by Derek Hansen
‘The problem will show itself in lack of expression on the right hand side and a slackness in that side of her mouth. Now, sometimes the nerve recovers, in which case your daughter will regain all or partial control. But I would be irresponsible if I suggested to you that this was a probability. Let me say this, however. Nerves are very complex and frequently do the unexpected. Some of the peripheral nerves were also injured but these too, like the sensory nerves, tend to regenerate. They may restore some mobility. Her best chance, though perhaps not as good as we’d like, lies with microsurgery, and the sooner we get on with that the better. Once nerves tangle and scar tissue forms, things become much more difficult.’
‘You say the chances of success are not good. Could you be a little clearer?’ The tone of Lita’s voice was matter of fact, but inside she was like jelly. Yet she wanted the truth laid on the table before them, plainly, so that Jan could recognise it, confront it and accept it. Or explode. Either way, she wasn’t prepared to spend the next few days or weeks worrying what his reaction would be. Let him get it over with now, so she knew what she had to deal with.
‘Microsurgery is our only hope, but it’s a slim hope. It’s a delicate business at the best of times. If, for example, the nerve had been cut with a scalpel and repaired immediately, the chances would be very good indeed that full mobility would be restored. Now the further you move away from that ideal, the less your chances become. In Annemieke’s case, the nerves were not severed cleanly by a scalpel, nor were they only severed in one place. Nor were we able to operate on them immediately. So already some scar tissue has formed. All this reduces our chances, but we can’t say to what extent until the specialists have had a look and had a chance to assess the results of their handiwork.’
‘Don’t beat around the bush, Doctor.’ Jan’s voice was hostile. ‘What you’re saying is that half of my daughter’s face is frozen like a dummy’s, unable to smile, unable to frown, unable to do anything. And it’s likely to stay that way, because you can’t do anything about it.’
Jan rose to his feet, his fists clenched.
‘Well thank you very much! It’s my daughter you’re condemning, my Annemieke you’ve given up on. I’m going to find somebody who can do something, who isn’t going to give up!’
Jan stood there shaking, frustrated and impotent as the words tumbled from his lips. But the words faltered in their flow, and so did Jan. He crumpled, and slumped down into his chair, covering his face with his hands.
Dr Ryan had expected this outburst. What appalled him was that the wife ignored her husband entirely. She offered no words of comfort, she didn’t spare him a glance.
‘You were saying that microsurgery gave us a chance of partial improvement,’ she said coolly. ‘Of course we will take it. Do you have anything else to tell us?’
‘Unhappily, yes.’ Why don’t these people take counselling, Dr Ryan thought savagely. Nothing else will save this marriage.
‘Her nose. At the same time, we would recommend some repair work. Her sinuses and nasal passage are obstructed, and we’d also like to reset her nose. There is some nerve damage there as well. It seems she has lost her sense of smell but I’m not sure there is much we can do about that.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Lita said. ‘Just do your best.’
‘You can rest assured of that.’ Dr Ryan got up to show them to the door.
‘One moment, Doctor.’ Jan’s voice seemed to come from a place far away. ‘Your best. Is there anyone better?’
‘Not that I know of. Not in this country. And none that I know of in any other. Science is our shackle. Until somebody comes up with new knowledge, a new procedure, or finds a bionic solution, all we can do, all any of us can do, is what we do now. Our people are as skilled at doing that as anyone. I’m sorry, Mr Van der Meer, I have no miracle for you. I wish I had. We’ll do what we can, as best we can.’ He put a sympathetic hand on Jan’s shoulder.
‘I’m not sure you realise how lucky you are, Mr Van der Meer. Whatever god watches over you and your family was on duty the night of your accident. You still have a beautiful daughter and, yes, she will be beautiful once more once she recovers and gets away from us. And she will come to terms with her disability far better than you could ever suspect, given your love and support. She is young and strong, and the young are enviable in their resilience. She will bounce back and all this will be forgotten. This is your first time in this situation but I have witnessed it many times. She will bounce back. Just give her lots of love and support. She is a lucky girl. God only knows how lucky! It’s a miracle she’s still alive. You want a miracle, Mr Van der Meer? There’s your miracle. Cherish it.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Annemieke was resilient. She amazed the doctors and staff with the speed with which she recovered from her latest bout of surgery. Of course, she had help. It seemed whenever she awoke from sleep her father was by her side, watching over her. Sometimes he played with her or told her stories, but on other occasions he was silent and moody. Annemieke learned to accept his mood changes, when she would simply draw comfort from his presence.
Her mother and brothers were also constant visitors. The twins bubbled with energy and good humour. They teased her endlessly. They wrote rude limericks on her casts and stuck ‘No standing’ stickers on her feet, and ‘No junk mail’ above her mouth. One day they brought in a mask with the face of a hideous old man and stuck it over the bandages on her face.
Then they held a mirror up for her so she could see how she looked. Jan was aghast but Annemieke could not stop laughing. They hid behind the curtains as a practical joke, and she called the nurse. Her scream would have woken the dead. The boys took polaroids of Annemieke with the mask on, and sent them to her boyfriends at school.
They bought her icecreams which she couldn’t possibly eat by herself, and drip fed them into her mouth. Often the icecream fell out of the cone onto her face, but that just made it funnier.
But the day she both looked forward to and feared was fast approaching. The day when they would remove her bandages and let her look at herself in the mirror. She knew there was still a long way to go. That her face was still swollen and discoloured by bruising. But she would be able to see how much she’d changed. She’d know whether she’d still have her good looks. Or not. It was enough to terrify any woman, let alone one no more than a child.
Jan dreaded the moment when he would hold the mirror up for her. He’d seen how much Annemieke’s face had improved and how well she was healing. But she was not the girl she had been, and he found it hard to believe she would ever be as beautiful again. She’d been told about the palsy. But hearing is one thing and seeing another. She would not know what it was until she saw it. How would she react then? What could he say to her? What comfort could he possibly offer her?
When the day came, Jan slipped the smallest mirror he could find into the bag they were taking to the hospital. Lita made him take it out and put in a big one. They met Dr Ryan and went together to Annemieke’s bedside. Dr Ryan patiently explained what she would see.
‘There’s still a lot of bruising,’ he said, ‘and your lovely face is still very swollen. Some of your scars are still a touch livid. But all of these things, will go away, Annemieke, and you’ll be the beautiful girl you were before. You remember I spoke to you about Bell’s palsy? That will take a bit of getting used to, but you’ll quickly learn to work around it. Now let’s see, where did they put the zip?’
He always said this whenever he removed her bandages and she always laughed.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I bet that feels lovely and cool. Now let’s see if your father remembered to bring a mirror.’
‘Jan,’ Lita said, ‘it’s time to show Annemieke what a good job her doctors are doing. Come on. Don’t tease her.’
Slowly Jan took the mirror from his bag and sat down beside her. He held the mirror in front of her eyes, barely able to watch her reaction.
There was none. Not fo
r a long while. Not for what seemed a long while. Her eyes worked back and forth over the mirror, scanning her face, taking in every blemish.
‘Not bad’ she said finally, still looking at her reflection. ‘I thought it would be a mess.’
But the quaver in her voice betrayed her, and when she smiled only half the face in front of her smiled back. She tried again and got the same result. She knew her parents and Dr Ryan were watching her, fearful of her reaction. She fought back her tears because she had already determined she wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of everybody. There’d be plenty of time for tears later, when it was dark and nobody was there. She needed time to think about it, to get used to what she’d just learned about Bell’s palsy.
‘Oh, Mieke …’ she heard her mother say. She turned away from the mirror to face Dr Ryan.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Take your polaroid.’
Jan and Lita turned to Dr Ryan.
‘It’s part of the therapy,’ he said weakly. ‘My idea. Patients can see how much they improve from day to day and week to week. It’s proved very popular and successful.’
When Dr Ryan lined up the camera, Annemieke dutifully smiled as he clicked the shutter. It was too much for Jan.
‘I’m sorry, Annemieke, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’ve done this terrible thing to you.’ Jan had turned white. He twisted and turned the mirror in his hands until opposing stresses caused it to shatter. He seemed unaware of it. And he seemed not to hear Lita when she yelled at him. And he never heard the gigantic sob that wracked Annemieke’s body, nor did he see the tears that flowed. He left the room heartbroken.
Poor Annemieke. Strength begets strength, and weakness begets weakness. Annemieke was strong, but not strong enough for both of them.
A charade began that morning which was to continue for many years, until Eduardo came into their lives and answered their prayers. Jan returned to Annemieke’s bedside that afternoon, contrite and apologetic. He pretended well enough, for not only was his child’s well-being at stake, but his marriage also. Lita had made that perfectly clear. He told Annemieke again that he loved her and that he felt responsible for what had happened to her. This made things appear worse to him than they really were, he said. He told her how much she had improved since he first saw her with her bandages off. He took her step by step along the process of recovery.
‘Bell’s palsy is not as bad as it first might seem,’ he said. ‘You’ll adjust to it and you’ll learn ways around it. A lot of famous people have Bell’s palsy, even some Hollywood actors.’
Jan was as persuasive as he could be, and he spoke with conviction. But the conviction was not his, it was Dr Ryan’s. He had gone to the doctor’s office before seeing Annemieke, and Dr Ryan had coached him on the appropriate words to say. He had been delighted that Jan had come to him and did all he could to help.
For her part, Annemieke pretended to be greatly relieved and encouraged by what Jan said to her. She put on a brave front. She laughed and she joked and she told Jan not to be a big sook, as she’d heard her mother say countless times before. It was a family joke.
But Annemieke had been deeply hurt. Her father’s reaction when she tried to smile for the camera had convinced her that her disability was truly grotesque. She would be a freak. She had once been beautiful and popular. Now she’d be someone other kids felt sorry for, or joked about behind her back. Worst of all, she knew she would have to carry the pain of her hurt alone, for to tell anyone would risk revealing its source, and driving her father further away from her.
A gap not of her making now existed between her father and herself. This, too, hurt her deeply. But was the gap so wide it could never be bridged? Annemieke hoped not. She decided she would do everything in her power to build that bridge. She had her father’s capacity to love and her mother’s strength. She could have no better tools. So she began to pretend, and she hid her hurt beneath the elaborate fabric of that pretence.
Her brothers were magnificent. They visited her every day. They brought their friends to see her and they brought her school friends. They weren’t ashamed of the way she looked and they were determined she wouldn’t be either. They brought their camera and began their own gallery of photos beneath Dr Ryan’s.
They discovered that if they rubbed the back of the polaroid with the blunt end of a biro while it was developing, colours would bleed into each other and lines distort. So they took photos of her, mutilated them so they looked like something Picasso might have painted, and pinned them on her wall, well beyond the reach of her plaster bound arms.
When Dr Ryan was visiting he would sometimes pick up the wrong set of photos to show her how well she was healing. He would discuss the wrong photos at length with student doctors, while Annemieke howled in mock protest. Dr Ryan was no fool. He knew what Annemieke had been through and he knew the value of laughter. He also suspected that the least of Annemieke’s problems were physical.
She never complained. She listened with keen interest to everything Dr Ryan said and, with the help of his polaroids, became an expert on the progress she was making. She’d point out which scars were healing best, and show where swelling had subsided. Her beauty, which she had once taken completely for granted, was slowly returning. One morning Dr Ryan took a polaroid which could have been taken before the accident.
Everyone remarked on it. Even Jan was genuinely impressed. But a still photo is exactly as its description suggests. And despite all the encouragement and support she received, Annemieke was acutely aware of the disconcerting effect her palsy had on others.
In the lonely hours at night, when sleep eluded her, she’d practice frowning and smiling and squinting, hoping to reactivate her shattered nerves. But all her efforts were in vain. The right side of her face remained stubbornly inert. She would weep silent tears into her pillow for her lost perfection, and for what the world would think of her now.
Chapter Twenty-four
Annemieke was released from hospital thirteen weeks after her return from Indonesia. Her left arm was still protected by plaster, following surgery to remove the pin, but she had full use of her right arm. As Dr Ryan had predicted, her face had healed remarkably well. The scars had faded and blended easily with her pale olive skin. But the microsurgery had met with only modest success, and the right side of her face still failed to obey her wishes.
Superficially at least, the Annemieke of old returned to her family and friends, and her home in Mosman. But she was a very different girl to the one who had begun the year so optimistically. More and more, her affliction began to shape her personality and influence the way she lived.
The palsy made her appear slow and dull-witted. One side of her face would be vibrant with animation, the other frozen in limbo. Her friends had trouble interpreting her signals.
‘We don’t know whether you’re being funny or serious,’ they said. And she found them staring at her in morbid fascination when she spoke.
She could relax with her mother and her brothers, but even with Jan she was always on guard. She’d find him staring at her, but when she smiled and tried to catch his eye, he’d look away. She learned the trick of warning him before looking at him, so that he could better prepare himself. She would begin a sentence and then look up at him and he would respond by being overly attentive. Everybody knew the game they were playing and everybody pretended they weren’t.
Sometimes when they were out together, and ran into acquaintances of Jan’s who had never met Annemieke, he would fail to introduce her, as if ashamed of her. Annemieke learned to be bold at these times, to step forward and introduce herself, though sometimes it took all her courage. She would silently pray that Jan’s friends would not stare at her or ask embarrassing questions. Occasionally a curious or sharper eye would dwell on her face for a moment or two longer than was polite, but for the most part, people had the good taste not to comment. But Annemieke knew it was only a matter of time before somebody innocently tore the scab from the wound. She
could not keep exposing herself and her father to that risk.
She began to retreat into the shadows. She learned that no expression was better than half of any other kind. She became withdrawn and defensive, and avoided doing anything that would turn the spotlight on her. She began to decline her father’s invitations to accompany him and he never once pressed her to change her mind. The gap widened between them.
Her friends began to drift away. She was once the centre of their social activity. Now she was a satellite on an ever more distant orbit. Some friends remained loyal, motivated as much by kindness or a sense of obligation as by friendship. But when the new year began, Annemieke was obliged to repeat the previous year’s study because of all the lessons she’d missed. Annemieke found the demotion humiliating. Worse, she was now in a class whose interests lagged a year behind her own and with whom she had no rapport. She found the girls silly and the boys juvenile. And her old friends tended to forget her when they planned parties and expeditions to the movies. It probably wasn’t deliberate on their part. She was simply out of sight, out of their orbit, and therefore out of mind.
Annemieke withdrew further and further. She’d come home from school and bury herself in her homework. Or she’d practise piano for hours on end, playing the same pieces over and over as she struggled to master the more difficult passages. Lita warned the family against objecting, pointing out that it was the best possible therapy for her wasted arms. So she played and she played until she could play no more. Even then, she’d immerse herself in her music theory.
She sat and passed her grade seven theory and practical without bothering with levels five and six. Her music teacher encouraged her to play in the school orchestra, and to play solos at school concerts, hoping it would help to draw her out of her shell. She obliged and played without a trace of nervousness or excitement. All her expression was in her fingertips and the music she played. She acknowledged applause with a quick bob of her head and an even quicker exit.
