Dealing with a partner who has post-traumatic stress can be as hard as dealing with the stress itself. As an anonymous Australian veteran said of his wife: ‘I’ve put her through hell, absolute hell. I feel horrible for doing it. You don’t mean to. You indirectly take it out on them, your family, your children. And you know that all they want to do is help, but it just seems like there’s nothing they can do sometimes and sometimes you think that they’d be better without you.’
Through the support of the other wives and girlfriends Sara found various coping strategies: ‘The anniversary is always bad for Mike – in fact, there are two anniversaries, the explosion and the amputation – so on those days every year we go and do something fun. Go to Alton Towers, go away for a couple of days.’
Even simple things like that can greatly help when dealing with post-traumatic stress sufferers. Steer them away from triggers as much as possible. Agree time-outs when arguments become too heated to allow the sufferer to calm themselves down. Don’t walk on eggshells or avoid the issue, but don’t force things when it’s clear they’re feeling vulnerable.
‘I know now when to be sympathetic and when to say, “Put your leg on and get me a drink,”’ Sara says.
Her support of Mike is mirrored again and again across the kaleidoscope of Invictus Games competitors. Mary Wilson knows how much she owes to her partner, Judi, an Alzheimer’s researcher. Bart Couprie has had Jude standing by him every step of his battle against prostate cancer. Sarah Rudder’s husband has been with her on her long journey back from the flames of the Pentagon. So too Darlene Brown’s husband on her return from internal exile. Josh Boggi calls his partner Anna, ‘My rock. I try and do everything myself, but if I can’t, I know I’ve got someone there who will help me and always be there.’
All these people reflect one of humanity’s fundamental truths: that the basic unit for love and survival is not one but two. In varying degrees they’ve had to deal with their partners’ physical limitations, anger, depression, self-blame, guilt, adjustment difficulties and a hundred other things. They’ve had to do this while balancing their needs with their own, and sometimes with those of their children too. The road to recovery is one they take together. You can’t fix a family while an individual is broken, nor can you fix an individual while a family is broken: you are damaged together and you heal together.
Nor is it just families on whom the competitors rely: it’s their friends too. And sometimes it’s a stranger who comes across them by complete chance and ends up becoming as inseparable a part of their lives as they do of hers.
Kath Ryan had no connection with the military other than the one most Britons have: ancestors who fought under conscription in the two World Wars. Her grandfather had seen action in World War One; a quarter of a century later, her uncle had been part of the ground crew for the RAF’s 617 Squadron, better known as the Dam Busters. But other than that, nothing. Certainly nothing which would hint at what was to come.
Kath was a ward sister at Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, but from 1991 onwards, she found it increasingly difficult to work after rupturing a disc in her back while moving a 27-stone patient on her own. She was forced into early retirement on health grounds, but many years later found herself back on site, more or less – in Selly Oak Hospital, right next door to QEH. Kath’s sister Marie was recovering from a stroke, and Kath brought her some butterfly cakes when she went to visit.
A day or so later, Marie rang and asked for some more cakes.
‘You can’t have eaten them all already!’ Kath said.
‘I haven’t.’
‘Then who has?’
‘The squaddies.’
Selly Oak was the first port of call for injured soldiers being flown back from Afghanistan, where the campaign was at its height. Marie had gone outside for some fresh air – well, to the smoking hut – with her cargo of Kath’s butterfly cakes, and a posse of ravenous soldiers who for months had eaten nothing but army rations and hospital food had descended on her as though it were feeding time at the zoo.
‘OK,’ Kath said. ‘I’ll make you some more.’
‘Er … the squaddies ask, very nicely, if you could make them some too.’
‘Sure. How many of them are there?’
‘About 35.’
‘What?’
Marie laughed. ‘About 35. They’re all lovely, and they’re all hungry.’
Kath had loved baking for as long as she could remember. Her mother and grandmother had taught her, and for her baking meant happy memories and comfort. If she could give a little comfort to some guys who were obviously going through hard times, she’d do so with pleasure.
The next week, Kath went back with enough cakes for close on three dozen soldiers. She handed them out with smiles, and they all thanked her. That was her good deed for the day done. But when she got home, she was still thinking about those boys she’d seen – and they were boys, some of them, so pale and skinny now they weren’t in uniform, missing arms and legs when they looked barely old enough to be shaving.
It was the first time she’d seen people with such injuries close up. Everyone knew the war in Afghanistan was going on, of course, and most people had some vague idea that conditions were punishing and that the soldiers out there were doing some pretty brave things, but the reality of it, young lads with wide eyes now facing a life very different than the one they’d hoped for – no, she hadn’t really seen that before. The images kept playing in her mind. She thought about the way they bantered with each other, and the cheekiness which she knew masked deeper reserves of courage.
She wanted to do more for those boys. A few days later, she phoned Selly Oak and asked – even as she was speaking she found herself willing the nurse to give the answer she wanted to hear – asked whether the lads would like some more cake.
The nurse burst out laughing. ‘Would they ever! I’ll tell you, all we’ve heard since you left is, “Do you think she’ll come back? Do you think she’ll come back?”’
And that’s how it started.
Every Wednesday, Kath would load up her car with cakes and drive the short distance from her house to Selly Oak. There, she’d arrange the cakes and Tupperware containers on a hostess trolley, balancing them precariously as she had so many, and wheel the trolley round the ward. ‘At every bed I’d stop and ask the occupant: “Can I lead you into temptation?” “What’s on offer?” they’d reply. “Whatever’s on the trolley, as long as it’s legal or moral,” I’d say. And off we’d go.’
She made as many different types of cake as was feasible, knowing not everyone liked the same things. A weekly bake might include six dozen butterflies, 10 banoffee pies, 48 vanilla slices, 24 carrot cakes and a tray of custard pies. Some asked for Rocky Road, others for Rice Krispies with white chocolate. For those men coming out of operations and not yet back on solids, she’d make shakes rather than cakes.
The soldiers started sending her letters. One (clearly a frustrated Great British Bake Off judge) wrote: ‘I personally consider myself something of a cakey aficionado. I found the Victoria sponge to be truly magnificent, the sponge itself was deliciously light but still had substance and that most essential quality of moistness.’ Another said: ‘These are the best vanilla slices I have ever tasted. Worth being shot for!’ A third credited her with single-handedly lowering the fatality rate – ‘We’re all too busy trying to stay alive another week so we can have some more cake’ – and gave her what any Briton will recognise as the ultimate compliment: ‘You bake better than my nan.’
Kath found herself spending longer and longer there each week as she got to know the boys better and talked more deeply with them. There was a constant flow in and out of the wards – people being discharged or sent on to Headley Court, new injuries coming in on the transport planes from Kandahar and Bastion – but whoever they were, they looked forward to Kath’s visits. Her fame had spread beyond the walls of Selly Oak: one bloke who arrived from Afghanistan told her that
when he’d been shot, the first thing one of his mates had said was ‘You lucky bastard, now you’re going to get cake.’
When it was their birthday she’d make them birthday cakes with candles and balloons. At Christmas she’d dress up as Mother Christmas – ‘Just to keep them up and let them know that people cared about them.’ Soon she was churning out 500 portions a week and getting up at 3 a.m. to give herself enough time to do it.
It wasn’t just cakes she was providing: it was love, it was laughter, it was someone who’d listen to them pour their hearts out or just sit in silence with them if they wanted. And the best thing about all this was that it was always organic, never forced. She hadn’t sought them out or vice versa, it had just happened. That was what made it work, and that was what made it special. Everyone else with whom the soldiers came into contact wanted or needed something from them: doctors with their charts, commanding officers with their service schedules, families with all their hopes and fears.
Kath had none of that; she never judged, never pushed. On every visit she’d give each man three hugs: the first for all the guys she’d looked after up to that point, the second for the man himself and the third for all the guys yet to come. Often she’d meet the patients’ families, so she made sure to bake enough for them too, knowing that the families are injured just as much as the soldiers themselves. She noted how wives and mothers would react differently to the sight of the man they loved missing a limb or more: ‘The wives are all “Thank God he’s alive”. The mums are “My little boy’s in bits”.’
Sometimes she feared the worst, such as the day she went into a ward to see an empty bed, which the week before had contained an injured soldier. He’d seemed OK the last time she’d seen him, but she was a nurse and she knew how quickly conditions could deteriorate even when you didn’t expect them to. IED blasts could easily cause secondary infections. Had he been carted off to intensive care? Or, God forbid …
‘It’s all right, love,’ came a shout from the other side of the ward. ‘He’s down the pub.’
Then there was the young lad who never seemed to have any family around. Lots of other blokes would have wives and kids and parents and all sorts around his bed, but the youngster never had anybody. It was bad enough to have been blown up in Helmand, but then to come home and find yourself alone: well, Kath could hardly imagine. She didn’t want to pry – she always let them tell her things at their own pace – but she also wanted to know if there was anything she could do to help. He might be an orphan or a foster kid. So she asked him. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘My folks are up here the whole time but I tell them to clear off on Wednesdays so I can have you to myself.’
Kath saw the boys all the way through from admission to discharge, and often beyond: as well as her weekly trips to Selly Oak (and then QEH when Selly Oak closed), she’d also go to Headley once a month. For seven years she never took a holiday of more than five days: she’d see her boys on a Wednesday, go away Thursday through Monday, and be back Tuesday to bake all day for Wednesday in the hospital. It’s for the same reason that she’s never even applied to be a Bake Off contestant despite almost everyone she meets telling her that she should – ‘I just don’t have the time.’
It’s taken over her life. To many people she’s not Kath Ryan but Kath the Cake Lady. She burned through pretty much all her savings – and 10 separate ovens – before she set up as a charity, Cakes4Casualties, and began to receive donations. But she’s also the first to say that she’s got as much out of it as the boys have: ‘It’s such a privilege and a joy to be doing this for them. They’ve been my recovery as much as I’ve been theirs. I didn’t do it to get anything back. From minute one when I walked in there I felt like I belonged. They’ve enriched life beyond my dreams. Their friendships mean so much to me. Every day, literally every day, I’ll get an e-mail or a Facebook message from one of them. Five of them have invited me to their weddings this year alone.’
Her flat is full of display cases stuffed with badges and pins from all round the world, given to her by the men and women she’s met. The names and colours jostle with each other for your attention: New Zealand Army, Airborne Forever, France, ex-WRAF on Tour, Fisher House, Wounded Warrior, Hasler Company. Wristbands are piled in neat pyramids: the Royal Welsh, the Royal Scots, Household Cavalry, Bomb Disposal. There are shoulder patches and teddy bears, polo shirts and T-shirts.
She shows me a T-shirt in the distinctive maroon of the Parachute Regiment. ‘GOD IS AIRBORNE’ it says on the front, with the Para crest above the word ‘airborne’. ‘Turn it over,’ says Kath. On the back is the Royal Marines crest and the words ‘HE FAILED THE COMMANDO COURSE’. She laughs. ‘That’s what they’re all like, always chirping away at each other.’
It’s not just soldiers whose lives she’s helped, either. The photographer Giles Duley lost both legs and an arm after stepping on an IED – ‘I was in many ways a broken man. My body had given every ounce of energy and my mind was struggling to deal with the new reality of being a triple amputee. It was an incredibly dark time. Kath’s weekly visits were a huge lift. Her arrival would light up the ward, filling everyone with rare laughter and her unconditional kindness and love served as a reminder of home and future lives. I can’t say how much her company and cakes meant to me. She really was a beacon of light during my darkest moment. I’m proud to call her a friend.’
She was in the crowd at the first Invictus Games in London: ‘I’d seen these guys at their worst when they came back from Afghan, lost a lot of weight and were at the very beginning of their recovery path, and now I got to see them competing at a top world sporting event. It was just so amazing.’
But there seemed no way she could get to Orlando two years later – no way, that was, until one of the British competitors offered her a ticket as part of his family pass. It wouldn’t be a proper British team without their Cake Lady, would it?
‘It’s only right that someone so instrumental to our recovery should be here with us for the Games,’ said 2014 British team captain Dave Henson.
They even gave Kath her own escort – the Royal Marines Cake Lady Protection Unit. Only the elite need apply for selection, naturally. And only at the Invictus Games could this happen.
COMPETITOR PROFILE:
ZOE WILLIAMS, UNITED KINGDOM
Zoe Williams had a dream. It wasn’t a dream she liked to articulate out loud, because even if everything went to plan it was still decades away, but it was something she aspired to deep within her. In almost 500 years of existence, the Royal Navy had never made a woman admiral: Zoe wanted to be the first.
‘I grew up in Portsmouth, but we weren’t a naval family: my dad was a GP. Then one day, aged 13, I went on a ship for a day and I was hooked, just hooked. I knew this was what I wanted to do with my life.’ She joined up, aged 19, as a Warfare Officer, responsible for safe navigation and operation while at sea. When it came to the type of vessel she was on, you name it and she did it: patrol vessels, mine hunters, amphibious assault ships, time up at the nuclear submarine base at Faslane, near Glasgow. She loved it all and was good at it.
There was only one cloud on the horizon: ‘I started getting lower leg pain and within two years my back was regularly aching. At first I thought it was just my body taking the toll from training sessions, and that it would pass. But over time it got worse and on one trip, after being at sea for just a few weeks, I was sent home. I had a bulge on one of the discs in my lower back.’ The specialists told her that her condition might deteriorate to the extent that she needed spinal surgery within 24 hours. Maritime deployments several months long and the possibility of urgent spinal surgery clearly didn’t mix: one was going to have to give.
Zoe was taken off active duty and given a desk job, helping the long and complicated process of transferring the ownership of certain sites from the Ministry of Defence to the Royal Navy – ‘Actually, it was fascinating. It gave me a real exposure to the business side of all that kind of thing, which I knew wo
uld stand me in good stead.’
But desk jobs do not admirals make – ‘I knew that being in the Navy without ever being able to go to sea wasn’t going to work, not long-term. I felt it was better to get out altogether than do it half-arsed.’ She was the same age as all her friends leaving university, though they had degrees and she didn’t. More to the point, they hadn’t been forced to give up their dreams in the way she had.
Zoe was at a low ebb and didn’t know how to haul herself out of it. Nor did she much care. Painkillers and fast food had replaced exercise and positivity – and she’d always been a positive person, so this slump was really out of character. The lazier she became, the lazier she wanted to become. The transition to civilian life was proving hard, and sometimes she couldn’t be bothered even to try it.
‘Then one morning, out of complete frustration I realised I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back in the gym. The doctors said I could start training again, but slowly.’ She ditched the pizzas and began eating healthily again. Food, health, training: these were things she could control. She stopped thinking of all the things she couldn’t do with her injury and instead thought of all the things she could do.
Though she was no longer in the forces, her background there wasn’t entirely wasted. At a networking event run by the Officers’ Association she got talking to a man who offered her a job at the online food delivery company Deliveroo – ‘Soon I was running live ops, monitoring squads of delivery drivers and riders all across London in real time. OK, it wasn’t quite like a proper naval exercise, but it was the next best thing!’
Her best friend had competed in the 2014 Invictus Games and had raved about the time she’d had there, so when Help for Heroes asked Zoe whether she wanted to be considered for selection for Orlando, she nearly bit their hand off. ‘I knew straight away that I’d want to compete. Of course, I was nervous about trying out, but this felt like the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Something to give me a focus and purpose again. It was also a chance to prove to everyone – and myself – that I wasn’t going to be defined by my injuries.’
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