Sam had bitten through her tongue – her clenched teeth were stained red – and each ragged, gasping breath was a weak and bubbling spectral wheeze. I tried opening her mouth to clear her airway but her jaw was locked shut. I ripped off my shirt and crumpled it into a small pillow, then I tried to tilt her face gently to the side and into the recovery position. But as soon as my cupped hands cradled her head they immediately felt warm and wet. Blood was seeping through her blonde hair everywhere I looked. Her head had been split open in two different directions. No matter where I put my hands, no matter where I parted her hair or how firmly I held my blood-soaked shirt against her head as a compress, I could not stem the bleeding or find the edges of the jagged wounds that were its source. I glanced down and saw Sam’s angelic face at the centre of an ever-expanding crimson halo as her lifeblood pooled onto the concrete. My heart emptied of hope.
I shouted for help. I tried desperately and feebly to comfort my unconscious wife. I shouted for an ambulance. I screamed for help again. I needed someone, anyone, to hold my boys back; I didn’t want them to see their mother like this. But when I looked up, all three were standing right next to me; silent, ashen-faced.
Noah made no sound, but hot tears were streaming down his cheeks. The horror was too much for little Oli, who doubled over and vomited. Rueben, the eldest, did his best to be brave but, when he tried to speak, his voice came out a ghostly whisper: ‘Is Mummy going to die?’ To this day I can’t remember what I said in reply. Or if I said anything at all.
Fellow tourists and Thai locals rushed in; some corralled and comforted the youngest boys, while others dropped down beside me to do whatever I asked of them. Rueben sprinted to the front desk to call an ambulance. Within twenty minutes, paramedics arrived and took control – Sam was strapped to a long, orange spinal board and ferried to the ambulance. I stumbled after my beloved wife, wanting to do anything and everything I could to save her, but capable of doing nothing.
Sam would remain lashed to that orange plank for the next three days, as she was rolled in and out of emergency rooms, and made the long and difficult journey from the local medical centre to a far larger hospital closer to Bangkok. She drifted in and out of semi-consciousness – she was in terrible pain and would sleepily fumble with the restraining straps and try to remove the mask and tubes that were keeping her alive. During fleeting moments when comprehension dawned she would try to call out my name and then start to cry.
A team of surgeons wanted to operate straight away, but Sam’s blood pressure was far too unstable to survive an operation. And so we waited. And waited. I was told there was only ‘a chance she might pull through’.
The consul from the Australian Embassy drove down from the capital to help me look after the boys and install them in a nearby hotel. At some point I showered and changed, attempted to feed myself and get some sleep, but Sam’s critical condition and suffering were all-consuming. I wanted to keep my eyes on my wife at all times, afraid that I would miss her final breath, terrified that I wouldn’t.
When finally she was wheeled out of the operating theatre, and her bed was parked in a high-tech life support bay in the intensive care unit, I received a full report: Sam’s skull was fractured in several places, and her brain was bleeding and badly bruised. Both lungs had ruptured and one had completely collapsed due to her chest cavity filling with blood. There wasn’t an organ in her body that hadn’t been battered, and her spine was shattered at T6 and T7, just below her shoulder blades.
After resurfacing from the anaesthetic, Sam was able to breathe on her own, which was a huge relief, but she still couldn’t feel her legs. However, the bruising on her back was so severe that we were told it was likely she was suffering from spinal shock and that nerve signals would return gradually as the swelling receded over six to eight weeks.
Although her tongue was mending, her frightful head injuries caused constant migraine headaches that made it even harder for her to talk. When the boys were first allowed to visit and they saw her badly swollen face, Noah froze, thinking his mother was dead. When at last she finally spoke, it was not to complain or seek our pity, but to repeatedly apologise for ruining our family holiday. Sam’s selflessness and courage were extraordinary, but not infectious – I couldn’t hold back my tears and soon we all were weeping.
Weeks crawled by with little to no sign of improvement. Sam had lost her sense of taste and smell, and she had no reflex response below the ominous bruising on her back. But she stayed positive and refused pain medication as often as she could stand it, hoping to feel the first tingling that indicated her recovery had begun in earnest. When her condition was deemed stable for travel, she was flown back to a Sydney hospital where she waited patiently for better news. It never came.
In my absence a callous doctor brusquely told Sam that it was obvious she’d never walk again. My brave wife was devastated. How she managed to commit herself to the rehabilitation process after this ruinous blow I do not know. But she did. With a vengeance.
It was seven months before Sam was released from the spinal ward. The boys and I were beside ourselves to have her home but, for all the bright smiles on show, each of us felt heartbroken and afraid. The veneer of celebration barely concealed our sense of hopelessness.
Sam did her best to seem upbeat for our sake. But we could see her struggling. Every day presented her with a battle she couldn’t win. No longer able to follow her heart or commit her restless energy to immediate purpose, she sat at the edge of family life, watching, wishing. Sam quietly mourned the loss of her former self; she would cry herself to sleep and cry herself awake. Whenever the boys came in to see her she would rally; however, I could sense that, for the first time, her inner strength was beginning to fail. She was no longer the force of nature she had always been. Her smiles grew less radiant and less frequent. The time it took her to emerge from our bedroom each morning grew longer and longer. She didn’t want to wake up any more.
Sam felt broken and utterly adrift. I saw the light in her eyes grow dim. I knew she was withdrawing from this world.
That such a fiercely free and passionate spirit could now be anchored beyond our love by pain and a steel chair was too much for us to bear.
I sought advice and support wherever I could, but nothing seemed to help.
I was slowly but surely losing the love of my life.
And then Penguin arrived.
Penguin was just a small, wobbly-headed magpie chick when my son Noah found her lying in the car park next to his grandmother’s house.
Gusting onshore winds had tossed her out of her nest, some twenty metres up a towering Norfolk Island pine, and she had tumbled, spun and bounced her way through the branches to fall heavily onto the cold asphalt.
One wing was hanging limply by her side and, though too battered to move a great deal, she was extremely lucky to survive such a horrendous fall.
But she wasn’t out of danger yet. Without immediate care the shaky little chick would have died within hours.
Our family had witnessed enough tragedy for one lifetime and we were not going to sit idly by. Sam let Noah pick up the little bird and, with grandmother at the wheel, they sped for home.
Unable to find an animal rescue shelter that would take in an injured baby bird, Sam and I decided that we would care for her until she was fully healed and became strong enough to fend for herself; however long this took. If we failed, then we would lay her to rest in the backyard. Either way, she was staying with us.
The boys immediately named her Penguin, after her black-and-white plumage, and that was that.
Our three sons suddenly had a baby sister. Miss Penguin Bloom.
We didn’t own a cage and we weren’t inclined to get one. Penguin was a wild bird and we didn’t want her to grow up to be any other way. We made a simple nest out of an old cane laundry basket and lined this with soft cotton fabric to keep her warm.
It is not
easy to look after any sick or injured creature, and this is especially true of a baby bird – as we soon found out. Our little girl was quite a handful. Caring for Penguin, especially during those first few weeks, was a massive commitment.
Initially Penguin had to be fed every two hours. Noah, Oli and Rueben took turns with feeding duty before and after school, while Sam and I took over resident chef and nanny duties throughout the rest of the day.
But while getting Penguin to eat, drink and rest was a real victory, her recovery remained touch and go.
Though her damaged wing was not as badly broken as we’d feared, it seemed unlikely she’d ever be able to fly. She was severely weakened by her fall and prone to illness.
There were many days when Penguin refused her food and appeared so listless we thought we might lose her.
Some evenings, as we tucked her into bed, we wondered if she would survive the night.
Despite the setbacks, we continued to do all we could for the smallest member of our family. We played with her, sang to her and encouraged her to eat well and exercise her injured wing. Over time, with a great deal of patience and a whole lot of love, Penguin grew in stature and confidence.
As an avian toddler her wingspan wasn’t especially impressive, and she often resembled a manic fluff-ball with a beak, but we occasionally caught glimpses of the proud airborne goddess she was destined to become.
As with most adolescents, Penguin went through an awkward phase. When her adult feathers started to come through, she entered what we called her ‘Goth period’.
she never stopped being fabulous in her own weird and wonderful way, and we certainly didn’t love her any less.
Like so many younger sisters she soon learned how to drive her big brothers crazy and somehow get away with it. But they always made up in the end and remained the very best of friends.
Sam and I had to admit, it was quite adorable watching the ‘kids’ grow up together.
Penguin’s strength increased, as did her curiosity. We never locked her inside any kind of enclosure so she was always able to go anywhere she pleased.
It didn’t take long before she started to forage for her own food in the backyard to supplement her diet, and it was clear she was becoming more and more independent.
Despite being free to leave, Penguin still chose to sleep inside the house. We were happy that she liked living with us, but we also wanted her to follow her natural instincts and develop magpie-appropriate behaviours.
Though, to be honest, we really had no idea what those might be.
For Penguin’s own good, she needed to spend a lot more time outdoors. Her long-term health and wellbeing depended on her being able to look after herself in her natural environment, and playing video games and watching movies could hardly be considered adequate preparation for this important transition.
Also, it must be said, there is no such thing as potty-training a magpie – at least so far as we could tell. After Penguin added her signature flourish to the furniture, carpet, bedspreads, curtains, hats, television and computers for the umpteenth time, we decided she was old enough to get her own apartment.
This was not an especially popular decision.
Fortunately there is a large frangipani tree in our yard with easily accessible lower branches that Penguin always seemed to like, so that became her new principal residence.
She was still very close to the house in case she ever felt inclined to drop by – which she often did. Even so, it was a difficult time for Penguin. It wasn’t easy for us either, watching her make her way into the unknown.
We worried about her constantly.
And with good reason.
Magpies can be fiercely territorial, and sometimes Penguin would be beaten up by a gang of local bully-birds who would knock her to the ground and then scratch and claw at her, snapping at her feathers and pecking at her eyes.
Our brave girl held her own, but it was truly awful seeing her injured and in pain.
And it was doubly heartbreaking watching her realise that such viciousness was part of her world.
To her great credit, Penguin never let her violent oppressors break her spirit. Australian magpies are known for their beautiful songs and Penguin is blessed with a wonderful voice. She loves to sing and will do so for hours at a time.
Penguin always seems to know exactly when our boys will be walking home from school. As 3.30pm draws near, she positions herself in the orange tree at the edge of our property, waiting for them to come around the corner. As soon as she hears them approaching, she breaks out in song and the boys happily reply in their best, garbled magpie impersonation. They continue calling out to each other, again and again, in a joyful chorus of greeting.
Likewise, whenever Sam and I pull up in the driveway she lets out a loud, melodic warble to welcome us home. Then she flaps her wings and wiggles her tail feathers with excitement and prances to the front door to be let inside.
Keeping Penguin outside the house is a challenge we quite enjoy failing. Though she has moved out for good, Penguin will always be a welcome visitor in our home – something she seems to have taken for granted.
We try our best to make sure she sleeps on her frangipani perch, but if we ever leave a window open she’ll zip inside the house at sunrise, scamper down the hallway to one of the bedrooms like an overexcited velociraptor and leap onto the covers for a bonus sleep-in.
Penguin could not have arrived at a better time, by which I mean a more terrible time.
There are some things children should never have to see – and watching their mother be critically injured and almost die is very definitely one of those things.
When Sam finally came home, after more than half a year in hospital, she may have been out of immediate danger, but the painful reality of her condition had only just begun to sink in.
When I first carried her over the threshold it had been one of the happiest days of our lives. But this time around, carrying Sam from the car to our front door was one of the saddest occasions you could possibly imagine.
To be paralysed from the chest down means many things – none of which are good.
Most immediately it means the loss of your legs and your abdominal muscles. You cannot sit up, you cannot stand, you cannot walk, you cannot skip, you cannot run.
You can no longer sense your connection to the earth.
You cannot feel the cool, wet grass between your toes, or the hot summer sand beneath your feet, upon which you will no longer leave a footprint.
You cannot feel the intimate connection with the one you love above all others.
That part of your life is gone.
Wheelchair-bound, with two metal rods screwed into her fractured spine, Sam felt immobilised to the point of suffocation.
She couldn’t bend down from her chair and she couldn’t get up. Almost everything she wanted, everything she needed, was out of reach. To overextend without help nearby was to risk falling, being injured and becoming stuck.
To go anywhere or do anything she was wholly reliant upon wheels of steel and rubber, and other people’s legs.
At all points in between, she was completely stranded.
Moving slowly and gingerly around the house in her wheelchair made the once familiar domestic terrain feel utterly foreign.
Even the smallest obstacle or surface change could block her path and leave her feeling isolated and imprisoned.
It didn’t feel real.
We wanted to believe it was all just a bad dream.
That when we finally opened our eyes, things would be as they were before the accident.
But it wasn’t a dream.
Sam was completely overwhelmed.
We all were.
I cannot even begin to tabulate the cost of the accident to the family, or to Sam herself.
I don’t mean in terms of time and money, though in that regard the drain was enormous – we relied on the generous support of friends and family to function effectiv
ely as parents, and to cope with the expense of remodelling the house to accommodate Sam’s wheelchair.
I mean in terms of the terrible price we all had to pay, and keep paying every day – the great and small things no one could ever have anticipated that rapidly consumed Sam’s will to live and exhausted the family’s emotional reserves.
It is a myth that spinal cord injury victims feel no pain at the site of their break – which in Sam’s case is in line with her heart – or within their affected limbs.
She suffered from unpredictable bursts of incredible agony: phantom pains dancing through her otherwise lifeless legs and feet, sudden rushes of bee-sting sensations along her break-line, and searing heat that spread throughout her lower back like tentacles of fire. She also endured frightening muscular spasms; her largely dormant torso muscles would violently contract, taking her breath away, and the muscles along her spine would cramp and twist painfully, as if rejecting the steel rods biting into her vertebrae.
Her injuries are such that she can never feel comfortable, regardless of the resting surface or her body position. This alone is enough to unravel anybody.
Even when Sam goes to bed she is denied the sweet relief afforded by a good night’s sleep. I help her turn over three times before dawn in order to maintain her circulation and to prevent pressure sores.
Penguin Bloom Page 2