The other outpatient was a bikie-looking dude, with a big beard and loads of tattoos. He was a low para and had been in a wheelchair for a while. He lived on his own in Dubbo and told me how he used to wheel down the road, buy himself a case of beer, stick it on his lap and wheel back home. It was about an eight-kilometre push there and back. I struggled to get my head around this – I still couldn’t push up any sort of hill.
‘Holy shit! How do you do that every second day?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘You just do it. I’ve got no-one else there to do it for me, so if I want a beer, I’ve got to get it myself.’
The Olympics were on TV at the time, and we settled into a routine of watching and betting each other for treats, everyone except for Max, who fell asleep all the time. I’m a bit of a practical joker, as were the other guys. Max would fall asleep on his back with his mouth open and snore loudly. We’d joke about it. The other guys had little stashes of lollies, and they started getting out M&Ms and lobbing them over, trying to land them in Max’s mouth. The nurses came in when they heard our laughter, and they couldn’t help but laugh as well.
I tried throwing a lolly myself. I had my arm hanging over one side of the bed, and I put all my effort into it. The bloody lolly only just made it to the other side of my bed, and I had to laugh. ‘That’s fucking great, isn’t it?’
Max woke up to find himself surrounded by jelly babies and M&Ms. He thought it was funny. ‘Haha! You boys! Darren? Was that you?’
‘Mine are here, Maxie,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t even get them past myself.’
We had a lot of fun in our room, and it allowed me to clear up some ideas about what my life would be like down the track, just through hearing the experiences of people who weren’t institutionalised but on the outside, living life.
After a few days, the bikie moved on, and he was replaced by another guy called Richie. He was a higher level than me, and we’d been injured for about the same amount of time. He was struggling with things, hating the world, and would go off at the nurses all the time.
The nurses came in and turned everyone through the night. I was a good sleeper, so I wouldn’t really hear much, other than when they were turning me. Richie, on the other hand, would always grumble. One night he was having a barry, and when the nurses came in to roll him, he started shouting, ‘Get away from me!’
They knew what he was like and carried on as usual: ‘Right, Richie. Right, right …’ They obviously needed to turn him to check that he didn’t develop pressure sores, but he was really pissed off. ‘Get away from me! Stop! Stop touching me!’ And then he shouted at me, ‘Darren! Darren! Ring triple zero! Get me out of here. I’m being assaulted!’
I couldn’t help myself – I cracked up. It was so funny hearing someone in a hospital who wanted me to call emergency to protect him from doctors and nurses. I hardly slept after that because I was giggling to myself all bloody night. Good ol’ Richie.
As I was out of the acute stage and into the rehab stage, the staff explained that to get into more advanced exercises I had to wait for a bed to come up at Moorong. There was a big board on the ward with everyone’s name on. I kept looking to see where I was in the order, because I noticed people were leaving for Moorong, guys who had been there longer than me. Most people would leave within a month to six weeks. It was like a league table, and I wanted to get to the top. Some guys were leaving really early, the paraplegics mostly, but also those who had higher injuries. Then the guys who were from C4 to T4 stayed there the longest and took up most of the beds.
It wasn’t long before I felt like things were stalled, and I was frustrated because I was ready to progress. Still, at least there were distractions from the outside that kept me going. Since coming to visit, Dylan had decided, ‘All right, we’re going to get you in the water.’
I was desperate to return to the ocean, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to surf the waves I wanted to. Instead, I’d have to content myself with dribbly little waves. I had known the feeling that comes from surfing some of the best waves around the world, and I was grateful that I’d had those experiences. But I knew that if I was going to get back in the water, I had to look for something else to do.
After his initial visit to North Shore, Dylan met a guy called Barney Miller, who had a C6 level spinal cord injury as well. He’d had a car accident about five years before mine, and he was also a surfer who had found himself facing life in a wheelchair. Following his accident, Barney organised a charity event to help him gain funds to get his life back on track. It was so successful that he turned it into an annual charity event to support a different individual who had recently sustained a spinal cord injury. After hearing about my accident, Barney had actually been in contact with Dylan, who drove down to Coffs Harbour to meet him.
Barney explained what he’d done each year and then told Dylan that he wanted to hold an event for me. Dyl came down and relayed the news, but his whole thought was that he wanted to get me back in the water after seeing footage of Barney surfing waves lying on his stomach on a board, propped up and steering with his elbows. People would help get him moving and put him back on the board when he came off, and he had a special off-road wheelchair for going on the beach. Dylan wanted the same for me, and he was focussed on that goal. I guess he saw that as his job, his way to help me move forward.
So he and I spoke about things, and I said, ‘Eh, it might be okay.’ I wasn’t that interested in surfing dribbly little waves. I’d much prefer stronger waves, but I knew that, with my body and my lungs, I wouldn’t be able to tolerate much bigger.
I also didn’t want to dilute the memory of surfing that I had in my head. I was worried that if I went and tried riding on my belly, it would just remind me of the thing I could no longer do. I’ve had lots of photos and videos taken of me surfing over the years, and when I look at myself, or one of my mates surfing in the same session, I still have the vivid memory of that particular turn or that particular wave. It’s all locked up in my head, and I can enjoy those moments again, which are some of the most joyous in my life. If I was going to do something new around surfing, I didn’t want to risk affecting those thoughts.
But Dyl was still pushing ahead, determined that we would surf – that was our world, our bond.
All our talk triggered me to start thinking about what else I could do in the water, having been down to the pool several times now. The physios had said that there were people of my level who could swim, so that was encouraging. I knew I would eventually be able to swim.
One weekend Barney was coming down to Sydney for an AFL game, and he decided to drop in and visit me in hospital with his mate and his girlfriend Kate, to tell me he wanted to give me the funds from his charity event later that year. He’s a very generous individual. He’s younger than me, but he had been through the whole process. I really wanted to pick his brains about day-to-day things. I was frustrated about being in an old rattler of a wheelchair, and when he came in I saw him in a new, lightweight model, which also impressed my dad, who loves cars and noticed the wheels straightaway.
We put our hands out to shake, fumbling around again like a couple of wet fishes. We both laughed: ‘Oh yeah. Typical handshake.’ It was that same connection I’d felt with Max when we tried to shake hands the first time we met, not knowing what to do. He was obviously feeling the same way as me.
The handshake still gets to me today. I’ve always been a ‘firm handshake’ sort of guy, but now I’ve got limp wrists and absolutely no finger movement. I want to shake people’s hands, but it can make them uncomfortable because they’re not sure what to do when they meet me. I always put my hand out, and I can see that they feel awkward, probably more awkward than me, that I can’t shake back.
Barney asked me how I was going, and as we were chatting I felt like I was unable to communicate with body language. It was something right at the front of my mind, a realisation that had been building for a while, and talking to someone of the same
level brought it home. Almost everyone speaks through their hands and body language as much as their voice, but now that I don’t have finger movement, I can’t give the thumbs-up, which I always used to do. I can’t do a shaka – the surfing hand sign with the thumb and little finger up, and the three middle fingers closed. I can’t do a peace sign. I can’t do the ‘rude finger’. I can’t even point. I’m forever pointing my fist in a certain direction with an imaginary finger, and people don’t understand what I’m doing – they just think I’m stretching or something. Even when I say, ‘No. There. THERE,’ they’ll say. ‘What are you talking about?’ I have to explain: ‘I’m trying to point. Over there.’
I sometimes use the top of my thumb to point, and I expect people to recognise it, but everyone’s used to people pointing with their index finger, a universal gesture. So I was having a really tough time trying to talk with my hands, and other forms of body language. I can’t fold my arms, because if I do I haven’t got any balance and I fall over. All I’ve got is my face – my smiles or frowns.
Not being able to use body language still affects me, like when I want to stand proud or be closed off. I can’t project the way I feel or show my mood. Some people jump on me with a big hug when the last thing I want at the time is a hug. People would realise that if I were standing up with my arms crossed. Or vice versa: if I’m super happy and I want a hug, people just don’t know how I’m feeling.
It’s really bad in noisy places, especially because I was never a great conversationalist. I’m struggling to find ways to compensate.
Barney couldn’t stay long; he had to get to the footy. That impressed me, too. It was the middle of winter, and I was shivering the whole time, so I asked him, ‘You’re going to the footy at the Sydney Cricket Ground? Aren’t you going to freeze? How can you tolerate that?’ He explained that he doesn’t feel the cold as much as me. Even two people with the same level can be affected differently by SCI. There are some people who really struggle with heat.
Barney gave us a bit of hope, especially because Dad and Aimee were there. The peer support people who came in were great, but they were mainly paras. Barney was living a life closer to what mine might be like in the future. He made it all seem more possible, somehow.
30
Benefit night
While I was in hospital, Steve Conti had been organising the benefit night he had promised back when I was in Singapore, and the date was set for August.
We were in constant touch, but Conti was running the whole show with a team of great friends. He sought out prizes for auction, found a venue and even lined up a local radio personality to act as MC for the event. With all my connections in surfing, everyone wanted to help in whatever way they could, so they threw all kinds of things at us to auction off and help raise funds. Pro surfers were donating their boards, as well as big signed photographs. Conti did a really good job of getting items from outside of surfing as well, to make sure there was something for everyone. Then it was a case of selling tickets and hoping people would come.
Conti soon realised that, with all the media interest, he needed a bigger venue, so he managed to move the event to the Shellharbour Workers’ Club, which is one of the biggest in the area, capable of holding over a thousand people. I was surprised to hear that so many people wanted to come, and even more surprised when I learned that it was the second quickest event to sell out in the club’s history. The place had hosted all the big Australian bands over the decades – I’d been to many gigs there myself. It was humbling to hear, especially because I’d been worried that nobody would turn up. I looked at it like a social experiment. Everyone is curious about who would turn up to their funeral, as an affirmation of their life. The way I saw it, with all these people coming out, I must have had some sort of impact on their lives if they were willing to spend money and come help.
Everyone from the surf industry was there, as well as other surfers from my era, all my soccer mates and the guys I went to school with – even some people I hadn’t seen for decades. Mum, Dad and Sparkes were there, and Dylan had come down from the Gold Coast. Everyone jumped in and bought tickets, which was a relief. Conti did an unreal job setting up the whole event, and it was all ready to go.
He really wanted me to be there for the event, but that meant a two-hour drive at night, and another two hours back. I really wanted to be there, too, but I knew I wasn’t ready. I would struggle physically, and even though it would be great to see everyone, deep down I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle the emotional side of things in the state I was in. Aimee and I decided not to go.
Because we wouldn’t be there, Tim Bonython, a friend and professional surf filmmaker, had come to the hospital a few days before and filmed a message from me and Aimee that would be shown on a big screen, along with footage of me surfing.
The day before and the morning of the benefit night, I had a flood of visitors at the hospital. Some people were flying interstate to go to the event, so they booked in a time to drop by and see me. Johnny, one of Dylan’s and my best and oldest mates, was down from Queensland. He’s part of the original group with Sparkesy, but we’ve known him even longer because we went to primary school together. He was in Dyl’s year and they were really close. I saw him as another little brother. We all had the same interests – soccer and surfing – and would later go on heaps of trips around the world together and be the best man at each other’s weddings.
I had spoken with him on the phone a bit since the accident, but it was the first time he’d seen me, and he came straight up and gave me a massive hug. I felt bad for him because I had just come back from swimming and was freezing cold, shivering my arse off and not able to talk comfortably. He felt helpless because he was trying to get me warm but nothing worked except time.
It felt unreal to have one of my best mates hanging with me for a couple of days, going to the gym and doing everything with me. Johnny’s wife, Brooke, was close with Aimee as well, so they spent time together.
When the day of the benefit finally arrived, we were all really anxious, especially Aimee and me. We knew by then that everyone was going, and we were pumped. By the time the event started, I was back in bed, and Aimee was there by my side. We both had the nerves that come when you know something’s happening down the road but you’re not there. The event was about us, but we had no involvement, no control, nothing. I felt like hiding under the sheets again and wishing the night away as quickly as possible so I could hear what the final result was. I wasn’t worried about the fundraising – I just hoped everyone was having a fun night. It was like thinking about my funeral – I’d rather people celebrate than mourn.
The nervousness got worse when phone calls and texts started coming through from the event, telling us what the lots were. The first board that went up for auction was Mark Occhilupo’s. Occy was my childhood hero since the days in Cronulla. I loved watching him surf as a kid. His board sold for just over $5000.
We hadn’t really asked what items were going up for auction – I was trying not to think about it too much – but when we got that phone call, I came out from under the sheets and said, ‘Holy shit, are you serious?’ A surfboard could be worth that much? I’ve been collecting boards for years, like art pieces, but I’ve mostly been given them and never thought about selling. When I’ve asked, guys have just handed over a board, so $5000 seemed ridiculous. (That said, I’d paid over $3000 for my Gerry Lopez board years earlier … but, you know, it’s Gerry Lopez.)
As the texts kept coming in I began freaking out. ‘I can’t deal with this anymore. I don’t want to hear about it!’ The atmosphere built with each message, and as everyone got drunker through the night, more and more people called, desperate to talk to us. In the end we had to switch the phone off because I couldn’t handle it any longer. I wanted to go to sleep, wake up the next morning and hear about it all then.
The following day the calls started coming in again, and everyone was saying how it was such a good nig
ht, how great it was to see everyone together. Having the surf and soccer crew in the same place at the same time meant the club sold out of beer faster than any event before.
Over the next couple of days I heard all these crazy stories … Aaron ‘Azza’ Waters, one of the guys who had been on the surf trip, was there. He’d moved to the Gold Coast when he was about eighteen, but we stayed really close, and he’s still got family down south. Azza’s great friends with Mick Fanning and invited him along, since he was already there with Lowey, another mate of mine. I knew Mick from my time with Billabong, but I was stoked to hear he’d attended the benefit. He was world champion at the time, so it was pretty special, and I still had Mick’s poster that I’d stared at for inspiration when I was in Singapore. Dylan introduced him to Sparkes, and Mick said, ‘Let’s go get a beer. I don’t want to stand out too much.’ Sparkes looked at Mick: he was wearing a fluoro-green shirt, the brightest thing in the whole place; he wasn’t going to be hiding from anyone.
Mick was there with one of his best mates, Beau, who’s a really funny guy. I knew him from Billabong, too – he was a designer there – and he had a habit of falling asleep early when he got drunk.
They’d been drinking for a while and Beau had dozed off, so they decided to put him in someone’s car, because he was asleep in the auditorium. Mick, being a typical Aussie bloke, managed to find a wheelchair in the club. He loaded Beau into it and started walking down to the car, when he just ‘let the chair go’ … or should I say pushed. The wheelchair took off across the car park, hit the gutter and catapulted a very confused Beau onto the ground.
The next morning we spoke to Conti and the guys who had done all the organising and thanked them. Conti said it was a huge success, and he was still busy counting the funds. It was a surreal feeling – humbling, anxious and nerve-racking all at once. I was also glad it was over, though, and that I didn’t have to think about it again. I wished I could have been there to hang out and catch up with all the people I hadn’t seen for a long time, but everyone had a really good time, and that was the most important thing.
Owen and Eleanor Make Things Up Page 20
