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