by Ann Fogarty
Later that first day, I settled into the room I was sharing with a woman called Glad who turned out to be an absolute cracker. She was in her fifties, and had lost part of one leg due to diabetes which didn’t seem to faze or deter her in the slightest. In fact, Glad’s incorrigible sense of humour lit up everyone around her and I was so grateful to have her animated company after the long months in isolation at the Alfred. I glanced around at the room: high ceilings, grey walls and a little window, two hospital beds with green bedspreads side by side, and a bedside table each in the middle. I noted that Glad didn’t have many possessions on her side; it was all strictly no-frills here—no doubt an edict from the matron.
I wondered about the dreaded Sister Walpole, but she didn’t seem to be around. Maybe she was on holiday or had even left, I thought hopefully. Next was tea in the Common Room, a large area with coffee tables and comfortably worn chairs and sofas, all gathered around a television. This must be what nursing homes are like, I thought, imagining knees and crocheted blankets. There would have been twenty or thirty patients at Hampton then with a variety of injuries and illnesses: people with diabetes who’d lost a leg, amputees from car accidents, patients with head injuries, cancer cases and those convalescing after a stroke. We were all patched-up people in wheelchairs, on crutches and walking frames—all trudging on a journey to recovery, lugging the baggage of whatever misfortune had sent us there.
The next day, I’d just finished physio around teatime and was walking out of my room on my new frame towards the dining hall, chuffed and gratified that I was able to manage the short distance by myself—such are the small triumphs that punctuate the life of a recovering patient. A sister stopped me in the corridor.
‘You must be Ann. Would you like some help getting to the dining hall?’
Not likely, I was doing fine by myself! When I replied, no, she drew a breath.
‘Well, I can see you’re going to be independent! You want to do things on your own!’
Short and pleasantly plump, Sister Walpole was far softer looking than I’d imagined, with curly hair and china-blue eyes. She sat down next to me in the dining-room and, noticing that my fingers weren’t working well, inconspicuously cut up my food into small enough pieces for me to manage. I warmed to her absolutely in that moment.
Later, I would see why Wayne had been intimidated. Sister Walpole, or Pat as I’d come to call her, could be tough and would swear like a trooper when provoked. There was so much more to her, though. She was bossy, but efficient and dedicated, insightful and compassionate. I came to value her for the qualities I discovered later; for now I liked her from the gut. A life-long friendship had been born.
27
LIKE A HOUSE ON FIRE
It took some time for me to stop feeling like the ‘new girl’ at Hampton, and to develop the friendships and trust with the staff and other patients that are a crucial part of the healing process. After a while, though, I began to appreciate the air of camaraderie and encouragement that filled the place.
Nowhere was this more so than in the physio room, the epicentre of recovery. Here on the beams and bikes, the treadmills and traction tables, damaged bodies learned to work again as spirits sagged and soared. The exercises were tough physically and mentally, so that when someone reached a goal, everyone in the room would rejoice—we all realised it could be one of us next. I remember one of the brain-injury patients, a slight woman with a ponytail, performing a balancing exercise she’d been struggling with for days, and everyone stopping what they were doing to watch her. Her mission was to walk along the edge of a beam raised slightly off the floor without falling off. We held our collective breath as she painstakingly lifted and dragged one leg after another and wobbled along the beam, willing her on as she quivered and teetered. She reached the end and the room burst into a round of cheering. Many personal triumphs were celebrated with such an outpouring of support.
Off the main physiotherapy room was the head physio’s office, a glassed-in room where she could work and monitor everything that was going on at the same time. There was also a smaller area with a sink and towels. After the therapists and patients used the towels they were put in water to soak during the day. My doctor came up with the brilliant idea that it would be my job to wring them all out each night as extra therapy for my hands—not exactly a task I relished, but I did see its point!
My main physiotherapist was an enthusiastic blonde woman called Kim—as a breed, physiotherapists all seemed to be enthusiastic! Under her regime, I was soon spending less time in the wheelchair, at first walking with a frame, then walking with two sticks, then leaning on one stick and eventually walking by myself. This was a major development for me, both physically and mentally, because for so long I’d been rendered childlike and powerless, reliant on other people to do every small intimate thing for me. Now, finally, I was regaining a measure of dignity and privacy.
Kim and I did much work on my hands. My left hand in particular was badly damaged and my fingers dysfunctional. We devised a pain scale of one to ten, and I was only supposed to pull the plug on the bending and stretching when the pain hit a nine or ten. It was a constant challenge to contain it but I was good at not crying. The words, ‘Don’t cry or I’ll really give you something to cry about’, were never far from my mind. Someone in the Alfred had said to me one day, ‘You haven’t behaved like any other burns patient we’ve had’. That wasn’t a compliment—they were saying you haven’t cried enough; you haven’t expressed all of your pain and sadness yet. And it’s true—I did always conceal it. Partly this was because of who I was, and partly it was due to my efforts to stay alive.
By the time I arrived at Hampton, my survival was guaranteed. However, the emotions I’d kept a lid on started to simmer. It was especially hard to be valiant all the time with so much gruelling physical work. Many people mistakenly assumed that because I’d stoically endured so much pain already, I had probably developed a greater tolerance that would enable me to handle it more easily than most. But it was the opposite; I’d become so sensitised to even the thought of more pain that the smallest amount set off alarm bells in my head. One day in the middle of August, while I was still settling into Hampton, I sat down with Kim for our normal session together and broke down the moment she touched my injured hands. ‘Enough!’ a voice inside me was screaming. I couldn’t explain it then but Kim saw where the anguish was coming from. She suggested we abandon the exercises for the day and go outside for a walk instead. The reprieve was restorative, allowing me to balance myself again.
The physiotherapy continued relentlessly, though, week after week, month after month, until gradually I became stronger. One day a fellow patient saw me doing exercises in the gym and without thinking remarked, ‘My goodness Ann, you’re coming along like a house on fire!’ I roared with laughter and smiled with pride—the hard work at Hampton was paying off. I really was on the mend.
28
WE USED TO DO THIS, DIDN’T WE?
When I was transferred to Hampton in July 1983, there had been no change in the relationship between Rachel and myself, and I still had no physical contact with her. Sarah behaved normally, like a daughter, and often showed a heart-warming sensitivity towards me.
‘I won’t laugh at you because you don’t have any hair, Mum,’ she once assured me.
Another time, back in the ICU, she tried to explain Rachel’s refusal to see me, saying she was sure the only reason was because she was ‘shy’. Rachel was still keeping her distance.
Two weeks after admission to Hampton, Dr Gasner decided that I could go home at weekends, as long as I returned each morning to get my dressings done. This was excellent news! Since Terry and the girls had moved back to Upper Beaconsfield, I didn’t see the girls at all during the week and only briefly on weekend hospital visits. At last I would be staying in the same house as my husband and daughters again! I smiled up at him as I manoeuvred my way carefully out of his office on my sticks, feeling euphoric. Th
en suddenly, I realised that we didn’t have a home for me to go to!
Staying at Upper Beaconsfield was out of the question as the treks to Hampton and back for the dressings would take up too much time. Fortunately, my friend Sue, came to our aid. Sue’s mother lived in nearby Sandringham and had gone away on holidays, offering us her home while she was away. I was thrilled, imagining us all back together as normal. I visualised tucking the girls into bed, their soft knocking on our door in the morning, and me holding their hands as we walked round the corner to the milk bar—not realising how unprepared I was for everyday life.
So, expectations were high on our first weekend when Terry and the girls picked me up. Before the fires I used to love dressing the girls up in the same outfits but different colours, and Terry’s mother, bless her, had made sure Terry did this. There they were sitting in the back seat with their hair freshly combed, Rachel wearing a red dress and Sarah wearing the blue version. Flo had even bought them sandals to match. So cute!
Terry and I looked at each other like nervous teenagers when we drew up at the house; the girls tussled over who was going to carry my bag as I walked up the garden path on my sticks. Dorothy’s house was lovely—solidly, respectably old with a wellestablished garden. One of her neighbours even brought in a casserole to welcome us.
But I was exhausted from the drive there even though it was only to the next suburb. Within five minutes of arriving, I had to lie on the couch where I remained while Terry cooked the meal—something I’d planned to do myself. I couldn’t even say goodnight to the girls that evening because I was unable to climb the stairs to their rooms. It was all somewhat sobering. There was an air of hesitancy and unfamiliarity between us, too. It had been so long since we’d all been together, and being in someone else’s house meant we weren’t as relaxed as we would have been in our own home.
Sarah talked a lot over the weekend which was lovely but tiring. Terry had brought some books which we read to the girls but I spent a lot of time on the couch. That night, Terry and I slept downstairs together for the first time after so many months. It was wonderful sharing the same bed with him at last. Whilst Terry had never had any qualms about touching me after the fires, being in the same bed was difficult for us both. My skin was still tender and I needed to keep turning over to find a new, more comfortable position. I’m not sure just how much restful sleep either of us got but that wasn’t important.
On the fourth weekend we stayed at Sandringham, something remarkable happened. Before the fires it had been our tradition, like so many families around Australia, to watch Young Talent Time together on Saturday night. We’d sing along to the songs we knew, always crooning the final song together, and the girls would do a little dance to the catchier tunes. Young Talent Time teamster Karen Knowles was one of our favourites, especially since Terry, who knew her father through work, brought home a signed record of hers for the girls after the fires. Sarah would always position herself on the floor close to the television, while Rachel would sit on my knee.
We recommenced the happy routine during our weekends together at Sandringham. At first Rachel sat on Terry’s knee, and then on the floor. I longed to hold her but knew that I had to wait for her to make the first move. Not being able to hold your own child is excruciatingly difficult; I quite literally ached with yearning.
On this Saturday, we’d finished tea and taken our places in front of the television as usual. Rachel, almost unconsciously, came over to me and sat on my knee. I held my breath in case she would suddenly realise what she had done and leap off my knee in horror. Instead, she cuddled closer, looked up at me and said, ‘We used to do this before, didn’t we?’ I couldn’t help the tears then, but such happy tears.
It had taken six long months to hold Rachel again.
29
BACK TO MY FAMILY
The more time I spent with the “sergeant major”, the more I liked her. Pat came on duty most afternoons about three-thirty and worked through until eleven o’clock. This coincided with the times I was showered and had my dressings changed so we often found ourselves in each other’s company.
By now I’d seen her in full throttle.
Early on, Jenny, the occupational therapist, decided, in an overabundance of optimism that we would walk to the Hampton shops, about ten minutes away. I wasn’t walking very well at this stage but thought the impromptu outing was a great idea. We set off happily but my legs soon felt like lead weights and were throbbing with pain. We cut short the walk and I somehow managed to drag myself back to the hospital, with her help. I couldn’t make it to my room and collapsed onto one of the physio beds. Pat, who was on duty that afternoon, noticed I was missing and came looking for me. She was horrified when she saw my legs which had become swollen, and promptly bawled Jenny out in a long outburst of invective, full of her typically rough-and-ready language. Poor Jenny felt terrible and was very apologetic. I felt bad on her behalf but was hard put not to giggle as the wrath of Pat poured down on her head—it was just like being back at school.
Pat would have been as protective with any of her patients but she had definitely taken to me and took me under her wing. Her characteristic sense of humour helped things roll along, and she was kind beyond duty. When the day came that I could use real soap again, Pat arrived on her shift with a lushly fragrant cake of strawberry soap. When I was going through a particularly difficult stage of rehabilitation and losing weight because I had trouble eating, Pat brought in treats. She even took me home with her one weekend—not exactly standard procedure for nursing care. We visited her sister who lived in Geelong and was just as warm-hearted. It was a great break in routine, and I returned reinvigorated and ready to face whatever new tortures the physios could dole out. Another nurse, Mary, also took me to visit her home on weekends where I was embraced by her family—her husband and four children.
I hadn’t been at Hampton long when the nights became difficult. I was tired physically after working so hard on my body all day yet couldn’t sleep; memories of the fires intruded. A new aspect of my treatment also tormented me. I’d just begun to wear a burns suit that covered the whole of my body, a brown elasticised suit, tightly fitted to put pressure on my skin and designed to minimise the final effects of my scars. The headpiece, a facemask, was particularly hard to come to terms with. Apart from two slits for me to see out of, two small holes at the base of my nose so I could breathe, and a narrow opening to enable me to eat, it covered my head completely. I felt like an alien in it—and looked like one, as well. Although I was convinced of the reasons for having to wear it—I’d do anything to speed up my recovery, especially on my face—I detested it.
I was provided with an opaque mask that I could wear out as an alternative that was marginally less conspicuous. It was made of two pieces: one fitting around and under my chin and right up to my ears, the other which sat like a Phantom of the Opera mask over my nose, forehead and the sides of my face. Although the opaque mask was more uncomfortable to wear physically, it made it easier for me psychologically.
The plan was for me to wear the body suit twenty-four hours a day to maximise its benefits. This turned out to be unrealistic: it hurt as it pressed on my newly healed skin, and made me hot, sticky and extremely itchy. Having lost a large number of sweat glands it was hard enough for my body to regulate my temperature without the suit. With it on, it was much worse.
While I endured it uncomplainingly, I really struggled with the grief I felt about this stifling sheath on my being. At night, when I was tired and vulnerable, I couldn’t suppress this. I’d settle down to sleep apparently okay, then hour after hour fret about the suit or relive the worst episodes of the Alfred or the fires. One night, I just couldn’t bear lying there another minute. I got out of bed and spent the early morning hours drinking tea and talking with the night sister, Rosemary, with whom I’d become close. We sat in the empty TV room together, just chatting casually. It was so comforting just to be with someone through those bleak
long hours before dawn.
Pat had unending patience with me at this time. I must have been an absolute nuisance carrying on like a fractious child, but she never let it show. She would sit beside my bed at night until I was able to release myself of the dark memories and settle down enough to sleep. Her shift was supposed to finish at eleven o’clock, but she stayed much later on many nights, as did Mary. Glad had moved out of the room by this stage—she had contracted a golden staph infection in her leg and had to be moved because of the risk of infecting me. I really missed her but she probably slept better in another room because I often had nightmares, mumbling and crying out in my sleep.
However, despite these problems, I continued to make progress physically. I started to walk properly again which felt wonderful. It took a while, but I began to shower by myself which was another advance in regaining my personal dignity. Sessions of speech exercises, making funny sounds and saying certain words very slowly—‘how now brown cow’—in an exaggerated, ridiculous kind of way, helped me to speak clearly again. Kim and I did considerable work on my fingers, during which she would force them to bend as far as possible inwards towards my palms. She would work each finger joint in turn, trying to get it to work normally. Sometimes she would use the ultrasound machine on them to loosen them up, and I would spend many hours squeezing soft rubber balls. Eventually I could cut up my food and Jenny, the occupational therapist, taught me to cross-stitch which I loved, and have done ever since. During my classes, I made Sarah a Holly Hobby cross-stitch with beautiful, intricate patches on the doll, because she had lost her favourite Holly Hobby doll in the fires. I also began to practise ironing and cooking with the occupational therapists, and other chores I wanted to master before I went home.
