More than that, she is the most beautiful human being I have ever met.
Her natural grace, sense of humour, humility and heroic determination make everyone she comes in contact with want to be a better person.
Especially me.
I feel incredibly proud of us, as a family, and I am excited about what our future holds.
And I thank God for that crazy little bird.
Like I said – angels come in all shapes and sizes.
A lot has happened since Penguin first became a part of our family.
Sam has gone from strength to strength. Not only has she become far more independent, but she also has found ways to manage her constant physical pain and the corrosive depression that threatened to consume her.
The daily boost provided by the love and support that Sam receives from Penguin, our three boys and me cannot be overstated. But we also acknowledge that Sam’s love of the water proved central to her progress and, best of all, has led her to a new life passion.
Kayaking is so much more than a change of scenery or a mere workout. It is the means by which Sam can escape the confines of her wheelchair and the static nature of a life lived between one assisted transition and the next. So much of Sam’s time is spent waiting for others to help her in some way or other, but that ends abruptly at the water’s edge – once she is in her boat, she is free to glide. When Sam picks up a paddle, she is in absolute control of where she is and what she is doing and, in that moment, she is once again her own person.
Not long after coming home, Sam joined the Manly Warringah Kayak Club and teamed up with coach Gaye Hatfield, who immediately spotted her potential. It wasn’t easy to master a racing kayak using only her arms for balance and power but, once again, Sam used her father’s sheer bloody-mindedness to positive effect.
Within a short time she was ready to participate in club events, where she surprised everyone with her speed, including herself. As her times dropped she progressed to more serious competition and within twelve months she was the fastest female KL1 paddler in Australia. When Sam claimed her second national title, and posted the eighth fastest time in the world that year, the sport’s top national selectors were paying close attention. In March 2015, Sam was named a member of the Australian Paracanoe Team and joined the elite squad headed to the Canoe Sprint World Championships in Milan later that year.
Sam then worked harder than ever, undertaking six paddling sessions and three gym sessions every week. She also travelled to Queensland with the national team for specialist workouts – the first time she’d got on a plane since she left hospital.
Despite these heroic efforts, her world championship debut didn’t quite go to plan when, during four weeks of intense training in Northern Italy, Sam put so much strain on her body that she fractured her seventh rib, directly under her left scapula, robbing her left stroke of power, speed and control. But Sam, being Sam, simply would not give up. Despite this painful injury she gamely lined up for her qualifying heat in Milan, against the toughest competition she’d ever faced, and fought her way through to the next round. But bad luck struck again in the semi-final when a steering mishap, caused by floating weed fouling her rudder, sent Sam off-course and she was disqualified.
Though disappointed to bow out in such a fashion, my amazing wife finished her very first international sporting campaign ranked twelfth in the world. Better still, and despite being injured, she lopped three seconds off her previous personal best time during training, showing she has both the ability and the will to go even faster.
Even as her fractured rib was still healing, Sam set her sights on joining the Australian Paralympic Team bound for Tokyo in 2020. It’s astonishing how far she’s come in such a short time and I know she’s not done yet.
Penguin decided to stay in her favourite frangipani tree in Sydney, but Rueben, Noah, Oli and I travelled to Milan to watch Sam compete, after which we all boarded the train to Rome, Sam’s favourite city, for a long overdue family holiday. Here we revisited the special places Sam and I first saw as young lovers – the Colosseum, Piazza Navona and the Spanish Steps – though now we enjoyed seeing all these through the eyes of our children, something we couldn’t have even imagined fifteen years earlier.
Our European escape was very special for all of us, bringing back a great many happy memories and also, if I’m honest, a few sad ones. A freak accident meant that our Thai family vacation ended in tears, but our Italian family holiday began and ended with extremely loud cheers. Watching Sam conquer her disability and take on the world has been an absolutely thrilling experience for the entire Bloom family. She has survived the worst and gone on to achieve great things and, in doing so, she represents the best of us. Sam’s sporting goals are far bigger than international competition, which is why she has started a programme with her coach to introduce other spinal cord injury patients to kayaking. The physical and mental benefits Sam has derived from being out on the water are so great she wants to share this positive experience with as many people as she can. It goes without saying that the boys and I are incredibly proud of our Sam but, more than that, we are so grateful to share each day with her and we love her dearly.
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Over the last two years Penguin has grown up to be an independent young lady herself. Her glossy feathers and shiny beak have turned quite a few eligible magpie heads, though I don’t believe she is ready to settle down just yet.
We love hearing her merry song whenever she drops by for a visit – bouncing into the kitchen, living room, bathroom or bedroom as if she owns the place – but now she spends more and more time away from our yard as she makes new friends and scouts out a territory that is all her own.
Penguin is very much a girl about town these days and sometimes she’ll surprise Newport Beach locals by coming up to say a cheery sing-song hello to people enjoying coffee outside the café, buying a magazine at the newsagent or picking up items from the drycleaner – the world is her earthworm.
On one occasion I received a breathless phone call from a teacher at the nearby kindergarten that our three boys once attended, letting me know that Penguin had generously flown in to help the small children eat their lunches and asking me if I could please come and collect her as soon as possible. Our cheeky bird was delighted when I appeared, though she was a little nonplussed when she realised we weren’t going to stay and enjoy the fabulous feast that had clearly been laid out for her by little pink fingers much like those she grew up with.
It was a joy to watch her fledge, overcome her injuries and take wing with such confidence. The most satisfying aspect of raising Penguin, however, has been seeing the kind of bird she turned out to be. She doesn’t sit on the edge of life, she dives right in. She is clever, she is strong, she is resilient and she is bold. She is also mischievous, curious, and very funny.
Our little avian girl never looks for the worst in people; she is almost always upbeat and finds joy easily. Despite being a hunter by nature, and wise to the cruelty of her wild world, she welcomes everyone as a friend.
Penguin is also compassionate and surprisingly gentle – something we witnessed first-hand when she helped us care for other orphaned baby birds; including a tiny rainbow lorikeet chick, little bigger than a salt-shaker but bright as can be.
Sam and I both believe Penguin will make a wonderful mother one day but, for now, we are simply grateful that she’s happy, healthy and completely free.
The endless blue sky was not ours to give, it is hers by right.
Wherever Penguin goes she will always be a part of us.
If you or someone close to you has suffered a serious spinal cord injury and been paralysed, then please know that what I now share with you is brutally honest. You deserve the truth and I promise you nothing else. I cannot pretend that I’m happy with how things have turned out. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a happy person, or that I’m not glad I’m still alive. I hav
e enjoyed a great many things since my accident and I believe there are better days ahead. That said, I don’t want to gloss over what has been and continues to be a great and terrible hardship.
Without the love and support of my husband and our children, our immediate families and our dearest friends (especially Penguin), I’m not sure I would still be here, and I know I wouldn’t be doing as well as I am. Words can’t express how grateful I am for their love, or how much I love them in return.
My accident has cast my entire life in sharp relief. I now realise that no one had ever said anything truly hurtful to me until I was told I would never walk again. In that sense, at least, I have been blessed. I am also fortunate, courtesy of my head injury, not to have any recollection of my fall or its immediate aftermath, so I have not had to relive that horror again and again.
My disability has made me aware of a level of suffering that was unknown to me and, while I would not wish this knowledge upon anyone, it has made me mindful how much compassion is sorely needed in this world. In a strange way my accident has made me realise how lucky I really am – it has given me the chance to see the very best in my husband and our children, even while I was at my lowest point. These are beautiful insights for which I am grateful, despite their appalling cost.
Being paralysed is a little like waking up from a coma to find you are 120 years old. Your family and friends want you to be happy that you are still alive, but everything you do is very slow and very painful, and so much of what you enjoyed most, the things that actually made you feel alive, are now quite impossible. Perhaps if I was actually 120 years old a lifetime of happy memories might sustain me, but I am young, and I had every reason to believe that the bulk of my life adventure was still before me. There is so much I want to do, so many plans, so many dreams that now lie in pieces at my feet. My numb and useless feet.
Becoming a paraplegic has not been an unexpected gift; the new perspectives granted me cannot be equated with a great spiritual awakening and I don’t feel this experience has made me a better person or given me newfound purpose. There have been many occasions when I have felt so bitter about the bizarre accident that left me like this that I wanted to vanish into the wilderness and scream my lungs out. These days I don’t have nearly as many dark moments, but I still have them.
To those reading this who are just beginning a nightmare process of recovery and rehabilitation like that which I have been through, I know there is little I can say that will mean very much to you right now. When I was learning how to pick my legs up in order to transfer from my hospital bed to a wheelchair I remember being revolted by how lifeless my own flesh felt; like handling uncooked pork. I was so consumed with disgust, anger and regret that almost nothing positive got through to me for months after that. I was absolutely certain I would never smile or laugh ever again but thankfully, in the end, I was proved wrong.
I don’t pretend to know everything about spinal cord injury, and I appreciate that everyone’s situation is unique. But I can tell you that the icy cold fear in your heart that you will always be a freak, that the best of your life is over and that the real you is gone forever … that’s all normal. The thoughts of suicide and wishing you were dead – that’s normal too.
There was a long spell when I nursed an irrational hatred for almost everyone and everything related to my paralysis. I was angry with the entire nation of Thailand, so much so that I couldn’t even stomach the red curry with beef from our local Thai takeaway that was once one of my favourite things. It sounds crazy, I know – but pain, regret, grief and frustration make you a little crazy.
Likewise there will be a period when almost anything anyone says or does will make you feel incredibly sad or angry or both. For a while I became toxically jealous of everybody who continued to lead a normal life; watching girls running down to the beach with surfboards under their arms would reduce me to a puddle of angry tears. I knew it made no sense and wasn’t remotely healthy, but I still felt this way.
Talking through what you are feeling can be helpful, if you can bring yourself to talk about such things. After a glass of wine I can be quite chatty but I am naturally very quiet, so I found that keeping a private diary of my highs and lows was a good way to put things in context and deconstruct my negative feelings. But though this was helpful, I found that nothing is better than saying things out loud. There’s just something about putting your fear and your anger into words that robs these horrible feelings of their power over you.
In this regard, Penguin was a wonderful sounding board for me. Penguin always listened attentively without becoming visibly upset and never accidentally said anything thoughtless in response. My swearing might have made the angels blush, but I was able to vent all my frustrations and spit out all the vicious, ugly things that were eating away at me and know that I was harming no one. Flushing the emotional venom out of my system helped me feel better and put me in a far more positive mood around the many wonderful people who were doing their very best to help me.
Of course, not everyone has a bird like Penguin, and there is a limit to what one can communicate to people who have not experienced what you and I are now forced to endure. Many intelligent and compassionate people you love and admire have no idea what being paralysed means – they assume that being confined to a wheelchair is as comfortable as can be. They cannot comprehend the constant pain, hopelessness and humiliation that are an everyday, every hour, every minute reality. Don’t be angry with them, it’s not their fault – no one talks about this stuff.
It’s in your best interests to seek out and follow the best medical advice. But that is still not enough. The scope and rate of your recovery is entirely your responsibility. You have to tackle your symptoms and limitations on your own terms, and the harder you work at this, the better you will feel. There is no magic bullet, no miracle and no shortcut.
Despite the devastating physical nature of our injuries, the battle going on inside your head is the hardest to overcome. When it comes to making positive progress following spinal injury I believe eighty per cent is mental and twenty per cent is physical. Anything you can do to improve your attitude will help you move beyond being a depressed blob rolling around in a wheelchair. Conversely, anything that sets you back mentally can quickly halt your progress and even send you backwards.
A few fundamental things have helped me the most since leaving hospital. The first is having a supportive inner circle, by which I mean your immediate family and your closest friends. My inner circle was just my husband and our children, my mum and my sister. That’s all. Over time I began to include some close friends, but I kept it small.
It may seem counterintuitive, in terms of getting the support you need, but do not feel obliged to let all your friends and acquaintances in while you are navigating the earliest part of your recovery. If you’re not careful you can be trampled by a herd of weepy well-wishers. Definitely try to stay clear of people who feel it is their job to say vapid, cheery things and repeatedly call you an ‘inspiration’ – they will quickly drive you insane and leave you feeling exhausted, angry and withdrawn.
Let friends know that you are grateful for their kindness but right now you need personal space to focus on coming to terms with your new life. If they insist on helping, give them simple tasks: picking up the shopping, taking your kids to soccer practice or baking a casserole – something practical that makes family life a little easier and helps maintain the connection with those you care about without depleting your energy reserves. When the time is right you will be ready to reconnect with close friends, and all those who are true friends will understand and respect this.
One of the most difficult things for me to overcome was my acute embarrassment. It may sound ridiculous but it’s true. I hated looking strange, I hated not being able to dress how I used to dress, I hated thinking old friends were judging me or pitying me or comparing me to my former self. There were occasions
where I felt disgusting – like Death in drag. I also constantly worried that, having no urinary sensation whatsoever and having also lost my sense of smell, I might have wet myself and not even known about it.
Initially I found it far easier to make new friends or be around complete strangers, people who only knew me as I am now, not as I was. This may seem a pathetic cop-out, but it highlights our basic desire to be treated normally. Some well-meaning friends cannot help but look at you as if you are a broken child who needs babysitting. Nor can they resist trying to cheer you up by prattling on about shared experiences from the good old days before your accident, which can be deeply upsetting.
It’s easy to become withdrawn when you are in pain; your self-esteem has been shattered and your mobility is reduced to almost nothing. But while I needed more personal space than most people realised, I also learned that getting out and about was essential to being happy and making meaningful progress. You certainly don’t have to be paralysed to become a self-obsessed bore, but it helps. Even though it’s far harder to get out and experience interesting things than it used to be, this is something that I wished I had pursued earlier. I urge you to do the same.
Looking back I now realise that socialising became easier about two years after my accident. It was no coincidence. By then I was committed to competitive kayaking and I had something to feel excited about and look forward to. I didn’t realise this at the time but kayaking gave me back a great deal of my self-confidence and was the key to having something fresh and fun to talk about. This in turn added a positive dimension to all of my social interactions and expanded my circle of good friends.
Another fundamental that helped me was basic physical strength and fitness. It sounds obvious but early on all I could think about was the physical function I had lost, and how hard everything seemed. Over time I began to appreciate that increasing my physical strength and endurance distracted me from the constant pain I felt and also made everyday tasks easier, which in turn gave me more energy to commit to new and more interesting challenges. Not having the muscle to power your wheelchair over a wet towel your kids have left in the hallway is a sure way to feel feeble and pathetic. So believe me when I say that anything you can do to improve your functional flexibility, mobility, strength and coordination will prevent you from wasting time, effort and tears on petty domestic endeavours. You have far better things to do.
Penguin Bloom Page 4