by Ann Fogarty
Such a little thing to get upset about, but I was stricken. ‘Don’t be impatient, it’ll happen’, I repeated to myself, like a mantra. Common sense suggested I mustn’t force anything; just let things take their course. But my heart wasn’t moved by common sense; it knew what it needed desperately—to feel like a mother again.
22
OUT FOR LUNCH
At the end of June, four-and-a-half months after being admitted to the Alfred, the sister in charge of the Burns Unit told me that I was physically up to leaving the hospital for a little jaunt if I wanted. After all this time of being inside and isolated from the outside world, it was an amazing prospect. A couple of nurses offered to take me down the road to the Chevron Hotel for lunch—a favourite haunt of the Alfred staff, then. Terry and I weren’t really pub-goers so it made the excursion all the more interesting. The one drawback was that I didn’t have anything to wear, not in the normal sense of I-don’t-have-anything-to-wear, but literally. The nightgown I’d been given by the staff was my entire wardrobe at the time!
Somehow Peter, the intern, heard of my problem and brought me an outfit to wear for the day out. The brown tracksuit may not have been glamorous, but it was soft, warm and light, and totally practical and comfortable. I was so touched by the gesture—I didn’t even know that he knew about my predicament. It felt oddly thrilling to be wearing clothes at last, even if they were brown tracky dacks.
As the time approached, I was exhilarated yet nervous. What if something went wrong when I ventured out of the hospital? I was still very sore all over, had burns that were being dressed and hadn’t completely overcome the feeling that I might die. My body somehow remembered that. But wow, I’d waited for this moment—it’d been so long coming.
It was a cool and cloudy June day, stubbornly overcast, but none of that mattered for me. The nurses were laughing as we left the building and I felt like a kid starting out on the Big Dipper. As we exited through the main doors, the noise coming from busy Commercial Road hit me immediately. It sounded far too loud to my ears—all one and a half of them—and the cars seemed to be whizzing past much too fast. It was more challenging than I had imagined. It certainly wasn’t a dream run sitting in a wheelchair, however, even though one of the nurses was doing all the work pushing it. Every bump or crack on the footpath was uncomfortable, and the curbs loomed like cliffs. On the other hand, just being outside was invigorating, and being able to breathe in fresh air again, or rather fumey fresh air, but at least it didn’t smell like disinfectant.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to go far on this bumpy ride but when we reached the hotel door I had a bout of apprehension: I was now out in the real world where people didn’t expect you to look like someone who’d just escaped a nuclear explosion. I still didn’t know what I looked like but I knew it wasn’t good. We sat at a square, wooden table in the middle of the spacious main room, with me facing the door where I could see people coming in and out. I felt squirmingly self-conscious when the waiter brought the meals but he was effortlessly friendly, asking how I was, and talking to the nurses, so I soon eased into it. I had ordered a main meal of fish and vegetables, which the nurses cut up for me. Although I couldn’t eat much of it, I was elated just to be out in a normal social environment.
These nurses had taken the trouble to organise this outing during their spare time and insisted on paying for my meal as well. I was struck again by the generosity and caring attitude of many of the nurses I encountered in my time in hospital. This was an extracurricular activity for them.
Not long afterwards, one afternoon in early July, I was waiting to carry out my daily tasks in my wheelchair in the occupational therapy room and, for some reason, was in a particularly pensive mood as I watched the staff going about their business. They would sit with a patient for a while, then get up to fetch something or go to another part of the room. I was mesmerised by how unthinkingly everyone moved about. Don’t they realise what a miracle it is just to be able to get from here to there without even thinking? They have no idea how precious and wonderful that is. Of course, neither did I five months ago. Movement was just another one of those everyday, ordinary things of life that I had taken absolutely for granted. With that thought, I vowed to myself that if I ever managed to walk normally again, I would always remember this moment and feel overwhelmingly grateful. And I have.
23
LOSS OF FACE
One of the things I barely thought of as I slowly recovered from my injuries was the change in my appearance. I’d somehow assumed that, yes, I’d have scars, but that they’d eventually fade in significance. I’d never been the sort of person who was particularly fussed about looks nor had I needed to worry about such things as I was lucky enough to be naturally attractive—not beautiful, but attractive. However, my appearance had been a big consideration for the staff of the Intensive Care Unit, who’d repeatedly asked themselves if, by some miracle, I survived, what sort of quality of life I’d have given the way I was going to look?
For some reason, one day in early July, I had to look at myself. I asked one of the nurses for a mirror. It was about five months after the fires and I was still unable to get out of bed on my own. The nurse was reluctant but I insisted, saying I really wanted to see my face. She took some time—more time than I’d have thought necessary—before coming back with a rectangular mirror that looked as if she’d taken it off a wall somewhere.
I took it from her and forced my right arm to hold it up in front of my face. As I stared at myself, I just froze. My chin and cheeks seemed distorted, as if I’d transmogrified into another person. The scarring had not yet become raised and red, as it would later, but what I saw didn’t even look like me. The face staring back at me was ugly and was registering my dismay. My face—the face I’d grown up with, the face that was me—was gone. I burst into tears. I wept for the part of me that was lost forever. The nurse tried to console me as I cried, telling me that I looked alright.
‘But I’m so ugly now,’ was all I could say.
It struck me that I was going to stay looking that way. How could I cope with that day after day and have other people looking at that face? I thought, too, about the many years of surgery that lay ahead—the doctors said at least six years—and about all the other adjustments I’d have to make to my life.
Up to then, I’d been cocooned from this other reality whilst surviving was my priority. I thought that if I could come through it and stay alive, somehow everything would settle back to being the same. How naive I’d been. I knew with a jolt that nothing would ever be the same again. I’d always been fit, healthy and sporty—which undoubtedly helped me survive—but I couldn’t even stand up, sit up or use my hands properly. How much mobility would I get back? Would I always need help? Would I have the stamina to be a fully engaged, fully functioning wife and mother? My days of excelling at sport were obviously over but would I ever be able to play the games I loved again? Would I be able to run again?
A hospital psychiatrist, Frank, had been seeing Terry and me together, and me individually for several months. I think it was Frank who first raised these things—matters that are common to all burns patients. When he initially came in, I talked to him about being afraid of dying. Now we talked about living, in particular, how I’d manage and how I’d feel about the way I’d look. One of the issues that Frank had discussed with us in a joint session was the very high percentage of marriages that break down with burns patients because of the enormous stress the husband and wife are under for such a long period of time. At the time and long afterwards, it never entered my head that we’d be one of them. We were secure. At least that would never happen.
24
AGAINST DOCTOR’S ORDERS
Towards the end of my stay at the Alfred, in late July, Peter the intern again showed his thoughtfulness when I had to have my hair shaved off for the second time. The first occasion was when I was admitted and, even though I had more urgent things on my plate, not having hair r
eally did rankle. As it gradually began to regrow it used to stick up and the nurses would giggle. This was several decades before hair sticking up at all angles became fashionable! I’m sure they shared their amusement with me to help me see the funny side of things, but I used to get really cross about it. you try having no hair, I thought! I took consolation in the doctors’ assurances that I would only need my head shaved that once.
However, coming round after one surgery in the middle of June I found they’d done it again. My hair had grown back quite vigorously and now I’d lost it again. I was devastated—quite out of proportion really, but having hair had seemed part of getting back some semblance of normality in my life. I guess my reaction must have shown that I was upset, at least to Peter. Ever practical and keen to help, he came up with the idea of getting me a wig. I used to have long, dark, glossy hair but I’d always wanted blonde curly hair when I was a little girl—like the child film star, Shirley Temple. I envied her golden ringlets that seemed to have a life of their own. So when Peter and I discussed a wig, I toyed with the idea of going blonde or maybe red, and definitely curly. Like any woman with dead straight hair, I really liked curls.
In the end, Peter’s creative solution didn’t eventuate, but it was fun fantasising about the colours I might choose and how I might look with curls. It certainly brightened my spirits. There was one benefit of losing my hair though—the cowlick I had always hated went with it.
Two episodes occurred towards the end of my stay at the Alfred which, simple as they were, illustrated the goodwill that contributed to my recovery, both physically and emotionally. One involved my friend Liz who was still visiting me daily after all those months—incredible dedication, in itself. I’d begun to eat and drink normally and the Prof was encouraging me to take in as many calories as possible to build up my weight, which was far below the healthy limit. Soft drinks were high on the list as they contained so much sugar. My favourite was red lemonade. Liz was with me one night when I was drinking rather a lot of it. Having seen me vomit often during the times she spent with me, she cautioned me about the amount I was consuming.
‘I think you’ll be ill if you drink any more, Ann,’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ I replied confidently. ‘I feel fine.’
Five minutes later I threw up all over Liz’s shoes, disgustingly bright pink projectile vomit. I was mortified, apologising profusely and acknowledging that, yes, I should have listened to her. Not fazed, Liz calmly cleaned herself up and told me not to worry. I doubt that her shoes recovered, or if they did, they were probably a different colour! Her tolerance and understanding left a real impression.
The second episode involved the regular X-rays which the doctors had recommenced to monitor any infection in my lungs once I’d left Intensive Care. The process was still painful but nothing compared to what it had been previously. I commented to the radiographer about how much I’d hated this procedure in the early days.
‘I know you did,’ he said. ‘We all dreaded having to come in each day and do it to you. In fact, in the end, we refused to put you through it any more and told the doctors that we wouldn’t be part of it. We just couldn’t see the advantage of causing you that much extra pain on a daily basis.’
If I’d been able to, I would have given this compassionate man a big hug. I was so grateful to know that my perceptions of that time were wrong. This man had cared; in fact he and the others had cared so much they’d gone against doctor’s orders to end the excruciating procedure for me. Suddenly, I could let go of the corrosive thoughts of that time; I felt something heal instantly.
25
THE ALFRED FAREWELL
Although I’d longed for the day when I could leave the Alfred, as the time approached I was in two minds about it. I’d been expecting to leave in September, but was told in early July that I could be discharged late that month to go to Hampton Rehabilitation Hospital. I loved feeling that I was progressing towards the day when I’d be rehabilitated and could go home again, but the Alfred, for all its traumatic times, had been my home for more than five months and represented great security. I still felt so fragile and vulnerable, which I now know is very common for anyone who has suffered profound trauma. In reality, though, I was unable to walk and someone still had to help me to the toilet. I found it difficult, too, to contemplate leaving the people who had been with me through my battle to live. I dearly loved many of them and was grateful for the part they’d all played in my survival. They knew my health needs intimately and, of course, accepted me just as I was, scars and all.
A week before I was due to be transferred to the Rehab, I was moved out of the Burns Unit to a room in the general ward. Soon afterwards, the realisation that I was leaving really hit me and I began sobbing uncontrollably, which was the state that Carol, the physio, found me in when she arrived for a session. Carol was wearing a white coat with pencils and rulers in the pockets. Quickly removing all these sharp objects, she wrapped her arms around me.
‘You’ve done so well, sometimes we forget that you’re human,’ she said.
I just cried and cried on her shoulder.
Everything was arranged for me to go to Hampton when, at the last minute, the doctors decided they needed to operate on a finger that was giving me trouble. It would be the last of at least fifteen operations I’d had during my stay at the Alfred. The surgery was performed in the morning and I was told that it would be better if I didn’t eat or drink anything for a while afterwards. I was still groggy when I was wheeled back to the ward, so imagine my confusion when I arrived to find my room full of people standing around my bed. Why are all these people here? What’s going on, I wondered woozily. I looked from face to face and recognised all of them—doctors, nurses, interns. It was a farewell party.
As individual staff members came up and staked their place waiting to talk to me, I felt as if I were lying in state.
‘Good on you for coming through!’
‘We didn’t think you were going to make it, at times, and here we are sending you off to Hampton!’
There was a real sense that my survival was something we’d all done together. As they said their farewells, they recounted incidents that had occurred throughout the five months I’d been there, some of which surprised me. One young intern came up to me and said, ‘I’ll never forget that even though there were times you fought so hard to live, there were times I’d come in and you’d say to me, “Could you just let me die?” It was heart wrenching.’
I didn’t remember that.
The staff then presented me with a present, which was completely unexpected. It never occurred to me that I’d be given a party or a gift before I left—I didn’t think that sort of thing happened in hospitals. Prof gave a speech in his characteristic, low-key way, something about how I had never given in despite the struggle. Even though they’d told me not to, I drank something and threw up soon after. They’d gone to all this trouble and I threw up! I know, you’d think I’d learn! I’m sure I said a thousand thank yous but I was so woozy still from the anaesthetic and having to fast before and after the op, that I can’t recall too much of what I said, which is probably a good thing!
I now determined to put my mind to preparing myself for the move to Hampton Rehab before I left. One afternoon near the end of my time at the Alfred, I was sitting in the kitchen of the Occupational Therapy area having a cup of tea while a fellow patient was baking a cake as part of his therapy. Wayne was in the Alfred for injuries from a car accident and had spent some time at Hampton. I was keen to learn all I could from him and he was happy to share his impressions as he mixed and blended.
‘Watch out for Sister Walpole,’ he said. ‘She’s like a sergeant-major and scares the willies out of everyone.’
He went on to describe his experiences with Hampton’s chief nursing sister.
‘She sounds terrifying,’ I said apprehensively, thinking how kind all the nurses at the Alfred had been.
I left the Alfred the way
I entered—by ambulance—heading towards what would be my new home for the remaining months of 1983. I’d been the most badly burned patient in the Alfred from the Ash Wednesday fires, and the last to leave. I didn’t know at the time that I would leave carrying a time bomb that would explode twenty years later. I thought then that all my scars were physical.
26
HAMPTON REHABILITATION HOSPITAL
I’d no sooner arrived at Hampton Rehabilitation Hospital than I was ushered in to meet the matron. The hospital struck me as being small, old and musty, in sharp contrast to the Alfred. And the matron certainly looked as if she belonged there. She sat solidly behind a big desk in her office and though she was welcoming, she still managed to look intimidating. Ready to bark. I even had to call her Matron so-and-so, which seemed rather archaic, particularly after the informality at the Alfred. She informed me that I was there to WORK: I would be set a program of physiotherapy and occupational therapy, I would attend the gym in the afternoon, then shower, then eat dinner around six o’clock and be allowed visitors from seven to eight. I felt I was about to get a rap on the knuckles for good measure.
My next meeting was with Dr Gasner for an examination. He was tall, slim and direct, and was overseeing my whole treatment. I noticed his hands immediately; beautiful hands with long, slender fingers. Hands that could play the violin. He had a gentle touch, which was important as I still had open burns that needed to be examined and dressed. Not only that, I continued to experience shocking pain on my arrival at Hampton, and heard later that the staff felt terrible even having to touch me. There would still be times here, too, when I would beg to be allowed to die. But for now it felt like a new phase in my recovery.
