I still had moments of panic. Ian tracked them. From the time I was in the hospital, my caregivers kept a record of what they called my “worry statements.” Ian had a counter, and he would count every one of them. When I was in hospital, there were hundreds of them a day. A worry statement was defined as something I said about thinking Ellen was drowning or Brent was in trouble, something that wasn’t based in reality. The therapists were using a behavioural model of treatment; when you’re trying to change a person’s behaviour, these are some of the techniques you use. In my case, the problem was all of these unrealistic beliefs were based on my damaged memory. When I went home, Ian continued to track them. It was a good indication that I was getting better and calming down when the number of worry statements went down.
Ian worked with me for two and a half years after I got home. From the beginning, he would take notes about our activities and my progress. He was a great record keeper. Here’s one of his notes from July 31, 1993: “Wally woke in a good mood. No worries to report. We went to Port Dover and all went well. At 4:30, he was unable to recall most of the day, but did remember parts with the help of verbal cues …” And another: “Wally was very difficult to get out of bed this morning. Approximately ten minutes to get him downstairs.” This was when Ian was having to dance with me to get me up. I like this one: “Good spirits. Two worries.” So I went from a hundred worry statements an hour in the hospital to two all day long! This is why all those notes were useful; we could really see that slowly but surely, I was making progress.
Still, every time I went on about missing work, Ian would have to say, “Wally, you’re retired.” I even sometimes used to think I was still in school. My mind seemed to want to go back to the days when I was running track. “I gotta go to a race,” I’d say, and I urgently believed it. All Ian could do was patiently reply, “Wally, you are fifty-five years old. You don’t need to go to a race.” But I’d insist, “I’m tellin’ ya, I gotta meet the coach. We gotta race today.” One day, I was going on about this damned race as we were driving through Paris. Would you believe there was a race going on? The Boston to Brantford Marathon (there’s a little town called Boston nearby). Honest to God, Ian was in the midst of assuring me, “Wally, you’re not in a race,” as we were approaching Paris, and then there were all these marathon runners racing through town! Poor Ian could not believe his eyes. And of course, I started panicking even more when I saw all these people running, and Ian had to figure out how to explain that even though there was a race going on, I didn’t have to be in it!
IAN: Those times were difficult for Wally. All eyes were on him in the community. I remember once we went into the Canadian Tire store. I don’t know what we were there to buy, but he was fine, and then his whole mood changed. He went into panic mode. In his mind, someone had stolen his Bell truck. And I had the damnedest time getting him out of the store. He was even approaching people, asking if they’d seen it. He wanted to report his truck missing. He was convinced that he was at Canadian Tire to do a job. He had gone into all those stores when he worked for Bell. So, all of a sudden, he thought he was working and had lost his truck and his tools. It was quite a scene, everybody wondering what was going on. I forget what lie I had to tell him to get him into my car. I just had to get him out of there and get him home. I guess I said, “Well, you know what? Let’s just get in my car and we’ll go find your truck.”
To give an example of how argumentative Walter could be, I recall a time when he was disoriented to the point where he thought he was still in high school. Following several frustrating attempts to make him realize that he was no longer a high-school student, I put him in the car, took him to his former high school where students were mingling outside and said to him, “Walter, look at yourself. You’re fifty-five years old. Do you want to join them?”
I really had no consciousness at that time of what other people might think about me. I didn’t want to do anything. To try and get me interested in life again, Ian used to bring me out to the farm for hours and hours. At one time I would have been eager to go there as often as I could, just to putter around in the garden, prune trees, look after the grapes, cut the grass. After I got home from East Cottage, Ian would take me out there, because he wanted to structure my day. He would get together with Phyllis and Kim and try to picture what I’d be doing in retirement. How had I been planning to spend my days? Everyone knows you can’t rehabilitate somebody at a desk with a pencil and paper; you have to put them in real-life situations. Ian was just hoping that, eventually, I’d recover some of my enthusiasm for working around the farm.
For awhile, he had me out there every day. He’d say, “Okay Wally, we have to cut the grass. Look, it’s getting long.” Or, “We need to rake the leaves. Let’s go.” At first, I’d participate with him for five minutes, and then I was done. He would try his best to get me to do more and more. Kim would be at work, so just Ian and me would be at my old house. There used to be a waterbed in one of the rooms, and if I had my way, I’d lie on that bed snoozing all day. Of course, Ian would let me rest a little bit. We would have lunch, and I’d sleep—that was a routine. But he wanted me to be as active as I could be in the morning.
For months, Ian dragged me out there and I hated every minute of it. At last there was a turning point. Ian remembers that one day, Niko, Kim’s dog, had dug some holes over by the farmhouse, and I said to Ian, right out of the blue, “Jeez, we gotta fill these holes in or someone’s gonna break their ankle.” And he thought, “This is fantastic!” First, that I was picking up on the problem, and second, that I was caring enough to do something about it. He stood back and watched in amazement as I went to the barn and got a shovel, got the wheelbarrow, went over to the garden, put three or four shovelfuls of dirt in the wheelbarrow, and went back to one of the holes that I’d found and filled it in. That was a huge breakthrough. It’s funny, such a small thing. But Ian remembers it as the first time I really took an interest in anything. Without his encouragement and determination, I don’t know if I ever would have gotten to that point.
It might have been another week before I was interested in doing something at the farm again, but being upset about those holes was an indication to Ian that there was something stirring around in me and changing for the better. Situations in which I successfully tackled minor but significant challenges became more frequent. I would rake the leaves for ten minutes instead of five, then fifteen and then twenty. We planted a garden in the first couple of years after my stroke, and Ian ended up doing 90 per cent of the work. But then I started to do more. He was always trying to steer me toward things I’d normally do, now that I was retired. He knew that if I hadn’t had the stroke, I’d be spending time out there, so it made sense to get me to a point where I would want to do that again.
Socializing was another big challenge for me. I loved the guys I had worked with at Bell all those years. We’d had good times together at work, and playing hockey after hours in our younger years. Some of my friends were still working and some were retired. Ian used to take me over to Mister C’s coffee shop on Thursday mornings, when the guys would get together for coffee. When I first started going, I was so uncomfortable that I didn’t want to be there. Ian would buy me a coffee and donut, and we’d go over to sit with the guys. He wouldn’t even have taken his seat when I’d be finished my coffee and donut and saying, “Okay, let’s go.” The guys would try to talk me into sticking around, but I’d say, “No, we’ve got to go.” First couple of times he took me, we weren’t there more than four minutes.
The thing was, I couldn’t handle a social situation. Not even with old friends. I think it was because at those times, I was confronted with my deficits. I knew that I couldn’t really contribute to the conversation, and I felt so lost. I had no way of relating to most of what they were saying to me. I was more comfortable staying in Ian’s car, where I wouldn’t have to confront that reality. The guys would say, “Hey Wally! Come on over,” and want to joke and laug
h and get me involved, but I just wasn’t there yet.
For awhile, I hated Ian for doing this to me. “Why do you take me there all the time? What are we here for?” I’d say. I didn’t understand that he wasn’t trying to punish me, that he just wanted to gradually reintroduce me to these situations. I think it was Ian’s persistence, and Phyllis’s and Kim’s—they simply didn’t give up on me—that was important. They forced me to do things to the point where I was mad at them a lot, but it really worked out for the better. Eventually, I was not only happy to go out to meet my old friends for coffee, I couldn’t get enough of it, or of any other social situation for that matter. But it took time for me to get to that stage, and everyone had to be patient with me while I struggled.
Ian viewed it as a sign of progress whenever he was able to fade out of the picture with me. Eventually, if we had a couple of things to pick up at Canadian Tire, he would give me a list, and I would go into the store by myself. Ian would wait in the car outside, right by the door, so he could see me coming out or run in if I got into trouble. Those were the little ways that I got my independence back. It was a big accomplishment for me to be able to go into a store by myself, buy items and come back out. Even I began to recognize that these were things I could and wanted to do for myself.
IAN: He’s a survivor, a fighter. He has strong beliefs, and a lot of this is ingrained in his own kids. That was something that kept my hopes up. I knew that he was not going to give up. Even those times when he wasn’t all that motivated, he had the grit and the drive to get better. That carried me through his recovery, because I see a lot of people who just don’t have that. If you don’t have it, it’s easy to just lay down and die, to give up. He never gave up on himself. He needed a lot of encouragement at times. He was trying to make sense of his own life. But he’s always been the one saying that if you are going to take something on, you should do it 110 per cent. He’s living proof—he took his own advice.
This whole experience was so difficult for Phyllis, it really was, although she had terrific help. She and Kim are two peas in a pod, and the relationship they have as mother and daughter is special. They worked together as a team. Phyllis had never paid bills, and she had to learn all of that. Kim helped her.
During my recovery, Phyllis was always interested in doing the best for me. That was her main priority. But there were times when she needed to get out of the house—she’d be the first to tell you that. She had to deal with everything: the kids, the grandkids, the whole world, her injured husband and Ellen, too. I realize now that it was pretty emotionally tough on her. There were days when Ian would pull in the driveway and her car would already be running! She’d be gone, and I don’t blame her. But even so, she was always home to make sure I had supper.
IAN: I think being Mr. and Mrs. Gretzky can be pretty challenging at the best of times. There were always a lot of pressures, and they didn’t ease up after Wally’s aneurysm—constant requests for autographs and appearances, people coming right to the door. All that was left to Phyllis. She had huge stress. But she always was there for Wally, always had great ideas for things to do with him. I might have been the guy who was showing up and being paid to work with her husband, but she made more suggestions than I did. She didn’t just leave it up to me. She made sure Wally spent time with his friends, that the games were on, even if he wasn’t all that interested, that Butch and Eddie were coming over to watch them with him. She had a sense this would help him in the long run, and she was right.
When I think about what Phyllis went through all those early years of my recovery, the thing I admire most is that she was never embarrassed to be with me, even when I was in very rough shape and didn’t really know what was going on. This had to have been a challenge; she would have had to put herself in situations that were uncomfortable. Yet she would take me anywhere, any time. If we had to go to a wedding, we went. Or she’d take me up to Swiss Chalet for a meal. People would stare at us anyway, because of who we were. If I was looking a little bit sick, a little bit confused, you know, it might have been easier just to have stayed at home, but she never did. She would get me out of the house. She did that for me. She always made sure I had the opportunity to see my sons and their families, too. And I am sure that it was that strong attitude of hers that really helped me get back on my feet, as much as anything.
IAN: What was interesting about Wally was how well he did in public situations at that time. I mean, he was still quite disoriented, but he could do a television interview, as long as he was carefully prepared. One time, Glen arranged for Wally to be interviewed at Glen’s apartment in Toronto. We said to the reporter, “Please do your best not to ask him questions about his current situation.” His memory was that short. The reporter was great and asked things like, “How do you think Wayne is going to feel playing at the Gardens?” And I remember Wally’s answer. This was a ten-minute interview. I swear to God, he turned it on! He was great. He talked about Maple Leaf Gardens, which he could, because that was knowledge that he still had. He knew Maple Leaf Gardens. He said, “As you know, Maple Leaf Gardens is a shrine. The history in that building … every time Wayne plays in that building, it really affects him emotionally. It’s the first place he ever saw an NHL hockey game with his grandmother …” And I’m sitting back there in amazement, thinking, “Oh my God, this is wonderful.” So he did a really good interview, his very first one. He was very brave. The reporter didn’t put him on the spot. Because if you’d asked him two minutes later, “Who’s playing?” he would not have been able to tell you.
Ian constantly drilled me with questions and memory exercises. Because I have always been a history buff, he got me quite interested in trivia, and I got into the habit of reading up on various historical facts and drilling other people. I guess I must have been a bit of a pain about it, but everyone was pretty tolerant of me grilling them! Our neighbour and friend Roly Bye still chuckles about it, because I’d walk into his house and just say, “I gotta ask you something.” It would be a historical question or something to do with sports. “Do you know who scored three goals in twenty-one seconds?” He’d say, “Who?” I’d tell him it was the fastest three goals in NHL history: twenty-one seconds, Bill Mosienko, 1952, Chicago Blackhawks against New York. I met the guy who was Mosienko’s winger. I played golf with him two years ago. The guy remembers the three goals. Do you know how they did it? They were all from faceoffs at centre ice. He’d be circling. The guy was a left-winger, and just as the puck was dropped, he’d be in full flight already. Today you can’t do what he did then. Now you’ve gotta be stationary, you can’t be skating around. That’s how they did it, the guy told me.
After a few of these sessions, Roly’s wife, Gloria, told him, “When Wally tells you something, you’d better mark it down, because he’s going to come back again.” Oh I did. I’d forget I’d already done the whole routine with them and come back the next day. The odd time, they’d remember the answer, and I’d say in amazement, “You knew that!”
I still love to quiz people, especially about history. But I can see that back then, this was just another way for me to build up some kind of organized memory and reach out to people in a way that I could control. I guess I knew I wouldn’t get so confused or overwhelmed if I asked questions I knew the answers to.
When I started speaking in public, around 1995, I had made a lot of gains, and my family felt confident of my ability to handle myself. But still, I needed a great deal of help. Ian remembers that after that interview about the Gardens, which had gone so well, I suddenly looked at him and asked, “Ian, where are we?” He told me we were in Glen’s apartment in Toronto and explained why we were there. Then Phyllis came in, and immediately I wanted to know where Ellen was. Ian had to say, “Wally, you and I drove down here. We’re going to see Wayne play a game tonight.” He was still giving me reminders all the time.
It was tough. They’d take me to games at the Gardens, and unbeknownst to me, I’d be on Hockey Night
in Canada all the time. The camera would pan around and find me, and Don Cherry would say, “Look, there’s Walter Gretzky! Wally, it’s great to have you back! Walter Gretzky is in the building!” And yet what no one knew was that throughout the games, as Ian sat with me, I would be whispering to him, “Where’s Ellen? When’s the game gonna be over?” And he would be whispering back, “Wally, just relax and watch the game.” I still needed Ian as a mental walking stick at all times. He always wanted to help me look my best, but he was on pins and needles, never really knowing what might happen. He was always trying to keep two steps ahead of me, running interference if need be. People would approach me and say, “Hello Wally!” thinking that I was back 100 per cent, and Ian would have to redirect a lot of their questions or cue me, otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue who they were or what they were talking about.
Over time, I learned how to cover my memory deficits in public situations, and now I can be comfortable most of the time. I’ll always be polite to people when they approach me and tell me a story from the past, even if I don’t remember it specifically. Of course, there were and are times when it can be frustrating, too. It’s hard to hold up your end of the conversation when you haven’t got the same reference points as the other person, and I would prefer to avoid those awkward moments. But I always try to say something anyway, because I know it means a lot to someone who has taken the trouble to come over and talk to me. I’ve been able to piece together the missing years from what others have told me and from looking at old photos that show me that particular things happened. It’s the story of a part of my life that I can try to memorize and hold in my mind. If nothing else, I’ve learned to joke about my problems. I discovered that it is easier to be upfront about them than to try to hide them, and with that attitude, I can be comfortable dealing with most situations.
On Family, Hockey and Healing Page 14