by Cook, R
‘What do you mean the second chopper can’t fly?’ Mum had asked down the line to Dad when he rang on the satellite phone.
It was Dad’s idea not to tell Sarah immediately of the accident to protect her, in the hope I regained movement within a few hours. He was afraid it might have been all too much for a young mother who, just six months earlier, had given birth to our second son, Lawson. It had been a regular day in the house for the women and children, preparing pasta bake for dinner. But Sarah knew something was wrong immediately and became very numb when Mum told her. As a trained nurse she was no fool when it came to spinal injuries and what it meant when I had no feeling from my neck down. They desperately wanted to get out to the scene and see me, but that wasn’t going to be possible given how isolated I was. Those at home began caring for young Lawson, taking him to Sarah only at feeding times. Unfortunately, that’s how my youngest was to spend the next six months of his life, mostly in the arms of everyone else, while Sarah focused solely on taking care of me. My family had received bad news before, but nothing had prepared them for this. It would forever become a day that redefined our family, but also a day that revealed the true character of the Cooks and their supportive friends.
Sarah and Lawson flew with me in the RFDS plane to Alice Springs, where we landed at eight o’clock that night, about ten hours after the crash. Although I don’t remember the stopover, I was somewhat awake and kept in the Intensive Care Unit overnight before being flown on to Adelaide. There was little done at the hospital to relieve the pressure on my neck and Sarah felt helpless looking on. Brad was also there and slept beside me all night on a couch next to the bed, while Sarah and the baby slept in a small room down the corridor. I arrived at the Royal Adelaide Hospital the next afternoon and, although I didn’t know it at the time, Cam had flown in from where he was working in Queensland and got there before I did. Sarah had also taken a commercial flight with Lawson to follow me, while my parents drove down with Brad, Bec and Braxton. It was no doubt a tough time for the family, as I was taken into the ICU. In the crash my neck was crushed on impact, dislocating my C4 and C5 vertebrae. The spinal cord was severely damaged, leaving me with no movement or feeling from my shoulders down. After initial scans were taken, I was placed in traction to decompress my spine, which involved a brace being screwed onto my head. Water weights were added to slowly realign the displaced bones, but even with thirty kilograms on traction, it wasn’t enough to do the job. A few days later the doctors resorted to surgically readjusting my neck, using pins and a metal plate. My prognosis wasn’t good and it was just good luck that I was still alive. A high fitness level was all that had saved me from suffocating on that day, lying on my back in the paddock at Suplejack, struggling to breathe. Anyone of lesser fitness most certainly would have died, the doctors told my family. Quadriplegia was also explained to them as they attempted to come to terms with my debilitating injury. I was yet to understand it, though, as I had been flogged with sedatives.
During my first week in Adelaide, Sarah wrote me a letter in her diary.
Hi Honey, Well today was a huge day for you. You have drawn the toughest bull you will ever ride; the bull ‘Spinal Manipulation’. The arena is the Adelaide hospital; we were all on the top rail cheering. Every person you can think of was there and you had all the support any champion could need. I had the camera rolling as usual at the crack of the number three gate. It was sponsored by the ‘operating theatre’ and you came out spurring with your black glove on.
Please, please keep riding, my cowboy.
This morning it was raining as we left the Comfort Inn Lodge. We met with doctors who explained that they needed to operate on you. I got all the details and signed the consent with your parents’ support. We sat, talking with you. When I said ‘I love you’, your eyes twitched and when I said ‘I know you love me too’, your eyes twitched like crazy. I know you are listening.
My ICU room in Adelaide was about four metres wide by five metres, with two glass sliding doors. A curtain would be drawn across the doorway when it was closed and I soon became used to the sound of someone entering the room: as the door slid open, the curtain grated across the rail. The two side walls of the room were solid, while directly behind me was a large window overlooking the hospital, but I couldn’t see out as I was facing the other direction. My bed was in the middle of the room, leaving me with an area of vision consisting largely of the ceiling and the fire sprinkler with the red light that brought me so much comfort during my hallucinations. Anyone who wanted to speak directly to me would have to lean over me to look in my eyes. I could also see my vitals on a screen hanging from the roof and, as in my dream, I quickly became familiar with reading my blood pressure and saturation levels as the nurses regularly logged the details. Apart from my neck dislocation and a fractured vertebrae lower in my back, there were no other injuries to my body other than a blood blister on my big toe.
Most of my regular bodily functions had ceased working, including my diaphragm, the muscle that helps us breathe. Instead, I now was dependent on a ventilator, which provided a mixture of air and pure oxygen through an endotracheal tube in my mouth and down to my lungs. It wasn’t a long-term solution as I was prone to getting chest infections – I even contracted pneumonia in the first few days. I was also being fed through a tube in my nose, down to my stomach. The food, which came out of a bag that hung next to my bed, caused me serious digestion problems, making me very sick. Because I couldn’t vomit, the food would have to be sucked back out the same tube it went in, only instead of brown mush it was more like green bile when it came out. Bloating was a real problem in the early stages and the nurses had to manually relieve me, which couldn’t have been pleasant. Lying on my side, without any feeling, I was unaware of what they were doing and I didn’t ask. I also had a catheter through my penis, into my bladder. Although I had finally shaken the hallucinations, which I later discovered were quite common, anxiety and panic attacks threatened to derail my recovery. Sometimes my heart rate would fall so low that I nearly went into cardiac arrest. It was because of these serious incidents that the doctors discussed with Sarah and my parents the option of a pacemaker. They decided against it, though, so I was to battle on my own for the weeks to come, hoping I could pull through. There was a lot of tension in the air that even I could sense, as my family worked through each crucial decision with the hospital staff as it arose.
Once the flow of drugs had slowed, I was finally able to get a grip on reality, something I had so desperately sought. I was able more clearly to understand where I was, why I was there and what was happening around me, mostly. With decreased medication, the first two nights were difficult to sleep through, before I gradually managed to take control of myself. From that time onwards, I had no more bad dreams. There were no more animals or men in the ceiling, and the nurses and doctors were not actually trying to kill me. The doctors explained that I had suffered morphine-induced psychosis. In many ways I had found God, although I’m not convinced the figure that appeared before me in my dream was actually God. Perhaps I could say that He had tempted me; that He was telling me to straighten my ways, but I can’t. I simply don’t remember the dreams that way. The experience I had was similar to a computer game, although I had never played such games, and perhaps God was giving me the option to pick a better future. Once I had completed the stages, I was allowed to confess and leave.
I had signed a new life agreement with someone, except the new life would be so different to the one I had led previously that it was unrecognisable. What was familiar, however, was the huge support army living in the waiting room outside the ICU. Only one visitor was allowed in my room with Sarah at any one time, which was extremely frustrating for my family and friends who had come to Adelaide to see me and were forced to wait forever in the bloody waiting room. With ten or twelve people in there, it looked more like a bedroom, with blankets and pillows providing some sort of comfort. Eventually, after a tough stand-off, the nurse
s on guard at the front desk were convinced to allow three visitors in at a time. Even though my family were spending most of their time at the hospital, they were also paying for rooms at nearby motels. It was becoming an expensive exercise, but if I was to survive this ordeal, they knew I needed them by my side.
13
FAREWELL TOUR
I had suffered many injuries in my life, mostly connected with animals, but perhaps none more delicate than when a testicle fell out of my scrotum. While I had retired from professional bull riding, I continued to ride broncs in some rodeos throughout the Territory in 2005, from Litchfield near Darwin to Aileron near Alice Springs. My fitness was maintained working on the station with Dad, as well as the occasional jog in the afternoon. With Sarah pregnant, life was falling into place when one day in August I received a letter on the mail plane, which Dad brought over to the work shed. Even though I hadn’t ridden professionally for most of 2005, it was an invitation to take part in an international bull ride, representing the Australian team. My points from the previous year had kept me in the top thirteen riders in the country, at twelfth spot.
‘Nah, I’m not going to go Dad,’ I told him. ‘I’m done with the riding.’
‘Are you joking?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You get to wear the green and gold. Are you sure you want to miss that?’
‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll go and ride if you come with me,’ I propositioned.
Shaking hands, we made the deal to drive over to Townsville in north Queensland in September, with Mum and Sarah too. Always supportive, Sarah kicked me out of bed at 5 a.m. the next day to get me going for a morning jog. While I may have been excited about the idea, I was also a little uneasy about riding at that level. It had been many months since my last bull ride. Although I still had good fitness, it wasn’t at its peak like the year before. There was also the issue of my broken finger. A couple of weeks earlier, at a charity party, I had punched a man to defend my baby sister’s honour. Unfortunately I broke my index finger on his jaw. If it didn’t heal in time, I would really struggle to ride well. Luckily, there was a rodeo at Harts Range, near Alice Springs, two weeks before the big show in Townsville so I was able to get some practice in. Harts Range is a true-blue family weekend held every August, with plenty of rodeo action over the two days. On the first day I rode so poorly the bull only had to sneeze to throw me. But I redeemed myself on the second day with a ride good enough to win the overall event. It was a solid recovery, but I knew I had to perform better in front of the huge crowd that awaited me at the Troy Dunn International Rodeo.
Arriving in Townsville, we found there was big media interest in the three-day event. Riders from around Australia and the world were there to battle it out for points on the very best bulls in the country. At a special presentation the night before the event, each of the cowboys was handed his jersey, which bestowed honour and prestige. That was until my name was called and I walked to the stage area. I had just had my photo taken with the presenting committee when my good mate and world-renowned bullfighter Shane ‘Mad Dog’ Simpson tackled me and wrestled with me on the ground, before attempting to dry-hump me in front of shocked onlookers and journalists. Mad Dog was just expressing his brand of humour, and we were still laughing as we walked back to my family.
‘Mad Dog, you embarrassed the shit out of me, mate,’ I said jokingly. ‘But don’t worry – I’ll get you back.’
‘Cookie, you can do whatever you like,’ he said, laughing at me. ‘But you’ll never embarrass me.’
The challenge had to be put to the back of my mind as I prepared for the three big nights of bull riding. There were riders from Brazil, Mexico, Canada and the United States, all vying to take out the top prize. It was a great atmosphere at the Townsville Entertainment Centre, indoors with a powerful lighting display and music, allowing the crowd to be more involved. The grand entry has always given me a buzz, but this was special wearing the green and gold and flying the Aussie flag. I soaked it up as I walked out for my first ride, which was to be on a grey bull I hadn’t heard of before. Mates I had ridden with the year before pulled my rope tight as the announcer called my name.
Well, this is it – buck you bastard, buck, I thought to myself as I slid down on the bull’s back.
With a nod of my head the bull blew out of the chute surging forward twice before swinging around to the right. It moved into my hand, which meant it suited my way of riding. Instead of pulling to the left towards my balancing arm, the weight of my body went with my right hand into the rope, moving with the bull. A feeling of comfortable familiarity came with the ride, as I gained confidence with each buck and started spurring with my outside leg. I was counting down the eight-second ride with ease, but I got ahead of myself and ended up hitting the deck with only a second left on the clock. The ride was a poor effort from me, which should have been an easy stepping stone through to the final rounds. In disgust, I quickly disappeared from the arena, walking down the corridor and into the dressing rooms. Using the shower to wash my hands and face, I continued to critique my ride to myself until Troy Dunn came into the room. Troy is the only Australian to ever win the Profession Bull Riding World Title in the United States. As the Australian captain, Troy led by example and he always offered good advice to the younger riders.
‘You know, Cookie, you started a rank bull ride,’ he told me. ‘But where it all went wrong was when you second-guessed yourself.’
‘Yeah, and how’s that, Troy?’ I asked, still irritated.
‘Just because you haven’t been riding you questioned yourself whether you were good enough to make the grade,’ he said. ‘That’s your problem.’
He went on. ‘Now you wash your face one more time and you tell the mirror that you are good enough to be here,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
Troy managed to dig me out of the hole I was stuck in. He put my ride in perspective, which allowed me to focus on the next one.
A bull called Peaches and Cream was waiting for me on the following night, and I would be ready this time. There were times in my career when I may have celebrated after a great ride, but I had never been cocky enough to celebrate during an actual ride. Cowboys call it ‘looking out’ – when a bull gets into a spin and there’s little chance that he will change direction, a lot of the top riders will ‘look out’ at the crowd and smile. It is a way of showing off, which sometimes makes a rank bull look easier than it is or an easy bull look ranker. For me, though, bull riding was never easy and I never took the opportunity to ‘look out’, because I was concentrating too hard just trying to hang on. But this was about to change. Much like the first bull, Peaches and Cream came out to the right, so I found myself sitting pretty. Around the five-second mark, everything was perfect as I spurred away on the outside of the bull. There were no dramatic moves or unexpected twists.
Shit, this is my shot to ham it up, I thought to myself.
And that’s exactly what I did, as the Aussie team cheered me on from behind the chutes. I stared straight at them with a stupid grin on my face for the last few seconds of the ride. My attitude changed from that moment, as being able to ‘look out’ was a privilege that some blokes would probably never have. Once I was back on the ground, Mad Dog gave me my hat and with a pat on the back I was heading for the chutes again. I received a score of 83.5 with the option of a re-ride because the judges didn’t think the bull performed well enough for me. In usual circumstances a score of 83.5 is a good result and competitors would be mad to take a re-ride option in case they didn’t do as well the next time around. But this was my farewell event. I was never coming back, so I took the option. It was just my luck to draw Predator for my re-ride; the bull used in the rodeo promotions, with the biggest horns out of all the bulls on tour, he would run around the arena before the events to get the crowd going. Predator also knew how to use his horns, busting signs off gates and roughing up any cowboy who got in his way. I took a deep breath that night as I watched the bull load
into the chutes, his head poised on an angle so the horns could make it through the race. My preference in starting any bull ride is to get as far out the front as possible and allow the bull to move under me, instead of jumping after the bull has already moved. But as I prepared for that ride, tightening my rope, I found I couldn’t get out the front because his offside horn blocked me. Doubt was creeping into my mind as I kept a close eye on the massive horns in front of me and took a moment to look about for Sarah. I quickly scanned the members’ area of the grandstand, but she didn’t stand out in the crowd. But directly in front of me, high up in the stand I immediately recognised the same old Driza-Bone jacket and weathered cowboy hat belonging to Dad. He and my family were watching, but he could tell I was having second thoughts as I shrugged my shoulders as if to ask, ‘What do I do?’ Dad simply stood up in his seat and punched the air with his fist as though he was saying, ‘Don’t muck around, just get on and ride.’ I could hear vague chatter in the crowd and there was cheering when the loudspeaker announced the bull’s name. There was little time to dwell on my thoughts as the gate burst open and I was away, swinging off the back of Predator. As awkward as it was to get a good start, Predator had a lot of rhythm and I found it easier to get by him, but it was his horns that made it difficult. As he was bucking in a circle his horns would shift weight from one side to the other, as though he was doing a big belly roll. Around and around we went for the entire eight seconds before I pulled my rope and leapt off, landing back on the chute gate that I had come out of. It was a good place to land, away from the deadly horns. After all my effort, the judges awarded me 83.5, the same score as my first ride! I wasn’t worried too much, though – I had overcome my fears to pull off a good ride on a difficult bull.