Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  After one surgery, my femur wouldn’t unite and I was in traction for nine months. In this operation they had cut through my right femur about 5 centimetres above the kneecap and rotated my lower leg outwards by eleven degrees. They had plated the fracture in place with four screws. There was a very good reason why the femur wouldn’t heal, something I dared not tell anyone: I was dispatching most of my food through the large sliding window beside my bed.

  At the awkward ages of thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, I found the lack of privacy around daily ablutions excruciatingly embarrassing. Although nurses swished the curtains almost shut around my bed, ‘almost’ was unbearable. Being in traction meant being bed-bound twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The bedpan was no friend of mine, so I figured that if as little as possible went in, the need for our encounters would be minimised. Flocks of birds arrived throughout the day to take care of my regular offerings.

  I became thinner and thinner, and my poor bones were starved of the nourishment they needed to heal.

  Outside my window, a driveway led to the doctor’s carpark. The game was up the day a sausage bounced off my surgeon’s windscreen as he arrived for his morning rounds; he came to my bedside with a scowl on his brow and sausage in hand. From then on, the window was securely closed during mealtimes, so I found another way to dispose of food. Patients’ rubbish was placed in little paper bags sticky-taped to the tray table, and the cleaners and nurses never asked why I needed so many.

  No one ever asked me what was going on in my mind. Perhaps it was because I was in an adult hospital that didn’t cater for the psychological needs of young teenagers—or perhaps it was because I had long ago perfected not being a bother. It was second nature for me to wear a brave and cheerful front, to cope, to never complain, no matter what. My mother was an exemplar of that way of being, and I had fully absorbed her lessons in the concealment of all emotions. I was so adept at having as few needs as possible that everyone assumed I was okay.

  While writing this memoir, I visited Dalcross and asked the staff if I might see the room in which I’d spent so much of my teenage years. They welcomed me kindly, though they warned me that the old part of the hospital had been completely gutted and modernised; where my bed once stood is now a waiting room, freshly painted and furnished. Even so, I easily conjured up the feelings of that little girl as I stared at the trees on the far side of the driveway—the windows had been replaced, but the view was the same. My eyes grew moist remembering the lonesomeness of that little girl, the pain and fear beneath her bright pretense. The body holds the traumas of the past; the feelings are enmeshed in the flesh. As I brought those long-submerged emotions to consciousness, allowing them space to breathe, I acknowledged and released them.

  It wasn’t all awful at Dalcross, though. There were many light moments during those long, tedious hospitalisations.

  One weekend, my parents were visiting when I became aware that ‘someone’ was watching me. After a few minutes, I looked inside the basket my mother had placed on my bed, and looking back at me was the dearest little puppy I had ever seen.

  Mandy was a miniature dachshund, and I fell immediately and irrevocably in love. I beseeched the hospital staff to let her stay with me. Given my long incarcerations, they allowed me some concessions, so Mandy stayed overnight; they made a snug little nest for her between the traction on my right leg and the plaster on the other.

  My surgeon occasionally checked on me on his way home, late at night. On this particular evening when he visited, I was sound asleep. As he quietly slid his hands under the covers to check the traction unit was in order, he was greeted by the yelping bark of little Mandy disturbed from her sleep.

  Later we laughed, but at the time he swore it took ten years off his life! Mandy was promptly sent home, where I joined her a few weeks later. Once home, whenever I sat on the floor and dragged myself around with my arms, Mandy was happy. She spent her days nestled between my legs as I pulled myself around the house; we were inseparable. The moment I started to use crutches and became vertical again, she became completely neurotic and took to eating the furniture. Finally, after destroying the legs of several expensive items of furniture, and with my next hospitalisation on the horizon, we had to find a new home for her.

  ***

  Probably due to my lack of nutrition, I experienced excruciating cramps every day while my leg was imprisoned in traction. The cramps started in my toes, then extended into the arch of my foot, my calf and finally my thigh and hip. There was no escape, and I occasionally passed out from the pain as the cramps continued relentlessly for weeks.

  After nine months, my legs were two white, lifeless, hairy sticks attached to my body. Even with every ounce of my willpower, I couldn’t move either of them. It was creepy having these monstrosities extending from my body like strangers with no relationship to me. The muscle wastage was so complete that I lifted them with my hands when nurses changed the sheets. Once my left leg was released from plaster, I could circle my calves with my thumb and third finger. How there was enough muscle left to cramp, I do not know, but the pain was searing, brutal and exhausting. My face bore wrinkles from its intensity.

  Around this time, I had an uninvited visitor.

  I actually had many uninvited visitors, as I was a sitting duck, bound to my bed, and it was really during these nine months that my counselling career began. Adults would pull up a chair and tell me their problems. Sometimes it was a staff member from my parents’ publishing business, one of whom confided that he was gay (I had no idea what that might mean, but it seemed deeply troubling to him and caused him to weep). The cleaners stopped by to tell me about their son, daughter, parent or partner who was depressed, sick, unemployed or the source of some other worry. Other patients’ visitors stopped by to tell me of difficulties in their lives.

  People treated me as their confessor, so I gave them a listening ear—though I didn’t really have a choice—and sometimes they cried. At most, I made sympathetic noises. Once they’d talked themselves into silence, they would generally pat or squeeze some bit of me, a hand or an arm, or give me a hug and then leave, their step a little lighter.

  But this visitor was different. She wanted nothing from me and brought me a gift. I never knew her name, but she seemed to know everything about me. She wore a hat and gloves complete with handbag over her arm and, next to Granny’s, she had the kindliest face I had ever seen.

  Somehow, she knew about my daily cramps and suggested that the next time one came, ‘Take a deep breath and go to a quiet place inside yourself where you can just watch.’ After telling me that, she turned to leave, hesitated and then came back and took my hand in hers while she added, ‘And never let a man touch your panties.’

  The second part of her advice I forgot, but the next time I had a cramp, I did as she’d instructed.

  Much to my surprise and delight, I found myself above my body, looking down on it from the ceiling. My body went through the motions of the cramp but there was no pain, just an ‘intensity’, a bit like the sensation of having my leg tightly squeezed.

  It was such a relief to be free of my wretched body. Soon, with practice, I could get out and about quite easily. The freedom was wonderful, but I also felt guilty for using the technique for my pleasure rather than as an escape from the relentless pain of the cramps.

  My deep sense of shame and embarrassment about my body—and even my presence on the planet—was a result of my strong desire to be invisible. In our household, men were in all ways considered more important than women. Brenden, in my world, was king. But I couldn’t fix him, and my prolonged hospitalisation was worrying my parents and Granny. I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. If my legs mended I would need to return home and probably to school, and this was simply beyond my ability to cope. No matter what I did, I felt guilt and a deep sense of shame about my existence.

  One day, after escaping from my body, ‘I’ was hiding in the cupboard because I wanted t
o surprise Granny when she visited. My body was clearly on the bed and, as she walked towards it, I realised she wouldn’t be able to see ‘me’. I had the strangest ‘shlooping’ sensation of re-entering my body in an unpleasant rush.

  I never saw my visitor again. Was she a figment of my imagination? An angel? Whoever she was, I remain deeply grateful for her presence and instruction. It was a rarity to find anyone familiar with the world of the invisible. Other than my reading around spirituality, she was the first person who seemed aware of its existence and felt comfortable talking about it. Not that she said more, but her instruction landed me in a reality I found wonderful—a reality full of wonder, freedom and possibility.

  ***

  During those months, I had X-rays two or three times a week. The technician trundled in a newly purchased portable X-ray machine to measure the progress—or non-progress—of the uniting of my right femur. Most of the time, he covered me with a heavy blanketing shield to protect my body from the radiation, but not always. I had dozens of X-rays during those years and since.

  After nine months, the surgeon said my femur was unlikely to unite and I was either destined for a wheelchair—or, at best, a permanent calliper to support the useless leg. On hearing this, I thought, No way! I’ll make myself walk, and I established a new routine which added to my sense of guilt because I knew I wasn’t allowed out of bed.

  At night, between nurses’ rounds, I would unbandage my tethered leg and lower the heavy traction weights to the floor. The pulley would squeak, squeak, squeak as the metal weights were released and lowered. This was totally nerve-racking—I was so afraid I would be discovered and get into trouble for interfering with the traction unit, let alone being out of bed. I carefully arranged the bandages to reattach the equipment as quickly as possible after my escapade. I lifted my useless legs over the edge of the bed and rested. Even slightly bending them caused intense pain, as the ligaments and tendons had adapted to being straight while my legs had lain inert for so long.

  I would wait while I caught my breath, the sweating stopped and my pulse rate subsided. When I was ready, I would carefully slide out of bed with my legs dangling precariously until they reached the floor. It is hard to convey how weird it was to have these two lifeless sticks attached to my body. They felt alien and unrelated to me. Twisting around, I took the weight of my body on my arms and gently exerted pressure onto my feet. This too was painful, as my ankles were unused to supporting my weight and the arches of my feet had dropped. The stretched muscles in my arches ached while I shuffled around the bed, keeping the majority of my body’s weight on my arms. I felt the grating sensations of my unhealed femur—but I was determined to walk.

  Finally, I collapsed exhausted and sweating back onto the bed, hauling first myself up and then the weights so I could reattach them to my leg with the bandages before the night sister made her next round.

  After three weeks of this nightly ritual, the X-rays showed two things. One, the femur had healed, the bones had united; two, the screws holding the plate securing the join in my femur were dislodged. Two of the four screws were stuck in the wasted muscle at angles that necessitated a return to theatre, where they finally removed both the plate and screws.

  I never let on to my doctor or family about my nightly adventures, but I imagine they must have wondered what had happened.

  The day finally arrived when I was officially allowed out of bed. My crutches were retrieved from the cupboard in my room and were close enough for me to reach. But instead of waiting for the nurse or physio to assist me, I waited until the nurses were doing their early morning handover. Weak as a kitten but full of gritty determination, I made my slow and shaky way past the closed door of the nurses’ office to the sanctuary of the bathroom beyond.

  Once inside, I placed a chair under the door handle to ensure my privacy and poured myself the finest bath I’ve ever had. I flopped unceremoniously into its divine warmth, soaking in the glorious balminess of the water and my first bit of guaranteed solitude in nine months. Before long I heard an anxious pounding on the door—the nurses had realised where I was and what I had done. I took my time revelling in the sheer deliciousness of undisturbed isolation, while contemplating how I could possibly get myself out of the bath.

  CHAPTER 4

  The love of country

  In the months between hospitalisations, I often stayed with my godmother, Jean, and her family. They had moved from Cassilis to the Hunter Valley, and were living on a sheep and cattle property a few kilometres from Merriwa. Country air, fresh food and outdoor activities (within my abilities) were considered good therapy for strengthening my muscles. My visits also allowed my parents to focus on their budding business and Brenden’s mental health, rather than having my mother at home to care for me as well.

  Jean had been shy and introverted when she’d married a handsome and charismatic man, Peter Evans. He dominated a strange household of women who adored him: his mother, Florence, his sister, Sarah, and their housekeeper, Maggie, all competed for his affections. This put a great strain on his early marriage with Jean, who tried desperately to establish her place in this busy household of strong women.

  Although Jean was highly educated and refined, she was also shy and apologetic, so finding her niche was no easy task. It didn’t help that the other women had clearly designated roles: Maggie and Florence took care of the inside chores and cooking, while Sarah worked with Peter outside, caring for the livestock and her herd of beloved Saanen goats. Jean wasn’t a country girl and found it difficult to acclimatise to the lifestyle, especially without an obvious purpose. If she baked an apple pie, Sarah would bake a better one the following day. If Jean made scones, next day Florence would outdo her efforts. Whatever Jean attempted, one of the other women would do it better, bigger or more bountifully, causing Jean’s confidence to plummet further.

  They were all ardent Christians, which added a disturbing veneer of niceness—but anyone with a shred of intelligence could sense Jean’s subterranean struggles for a sense of place in Peter’s affections. He did little to help her with this, as I imagine it worked quite well for him to be surrounded by several doting women.

  Maggie would say, ‘God led me to this special family,’ and I heard Jean mutter, on more than one occasion, ‘It’s a pity He never led her away again.’

  She gradually found some sense of purpose, though hers was not a happy life. Many years later and in her final months, the veneer of apologetic propriety dissolved to reveal in Jean a more authentic representation of her personality, long subjugated.

  The Evanses descended from British colonists in India. Their house was full of magnificently carved timber furniture, its walls adorned with carpets featuring Bengal tigers and other exotica. Beautiful blue willow-patterned china plates featured at the enormous table, around which we gathered daily for meals. After Florence’s death, Peter would grace one end of the table with Sarah at the opposite end, while Jean was relegated to a lesser place on one side. At the age of six, Ross was clearly unsure about how she fitted in, and he once asked her, ‘Aunty Jean, are you boss of the cats?’

  My perspective on these mealtimes was undoubtedly very different from Jean’s. To me, they were formal affairs full of stimulating conversation and education, with a different kind of tension under the surface from the one at home. The subject of the prickly pear plague and its effect on farming might come up—and, before I knew it, dictionaries and encyclopaedias were on the table as the subject was deeply explored. I found such conversations fascinating as they taught me more about the natural world.

  ***

  I flourished during my stays with the Evanses. They treated me as though I was completely able to participate in all the farm’s activities, regardless of callipers, plasters or crutches. I milked the goats, fed the dogs, helped butcher a male kid goat for roasting, and moved irrigation pipes in the middle of the night during the 1965 drought—no easy task, as my crutches sank deep into the sticky, bla
ck mud. I learned how to mend fences, collected ‘dead’ wool from sheep that had succumbed to the drought, assisted malnourished cows to give birth to deformed calves, worked in the shearing shed, and put the chooks away at night and collected their eggs. As my strength and flexibility improved, mustering also became a favourite pastime.

  I came to love these people of the land who knew their country and felt a part of its fabric. Sarah, in particular, fascinated me: she was a magical woman who knew the ways of the land and its natural inhabitants. She could pick up a clod of dirt and, by smelling it or even tasting it, tell me what minerals it lacked or when rain had last fallen upon it. As we rode through the paddocks, she would spot a bird long before I did and call out to it in its native tongue, only to have it reply. She imparted her knowledge generously, interwoven with our companionable silences. I was an eager sponge, soaking up every titbit while relishing the sounds, smells and sights of the ever-changing landscape.

  No matter what the activity of the day, everything stopped for lunch and the latest episode of Blue Hills on ABC Radio. If we were to be out mustering on hot and dusty days, we wrapped grapefruit, cold from the fridge, in wet tea towels, then packed them into our saddlebags along with the radio. Come one o’clock, we’d be under a tree eating the refreshingly tart fleshy fruit while listening to the saga of the Tanimbla townsfolk.

  But my favourite part of the day was towards its end.

  My last responsibility was to milk the goats with Sarah, my legs splayed among theirs. Then, as the omnipotent sun succumbed to the magnetism of the western hills, I would begin my journey up the slope behind the homestead to a water trough overlooking the expansive length of the valley. This was no easy trip for an awkward teenage girl on crutches, brandishing a calliper or plaster on one leg or both, but for me it was the most magical time of the day—my time. The smell of dry earth hung deliciously in the air, and the last rays of the sun illuminated eddies of dust that swirled around my feet and found their way into my nostrils.