of the bloke on log 6. It looked a total mismatch. The countdown began and although log 1 had commenced his first swing of the axe, the blade came into contact exactly in time with the buzzer. But the countdown continued. This was a handicap event. I cynically wondered if it was put on for our behalf. The count continued 5, 6, 7 saw competitors on log 2 and 3 start chopping. 9, 10 was the signal for axeman No.4 to start doing his best. 13, 14, 15 had a burly red-headed fella from Buhladela join the fray. 18, 19, 20 finally signaled the big-fella into action. A twenty second handicap for anybody was a bit much and I started to feel a bit sorry for the big fella. By the time No.6 had completed 2 swings No.1 had turned and started pecking away at the opposite side of his log. There was no way that No.6 could make up such a deficit. Some judge I. The chips flying off the log from No.6 and coming perilously close to spectators must have weighed 3 kilos each and the size of a shoebox lid. My group was being showered by shards of timber and with little or no means of physical defense to cover-up or duck the shrapnel came thick and fast. I could only laugh at Al and Kal that were copping the full brunt. After every grunt came the thud of blade-on-wood. No.1 axeman had just 15cms to go as my hero turned to inflict his awesome strength on the back side. The crowd started cheering and although the tempo picked up on No.1, No.6 stuck to his game-plan and with surgeon-like precision made up valuable ground on his less experienced players. The clock displayed 58 seconds as No.6 took his last almighty swipe and the log was severed. Two seconds behind came log No.5 followed by a totally drained and ashen-faced No.1. Then came 4, 2 and finally 3, still under the I minute 15 second minute mark. If we could have jumped up and screamed we would have. We were stuck with Al wolf-whistling and Kal yelling out “Yo-Bro” (whatever that means), and rest of us trying our best to applaud for the effort just witnessed. Wow, that was worth the price of admission.

We conga-lined back out of the Stadium for ‘muster’, one of many musters that were to happen during the day.

Our helpers gave us all a brief brushing down of our clothing and cleared any splinters that had embedded our gear and did a quick ‘bag-check’, our wee-bags, and drain those required. And, when I said the wood-chips came perilously close to spectators, I wasn’t exaggerating. In the glistening sun the beads of perspiration coming from Al’s forehead showed the odd bead of blood, evidencing just how close the wood-chips came. We all roared laughing at Al’s misfortune. At the same pit-stop the helpers decided it was time for a quick sandwich and juice or whatever. Remember, all of us, besides Al had to be hand-fed. I observed the crowd as several passers-by stared and moved on at “feeding-time”. Time to move on. All of a sudden I wasn’t hungry at all.

1 down, Venue No.2 beckons. The Stockman’s Bar……… to be continued