Forged with Flames (18 page)

In the end, Peter's creative solution didn't eventuate, but it was fun fantasising about the colours I might choose and how I might look with curls. It certainly brightened my spirits. There was one benefit of losing my hair though—the cowlick I had always hated went with it.

Two episodes occurred towards the end of my stay at the Alfred which, simple as they were, illustrated the goodwill that contributed to my recovery, both physically and emotionally. One involved my friend Liz who was still visiting me daily after all those months—incredible dedication, in itself. I'd begun to eat and drink normally and the Prof was encouraging me to take in as many calories as possible to build up my weight, which was far below the healthy limit. Soft drinks were high on the list as they contained so much sugar. My favourite was red lemonade. Liz was with me one night when I was drinking rather a lot of it. Having seen me vomit often during the times she spent with me, she cautioned me about the amount I was consuming.

‘I think you'll be ill if you drink any more, Ann,' she said.

‘Oh no,' I replied confidently. ‘I feel fine.'

Five minutes later I threw up all over Liz's shoes, disgustingly bright pink projectile vomit. I was mortified, apologising profusely and acknowledging that, yes, I should have listened to
her. Not fazed, Liz calmly cleaned herself up and told me not to worry. I doubt that her shoes recovered, or if they did, they were probably a different colour! Her tolerance and understanding left a real impression.

The second episode involved the regular X-rays which the doctors had recommenced to monitor any infection in my lungs once I'd left Intensive Care. The process was still painful but nothing compared to what it had been previously. I commented to the radiographer about how much I'd hated this procedure in the early days.

‘I know you did,' he said. ‘We all dreaded having to come in each day and do it to you. In fact, in the end, we refused to put you through it any more and told the doctors that we wouldn't be part of it. We just couldn't see the advantage of causing you that much extra pain on a daily basis.'

If I'd been able to, I would have given this compassionate man a big hug. I was so grateful to know that my perceptions of that time were wrong. This man had cared; in fact he and the others had cared so much they'd gone against doctor's orders to end the excruciating procedure for me. Suddenly, I could let go of the corrosive thoughts of that time; I felt something heal instantly.

25

THE ALFRED FAREWELL

A
lthough I'd longed for the day when I could leave the Alfred, as the time approached I was in two minds about it. I'd been expecting to leave in September, but was told in early July that I could be discharged late that month to go to Hampton Rehabilitation Hospital. I loved feeling that I was progressing towards the day when I'd be rehabilitated and could go home again, but the Alfred, for all its traumatic times, had been my home for more than five months and represented great security. I still felt so fragile and vulnerable, which I now know is very common for anyone who has suffered profound trauma. In reality, though, I was unable to walk and someone still had to help me to the toilet. I found it difficult, too, to contemplate leaving the people who had been with me through my battle to live. I dearly loved many of them and was grateful for the part they'd all played in my survival. They knew my health needs intimately and, of course, accepted me just as I was, scars and all.

A week before I was due to be transferred to the Rehab, I was moved out of the Burns Unit to a room in the general ward.
Soon afterwards, the realisation that I was leaving really hit me and I began sobbing uncontrollably, which was the state that Carol, the physio, found me in when she arrived for a session. Carol was wearing a white coat with pencils and rulers in the pockets. Quickly removing all these sharp objects, she wrapped her arms around me.

‘You've done so well, sometimes we forget that you're human,' she said.

I just cried and cried on her shoulder.

Everything was arranged for me to go to Hampton when, at the last minute, the doctors decided they needed to operate on a finger that was giving me trouble. It would be the last of at least fifteen operations I'd had during my stay at the Alfred. The surgery was performed in the morning and I was told that it would be better if I didn't eat or drink anything for a while afterwards. I was still groggy when I was wheeled back to the ward, so imagine my confusion when I arrived to find my room full of people standing around my bed. Why are all these people here? What's going on, I wondered woozily. I looked from face to face and recognised all of them—doctors, nurses, interns. It was a farewell party.

As individual staff members came up and staked their place waiting to talk to me, I felt as if I were lying in state.

‘Good on you for coming through!'

‘We didn't think you were going to make it, at times, and here we are sending you off to Hampton!'

There was a real sense that my survival was something we'd all done together. As they said their farewells, they recounted incidents that had occurred throughout the five months I'd been
there, some of which surprised me. One young intern came up to me and said, ‘I'll never forget that even though there were times you fought so hard to live, there were times I'd come in and you'd say to me, “Could you just let me die?” It was heart wrenching.'

I didn't remember that.

The staff then presented me with a present, which was completely unexpected. It never occurred to me that I'd be given a party or a gift before I left—I didn't think that sort of thing happened in hospitals. Prof gave a speech in his characteristic, low-key way, something about how I had never given in despite the struggle. Even though they'd told me not to, I drank something and threw up soon after. They'd gone to all this trouble and I threw up! I know, you'd think I'd learn! I'm sure I said a thousand thank yous but I was so woozy still from the anaesthetic and having to fast before and after the op, that I can't recall too much of what I said, which is probably a good thing!

I now determined to put my mind to preparing myself for the move to Hampton Rehab before I left. One afternoon near the end of my time at the Alfred, I was sitting in the kitchen of the Occupational Therapy area having a cup of tea while a fellow patient was baking a cake as part of his therapy. Wayne was in the Alfred for injuries from a car accident and had spent some time at Hampton. I was keen to learn all I could from him and he was happy to share his impressions as he mixed and blended.

‘Watch out for Sister Walpole,' he said. ‘She's like a sergeant-major and scares the willies out of everyone.'

He went on to describe his experiences with Hampton's chief nursing sister.

‘She sounds terrifying,' I said apprehensively, thinking how kind all the nurses at the Alfred had been.

I left the Alfred the way I entered—by ambulance—heading towards what would be my new home for the remaining months of 1983. I'd been the most badly burned patient in the Alfred from the Ash Wednesday fires, and the last to leave. I didn't know at the time that I would leave carrying a time bomb that would explode twenty years later. I thought then that all my scars were physical.

26

HAMPTON REHABILITATION HOSPITAL

I
'd no sooner arrived at Hampton Rehabilitation Hospital than I was ushered in to meet the matron. The hospital struck me as being small, old and musty, in sharp contrast to the Alfred. And the matron certainly looked as if she belonged there. She sat solidly behind a big desk in her office and though she was welcoming, she still managed to look intimidating. Ready to bark. I even had to call her Matron so-and-so, which seemed rather archaic, particularly after the informality at the Alfred. She informed me that I was there to WORK: I would be set a program of physiotherapy and occupational therapy, I would attend the gym in the afternoon, then shower, then eat dinner around six o'clock and be allowed visitors from seven to eight. I felt I was about to get a rap on the knuckles for good measure.

My next meeting was with Dr Gasner for an examination. He was tall, slim and direct, and was overseeing my whole treatment. I noticed his hands immediately; beautiful hands with long, slender fingers. Hands that could play the violin. He had a gentle touch, which was important as I still had
open burns that needed to be examined and dressed. Not only that, I continued to experience shocking pain on my arrival at Hampton, and heard later that the staff felt terrible even having to touch me. There would still be times here, too, when I would beg to be allowed to die. But for now it felt like a new phase in my recovery.

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

I
t 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.