Sam’s constant physical struggle was compounded by the mental anguish of not being able to do things around the house that she had always taken for granted. Countless domestic chores we used to share that she never imagined she’d miss, such as cooking and cleaning, were now extremely difficult. Something as simple as dashing down to the local shops to pick up a few groceries was downright impossible without help.
In and of themselves such things might not seem that important, but, taken together, this endless barrage of what she perceived to be personal failures started to destroy Sam’s self-image as a wife and mother, and as a strong, independent woman.
Always being supervised, examined or assisted, Sam’s personal space was constantly being violated. She no longer enjoyed any privacy.
Every mundane activity common to humanity had the potential to be humiliating.
Getting dressed each morning became a form of torture.
To add insult to grievous injury, residual brain damage, though relatively minor, had robbed Sam of her sense of taste.
For someone whose love of flavour and epicurean discovery was a life passion, this seemed like a very sick joke.
As did the fact that Sam’s sense of smell was likewise diminished to the degree that the only fragrance she could distinguish was fish.
Even Sam had to admit this was excellent material for a black comedy.
But laughing at such an absurdly cruel twist of fate didn’t make daily life any more enjoyable.
Far from sustaining her, memories of happier times towered over the present, making everything she did feel small and pitiful.
Sam felt like a spectator watching from the sidelines, stuck in the cheapest seats imaginable.
Seeing other people free from pain and having fun brought her no pleasure.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
While she seldom showed it, almost every happy or beautiful thing Sam saw filled her heart with rage – she was constantly angry with herself for every single thing she ever did that led to her being in this miserable position.
As Sam fixated on her changed appearance and loss of function,her perspective distorted. She saw herself as broken and embarrassing, and found it hard to accept that anyone could see her as otherwise.
Such intense feelings of pain, fury and regret could not possibly be contained – she presented a brave face to the world, but she would weep in the bedroom and the shower where no one could witness her tears.
The emotional distance increased between Sam and everyone who loved her.
She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.
She didn’t want anyone to see her. Period.
Endless gloom descended upon our once happy home.
Every day felt like a funeral.
Sam was staring into the abyss.
I don’t know when she first considered suicide, but I know it was early on and that she thought of it often. Almost constantly.
Sam was enduring so much pain and mental anguish that I cannot blame her. I understood her fractured reasoning at the time. But to allow her dark thoughts to manifest as irrevocable action would have destroyed our young family. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
All I could do was tell her over and over how much I loved her, how much the boys loved her, how much we all needed her.
I knew her suffering was great, but I always believed her love for us was greater still.
And I was right.
Sam turned away from the darkness. She chose us.
Not because she lacked the courage to face oblivion, but because she had the far greater courage to live.
To be truly selfless and loving is the very opposite of weakness. And no one is as strong as my Sam.
She knew she had a very difficult road ahead and she faced it bravely.
She didn’t shirk her rehabilitation, however much she hated it.
She soldiered on, day after day.
Sam did whatever she could to convince herself that her life was not over, even though, deep inside, she felt the opposite to be true.
She found some solace when listening to music.
And also enjoyed the escape afforded when reading.
But when your body craves physical relief, you can only listen to so much music and read so many books.
Our home certainly didn’t lack for compassion.
But Sam struggled to come to terms with her disability at a level that we could neither relate to nor understand.
She didn’t want our sympathy. She didn’t want to be coddled. She didn’t want anyone’s pity or platitudes. She just wanted her old life back.
And that notion, the utterly gut-wrenching, soul-crushing feeling that your life has been stolen from you is something that you cannot hope to fathom unless you have been through it yourself.
Every terrible thing you have been through in your life up till that point pales in comparison or seems downright ridiculous. You don’t even know where to begin. I know I didn’t.
All I can say is that we never gave up.
We just kept trying to reach her.
We did whatever we could to bridge the emotional gulf between us.
We tried to find the balance between giving Sam space and being close by whenever she needed us.
We waited till she let us draw near.
We waited till she was ready to talk.
It was extremely hard for Sam to speak aloud the fears and regrets she was forced to live with. And then, when she did have something to say, we had almost nothing we could offer her in reply except that we loved her, that we would always love her, and that we would do whatever we could to help.
The best we could tell her was that the future would not be as bleak as she believed; that things were going to get better. Which, though certainly true and vaguely encouraging, as far as clichés go, fell well short of being inspiring.
All of which is to say, words failed us.
And this is where Penguin came into her own. She was our fearless ambassador of love and chief motivational officer.
When it came to taking an interest in her family’s wellbeing, Penguin was as tender as a baby pea —
– and as subtle as a black-and-white brick.
Penguin and Sam became inseparable. One was always looking after the other.
When Penguin was weak and sickly, Sam would lovingly nurse her back to health.
And when Sam found it hard to get moving, Penguin would sing her energy levels up.
If Sam was inside, doing paperwork or writing in her private journal, Penguin would be there.
If Sam was outside, painting and enjoying the sunshine, Penguin would be there.
Penguin didn’t just stay around for the fun and novel activities. She was fiercely loyal to Sam and would provide a melodic chirp of encouragement whenever anything proved more challenging than might have been expected.
During the most difficult moments, when Sam had to confront her disability directly, Penguin made sure Sam always received the best possible care.
It’s the Australian way not to make a fuss about your problems, and perhaps it was also the result of having been a nurse herself for many years, but as a patient Sam was overly meek and polite. She never spoke up when she needed pain relief or extra attention, and was always prepared to accept an alarming degree of discomfort without complaint.
Penguin had no problem speaking up on Sam’s behalf and, in doing so, this plucky bird helped Sam realise that her needs mattered, that she mattered, and that she was entitled to as much respect as anyone.
As Sam slowly came to terms with her strange new world, Penguin did the same. Always cheerful, always free of judgement, always there.
When training and physical therapy were over for the day, or the pain got too much to bear, they would lie outside beneath the sky.
I would often overhear the two of them having what sounded like long and in-depth conversations about what they were going through.
Sometimes Sam
would speak softly to Penguin, sometimes Penguin would sing to Sam, and sometimes neither would make a sound for hours at a time.
I came to believe that each knew exactly what the other was feeling.
Their beautiful relationship could be defined as unlikely best friends, but it was deeper than that.
It was part mother and daughter, part nurse and patient.
And it was also two sister spirits, strong yet fragile, united by a single word: up.
Sam wanted to sit up straight, to stand tall on her own two feet, and Penguin wanted to fly above the trees and beyond the clouds.
Sam worked incredibly hard to build up her strength and stamina to regain as much of her independence as possible.
Every single day she would sweat out her demons with gym equipment or boxing mitts, or paddle her kayak for hours, often till her hands were blistered and bleeding.
She just wouldn’t quit.
As her training progressed she finally saw a glimmer of daylight and, in time, her entire outlook brightened.
Small victories led to greater victories.
New challenges became new opportunities.
While Sam was very grateful for all the help she’d received, she was done with depending on others to keep her alive.
She was ready to start living on her own terms.
There were far fewer tears in the shower and a lot more laughter was heard around the house.
Making your way back to who you were and, in the process, learning who you really are can be a very difficult journey.
We undertook just such a journey together on the day before Christmas when I surprised Sam by taking her to a special place that she thought she would never see again: a rocky outcrop just beyond the historic Barrenjoey Lighthouse. This was where Sam and I used to go whenever we wanted to clear our heads. We would always leave for home feeling refreshed and so, in many ways, we regard this rocky platform as a spiritual haven.
The problem was that to get to Sam’s rock you have to scramble along a steep, uneven, twisting path that takes you up an almost vertical 100-metre ascent. So I built a rustic-looking sedan chair out of bamboo and sofa cushions and a few of our closest and fittest friends helped me get Sam to the top.
As we gazed out to the horizon, we knew that reaching this rock was a symbol of our combined hopes and dreams, as well as our fears.
Life would be different. It wasn’t going to be easy, and we would need the ongoing support of those close to us, but together we could go anywhere and accomplish anything.
Acknowledging the tremendous hardship Sam had faced, and the many challenges that lay ahead, made this moment of celebration rather quiet. But it was a genuine celebration nonetheless. Our tears were happy ones.
Penguin’s defining moment came soon after.
With all respect to the Wright Brothers and their historic maiden voyage across the lower skies of North Carolina in 1903, for the Bloom family the most momentous first flight in history took place in our lounge room.
Our spirits soared on Penguin’s black-and-white wings.
It was a moment of pure joy.
A Bloom family member had, at last, conquered gravity.
Caring for Penguin has changed our perspective on life, love and pretty much everything else. She has completely redefined what family means.
In the beginning we thought we were rescuing Penguin, but now we know this remarkable little bird has made us stronger, brought us closer as a family, given us countless reasons to smile and laugh during an extremely difficult time and, in doing so, helped us heal emotionally and physically.
So, in a very real way, Penguin rescued us.
It has been an extraordinary privilege to be part of Penguin’s life and to help her on her journey.
We have all learned so much from her along the way.
Looking at her now, with her bright eyes, powerful wings and lustrous feathers, it’s hard to recall just how weak, crippled and near death she was when we first found her.
She is a completely different bird today.
Penguin’s complete transformation is a daily reminder that we are not our past, no matter how traumatic or life-changing it might have been.
You don’t have to be superhuman to survive the bad times and you can’t always be at your best. But even when things look their worst, you can still feel positive about the future. Being optimistic is simply a choice made possible by being creative and proactive.
The means to achieving the breakthrough you need may be a lot closer than you think.
A happy ending begins with having faith in your own story, and looking for ways to create joy for yourself and others.
Time and time again Penguin showed us what a difference it can make just by giving our family and friends a reason to smile when they see us.
She also showed us how to be present.
There is nothing wrong with enjoying everything the modern world has to offer, but we must never let technology keep us from those we love.
Penguin constantly reminds us that we are all part of nature. And the more connected with nature we are, the happier we feel.
Penguin wakes up each morning believing the whole world is hers to enjoy. Which, I suppose, it is.
That, plus clean and well-groomed feathers, is her secret to rising above it all.
From cradling Penguin in my hands and holding Sam in my arms I can tell you that every nerve cell, every blood vessel, every atom of our being is precious.
But we are all so much more than the sum of our fragile parts.
We are all our journeys, hopes and dreams, clad in mortal wrapping paper.
I have so often been told that life is short – but this didn’t mean that much to me until the accident.
Now I realise we could have lost Sam and Penguin both, many times.
Just like that.
Their warm and vital presence is a powerful reminder that each and every moment matters.
So, on behalf of Penguin and Sam, I encourage you to say all the things you want to say.
Give voice to your heart.
Do all the things you want to do – don’t waste a second. Lose yourself in the beauty of this world as often as possible.
Sam and I have always believed that love, togetherness and a spirit of discovery are the keys to enjoying life – Penguin proved this to be absolutely true.
Most importantly, Penguin taught us that helping others feel better is the easiest and best way to help yourself feel better.
She showed us there is so much more love in the world than we could possibly imagine.
Regardless of how bad things get, compassion, friendship and support can come from the most unexpected places.
And no matter how lost, lonely, defeated or damaged we feel, accepting the love of others and loving them in return, to whatever degree we can, will help to make us whole again.
I am not the arbiter of wonders. All my life I have tried to capture the extraordinary with a crystal lens, and still I have not seen anything that helps me understand the why – only the what, when, where and how beautifully or cruelly our fate unfolds.
It is certainly not my place to know the unknowable and, in any case, I would always choose love over peace of mind.
And I have love.
As great a love as any man has known.
I may never accept that Sam’s accident was part of any divine plan; her suffering is too great for me to believe such things.
But that she lived when so many others might have died, and that Penguin fell from the heavens when we needed her most – my heart tells me that if these were not miracles, then the Bloom family is still blessed beyond reason.
I am immensely grateful for our three brave and beautiful boys. Brothers by birth, friends by choice – in the face of tragedy and confusion they did not let anger and bitterness drive them apart, but instead stood by each other and responded with kindness and compassion.
They will never know how much their
love and courage has meant to their mother and me, how they lifted us up when we could not rise on our own.
I am so thankful for the truly remarkable woman I am privileged to call my wife.
Sam’s strength is the foundation upon which our home is built.
Penguin Bloom Page 3