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!
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