by Kim Hodges
I had just nodded again. I was terrified of going to Morisset. If Dr Desmond was to send me there, I had a strong feeling I wouldn’t be allowed to leave for a long time. How does a patient prove their sanity in order to leave Morisset? I might not have the energy required. Maybe Dr Desmond, or someone else, would need to sign a release form, in order for me to leave Morisset. I might up there for months, even years. I felt so sick of everything in my life—and very exhausted—that I decided not to speak and risk upsetting Dr Desmond further.
“I want you to agree with me that you will behave when you’re back at home with your family,” he stated.
“Yes I will,” I said numbly, agreeing, but mainly to get him to leave me alone. He got up to go. His white coat swirled as he turned and swiftly left the room. The only emotion I can remember feeling at that moment was disdain, for that short-arsed, dark haired, four-eyed, ugly doctor. I forgot about Morisset and his threats, as my hatred for Dr Desmond consumed me. His glasses were perched too far forward on his nose. His white coat covered a puny body. He wore his stethoscope around his neck all the time to shore up his authority. His air of self-importance and inflated ego wafted through the air and settled on the shoulders of both nurses and patients. I really disliked him—as much as I disliked my mother. A nurse appeared.
“You’re going home soon. Your father’s coming to collect you. I’ll go and round up your things,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Thank you,” I said.
I waited for her return. I felt nothing at all. No emotions. No happiness, joy, or relief about going home. Awaiting me at home was sameness. This ongoing nightmare was now my reality. Just the way it is. I felt no sadness, regret or embarrassment about what I had just endured. I felt nothing at all as the nightmare I went through had been and gone.
My father and a new nurse entered the room. They exchanged pleasantries before they wheeled me out to the family car. My father helped me up and into the front seat and then he thanked the nurse.
“It’ll be good to have you back home,” he tried to sound positive.
“Yep,” I replied, apprehensively. I was fine in the car, not hungry or thirsty, had slept and my mother was not near me. We drove the five minutes to home in silence. I saw my mother, said hello and went to my room. Dinner was at 6 P.M. the same time as usual, but I was not hungry, and for once I was allowed to miss dinner and go to bed.
Over the days that followed, my mother did not yell at me, criticise or call me names. Within a few days my foot was able to bear my weight again. Our household settled. I was quiet and withdrawn and I wondered if this was my normal state. This peace in my life was short lived. I saw Anthony, but he didn’t ask about the rest of the ordeal. I never raised it with him. It was in the past, done and dusted. We resumed our lovely friendship. My parents never questioned me, commented in any way, or even simply asked me how I was feeling. I felt relieved. As my mother had not asked me how I felt at any other time in my life, now would be inappropriate. My father had simply followed my mother. Not a word was spoken, so the ordeal was behind us all now.
As the days grew into weeks, the ordeal became just another memory. My memories of crawling through the bush and of vomiting over a hospital toilet were disturbing to me. They conjured uncomfortable feelings, so I dismissed them, locked them up and threw away the key. Back at school, I was quieter than normal. Doing so was made easier by the fact that no-one ever raised it with me. Not one person.
I convinced myself that no-one in Coolah actually knew about the ordeal. No-one asked me because they did not know. I also convinced myself that my doctor’s visits and hospital admission were confidential. I trusted Anthony not to tell anyone. I really have gotten away with it, I thought. But then, one regular Sunday morning when I was working in the general store, I served Mrs Arthur. Everyone said that she was the dumbest woman in Coolah. “Thanks,” she said, as I packed her groceries in bags. “I have a sister who tried to commit suicide, so I know what it was like for you,” she stated loud and clear.
I froze and stared at her, unable to speak. I had really believed that no-one had known. Mrs Arthur took her groceries and left the shop. The memories flooded back—horrible memories. I felt like I was going to be sick so I ran to the bathroom, gasping for air, and threw water on my face. If Mrs Arthur knows, then everyone knows. I knew this for a fact. My hyperactive state came back shortly afterward. It was not over yet. Over the weeks following my hospital visit, my relaxed and calm self dissipated to be gradually replaced by my sick self. My ability to settle into sleep at nights again diminished. I lived through more forty-hour days, my pulse sped up, my hands shook and my heart beat so fast and hard that I could feel it through my chest. My mind started playing tricks on me. The mother-daughter slanging contest was back on, and I was an already beaten contender. As the days passed and the intensity of my distress and my symptoms increased, I felt terrified. What was next? I couldn’t do it anymore.
For a moment, I wished that Mr Richards was still living in Coolah. Maybe my visits to his villa could have prevented this year of my life from occurring. The many questions that he may have asked could have helped me to find the answers that I needed, or maybe not. No-one talked to me about what was happening to me during the ordeal. I was glad about that because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I also felt very alone, as I felt my symptoms returned. I was the only person I knew who had experienced this hyperactivity. There was no-one with a similar story. So who would I have talked to about it?
chapter twenty-three
FINALLY A DIAGNOSIS
About a month later, I walked home from school to find my mother and Mrs Shivers having afternoon tea. The same Mrs Shivers who had boarded me for two weeks a couple of months earlier. She had rarely been to our house. I politely said hello. I was asked to sit down and have afternoon tea with them. I suspected that my mother’s conversation before my arrival had been about my bad behaviour. I didn’t want to talk; I was only after a few homemade cakes, after which I sat, waiting for an appropriate time to leave the table. I preferred it when my mother had a friend over, as she was much more likely to be nice to me in front of company.
“Kim, your neck looks a bit swollen on the left side,” Mrs Shivers said, between sips of tea. She looked at me. I covered my neck with my hand and felt my face redden.
“Put your hand down and look at me straight on so I can see,” my mother said.
I cringed as she got closer to me. “Turn to the left…now turn to the right,” she insisted.
“Yes, it is swollen,” Mrs Shivers said. “Maybe there is something wrong with your thyroid. My sister had a thyroid problem and she needed an operation.”
“What is a thyroid?” I heard myself say.
“It’s a gland. I suggest you get a blood test,” Mrs Shivers stated.
“I’m not seeing the doctor. I am sick of doctors,” I squirmed.
“Dr Desmond is away. There’s a locum doctor here for a month,” she assured me.
“I’ll take you, I can see that it’s swollen,” my mother said, taking charge. I rolled my eyes. Here we go again.
As I entered the doctor’s surgery, I felt uneasy and unsure about a new doctor. I was back on the merry-go-round, the one that becomes faster and faster and never stops. My doctor’s visits always ended badly. I felt speedy, my heart pounding in my chest. Dr Desmond was the only doctor I had seen in my entire life. I remembered how he had treated me during the ordeal. If this doctor treats me badly, I will never ever see one again, I thought. I sat in reception, looking at the floor, and wondering if the secretary knew about the ordeal. The door opened. I looked up.
“Kim,” said the locum doctor, who had dark hair and a beard. He led my mother and me into his room. “Please, take a seat,” he said kindly, extending his hand to shake each of our hands.
As my mother talked about the swollen neck that her friend had noticed, and updated him on my ongoing bad behaviour, I shifted my eyes from the
ugly brown carpet to his face. A kind face and what seemed like a gentle manner; he was quite different to Dr Desmond. But I chose to sit in silence to protect me against the judgements of medical people, and from my mother’s tongue. He let my mother be heard and have her say. I focused on the doctor’s face and I felt that maybe he was different to the abrupt, horrible Dr Desmond. After thanking my mother, he turned his chair towards me. He looked into my eyes and gently asked me many questions, directly. Not once did he seek an answer from my mother, as Dr Desmond had always done. I answered honestly—that being the way that I had been brought up. He examined my neck, listened to my heart, and took my blood pressure, my temperature and then he felt for my pulse on my neck. Much more than Dr Desmond had ever done for me. He asked permission to do a blood test on the spot—there being was no blood collection centre in Coolah. It was the first blood test that I had in my life. The results were due back in three days. We agreed to wait to see what they would reveal. He shook each of our hands again and thanked us. I was dumbfounded.
Four days later, I was in a science class when a messenger sent by the school office arrived with a piece of paper in his hand. The teacher read it, and spoke to me in front of the class.
“Kim, please pack up your things. An ambulance will be here in twenty minutes to take you to Dubbo Base Hospital. Go to the office and wait there,” said the teacher.
My classmates clapped and said how lucky I was to get out of school. As I waited in the school office, a teacher told me that my mother had quickly gone home to collect some belongings for me. She returned at the same time as the ambulance arrived. I was relieved that I hadn’t had to wait with her.
“I’ve packed your toothbrush, clothes, clean underwear and joggers. Dubbo Hospital rang me and said there is something wrong with your thyroid. Will you be okay on your own?” My mother spoke caringly; with an audience there was little risk of harsh words.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, wanting to be away from her.
“Thank you” she said, and kissed me on the cheek.
The ambulance driver said that I could sit up front with him, or be in the back on the bed for the ninety-minute trip. I chose the back. I looked at the high ceiling of the ambulance and watched the colours change with the shadows and sun. I wondered if another part of the big ordeal had begun. I just did not care anymore. I shut my eyes tightly and opened them. I could see bright lights and stars. As my eyes readjusted, the colours went from bright, exhilarating colours, to pastels, fading to regular colours. I controlled the brightness and intensity of the colour by how tightly I shut my eyes. I had done this many times as a child, on a long car trips. It broke the boredom of travelling, enabling my mind to wander. Was this the only thing I could control in my life?
*
When we arrived at Dubbo Base Hospital the driver assisted me out of the ambulance, before a nurse with a clipboard walked me into the emergency section. I felt awkward about being walked straight through the triage section; some of the people looked really sick. After responding to a few questions, I was directed to a ward with only two beds. I was the only patient. I had to put a white gown on and pop into bed. Keeping my undies on, I did so and pulled the bed sheet above my mouth, just under my nose. Memories flooded back of my recent stint in Coolah District Hospital. I remembered the feeling of exhaustion consuming me and the sensation of vomiting. I had to focus hard to get those memories out of my head. I told myself that I was now in a different hospital, with Dubbo nurses and doctors. I was so awake, my heartbeat pounding and my eyes wide, forgetting to blink. I scanned every detail of the room. No television or books to read. I saw tubes and machines next to the other bed. I admired the cleanliness of the floor. It reminded me of our spotless home. There were a couple of chairs for visitors, but I didn’t want visitors. I liked being on my own. I looked over to a window and smiled at the thought of all the well people outside. I had felt so sick, for so long, it now seemed normal. I had been in the outside world with the well people, but that was wrong. Someone finally found out that I belonged on the inside, with the sick people. I smiled as I thought to myself: I told you so, I was really sick. Now I was in the sick world, in a white gown, in a hospital bed, with very white, starched, clean sheets and my own bathroom. I saw the two pictures of flowers in vases on the walls. Who chose the hospital paintings? Not my mother this time.
As I lay there, I wondered what happened inside the world of sick people. After a long time, two white-coated doctors appeared, with two nurses by their sides. One nurse was holding a chart on a clipboard. They kindly introduced themselves and one doctor spoke to me.
“The blood test reveals that you have a hyperactive thyroid. Further tests are required. Our endocrine specialist will see you later today. You’ll be in hospital for at least four days.”
I nodded.
“Do you have any questions?” asked the doctor.
“No. Thank you,” I replied, without lowering my sheet.
“The nurses will look after you. If you need anything, just ask,” he added.
The friendly-faced doctor had spoken to me in a firm, but nice, voice. It stood out to me, as a contrast to Dr Desmond’s harsh voice and stony, four-eyed face. The nurses bought me a portable television and meal tickets to fill in. Making my own choices for dinner, lunch and breakfast was a fun first for me. The only meal choice I had ever had was at a smorgasbord dinner treat, twice a year, at the Bowling Club, when we had holidays at my grandmother’s. We were encouraged to eat so excessively that many of us felt sick on the drive home and throughout the night. Gluttony was compulsory and praised on our smorgasbord outings, to get “our money’s worth.”
That afternoon a new, but older-faced doctor, the endocrine specialist, was introduced to me. The other two doctors and nurses from earlier that morning stood either side of him. “This is the most hyperactive thyroid I had ever seen in a young person. You must have been really unwell. How long do you think you have been hyperactive for?” he asked.
I equated hyperactivity with not being able to sit still in class, so that would make it the beginning of second term in year eleven.
“More than a year,” I replied. I watched their every move; I still did not trust doctors.
“How did this go on for so long undetected?” he asked, as he consulted his clipboard. No-one answered.
“We need to do some tests on you to decide if surgery is the best option for your thyroid. It’ll take a few days. In one test, a nurse will put coloured dye into your thyroid to do measurements. It won’t hurt,” he said. I nodded. I felt nervous about the tests, but I didn’t really care what they did to me as nothing could match my experience in Coolah Hospital. “I will see you tomorrow” he finished. Again, I nodded obligingly, holding the white starched sheet in position, over my mouth and below my nose.
After the promised three days of tests, tests and more tests, prodding and probing, the doctors and nurses once more gathered at the end of my hospital bed. They held clipboards that charted my sleeping patterns, eating habits, heart rate, blood pressure and other observations. They had smiling faces. Their words were kind. I tolerated all the attention, even if the tests blurred into each other. The doctors and nurses visits also overlapped. The endocrine specialist dressed and behaved slightly different from everyone else. He told me that I was a lucky girl that my hyperactive thyroid had finally been diagnosed, but that a diagnosis a year ago would have been better. The medical staff kept saying how sick I must have been, with a thyroid like that. I felt relieved that others knew just how unwell I had been. No-one had listened to me or believed me about that for the last twelve months. Now it was obvious to all around me. It was my thyroid.
My mother rang each evening and spoke to a doctor or nurse. A phone was bought to me, so that she could also talk to me, at 7 P.M. every night. She always started off with, “I’ve just spoken with the doctor and he said …” or “I’ve just spoken with the nurse and she said …” so my contributions would
be limited to just agreeing with her. The next question was always, “What did you have for lunch today?” and then, “What did you have for dinner tonight?” My mother was curious because she loved food and she loved a bargain, so the idea of a choice of free food, even in a hospital setting, had her prodding me for information. I answered her quiz-like questions, but I jazzed up the bland hospital food, adding imaginary sauces and gravies. Did I have enough clothes? Yes I did. Did I want her to drive over to visit? No, Dubbo was too far, she was busy. I assured her that I was being looked after. I was embracing the rest from school, home and my mother. I was happier each night after I could put the phone down.
Getting a diagnosis was such a great relief. I trusted these doctors and nurses to fix up my thyroid. I was half way through year twelve and my eighteenth birthday was rapidly approaching. I had been through so much; soon, it would all be behind me. My naivety allowed me to minimise all that was ahead of me. The endocrinologist met with my mother and me on my last day at Dubbo Base Hospital. My mother was dressed in one of her best skirt suits with medium heeled shoes; her hair and make-up were impeccable. She was there to drive me home.
“We’ve completed all the tests. Kim requires surgery—a sub-total thyroidectomy.”
He went on to inform us that two thirds of my thyroid gland would be removed. The operation was major surgery that would only be performed once my thyroid had been stabilised. I would need to be on a medication regime at home, for three months. The drug Neomercazole would slow the thyroid down, but it might have side effects such as nausea and fatigue. The surgery had been scheduled for four months’ time, in Sydney, four days after the Higher School Certificate. It would only go ahead if my thyroid was stable.
“The Royal North Shore Hospital is the best place to have this operation. Do you have any questions?” the endocrine specialist asked.