Rose Boys, page 12
Sheahan told me that after this match he and Robert ‘found a friendship’, a nice way of describing these arbitrary bonds. He liked Robert’s sense of humour. ‘Because of his impishness you almost felt paternal towards him.’ There was ‘nothing malicious, nothing evil. He had a real innocence.’ Without really knowing why, Sheahan wanted to help Robert. He was the sort of person you wanted to ‘take under your wing’ later on.
I asked Sheahan how Robert’s accident affected his peers. ‘It unnerved a lot of us,’ he admitted. Even if people chose not to temper their behaviour, they suddenly understood one of the risks. I remembered a letter that Sheahan wrote to my parents in 1999, in which he recalled ‘feeling devastated, along with many others, at the news of his car accident and its consequences. He was a lively young bloke and he always “pushed the envelope” which in some ways might have led to his accident, but who of us can honestly say that we have not done things that might have left us in the same condition.’
I thanked Sheahan for giving me so much of his time. Before leaving I asked about one of his students whom I had read about the previous year. Just sixteen at the time, he had become a quadriplegic in a rugby accident. Sheahan told me about his slow recovery. We agreed that it must have been a terrible time for his family. Many of the students were greatly affected, too. I told Sheahan about the Robert Rose Foundation, which had just been launched to help people with spinal injuries.
Before visiting Melbourne Grammar I had discussed this boy’s plight with a friend who has a son there. A brilliant organiser, she belongs to a school committee which the headmaster periodically addresses. At first she found Sheahan charming but intractable, a smooth and single-minded politician. One day he came to a meeting and told the mothers about the young quadriplegic’s progress. As he spoke tears began running down his face. He made no attempt to check them and spoke with great feeling. My friend immediately respected him. For the first time she realised he was ‘one of us’.
Two days after the celebratory dinner Robert came home for the first time since the accident. Getting him out of the car was an awkward, even traumatic business. We had to bend his neck to free him. It felt incredibly stiff. Never having lifted Robert before, I was shocked by the sensation of those inert limbs.
Everyone was there that day. Mum made Robert’s favourite dishes for lunch. Afterwards we sat on the terrace overlooking the creek. Dad set up a portable television so that Robert could watch the football. Visitors kept arriving. Eventually Robert became sore and we laid him on the sofa in the living room. I took photographs of him. He is propped up on his side, facing the camera. He smiles at us wonderfully, encouraging us all. Terry, seated behind him, balances Salli on more pillows. Terry’s expression swings from relief to resignation. Salli is innocent of all the consequences.
It was only after we lifted Robert back into the car and they set off for the hospital that I surrendered to some new phase of sorrow and tenderness. I went inside and wept. No amount of congenial Sundays would ever mitigate the horrors of Robert’s condition. Thinking about his helplessness, I wondered if he would be able to bear it. I felt sure I couldn’t.
Even Sammy, the doting dachshund, seemed to feel it. From that day on, the minute Robert was driven away after one of his visits, this most companionable of dogs would move promptly to the back door and insist on being let out. We could never lure her from the kennel on those Sundays.
5
SCOOP
After the VCA dinner Robert’s life began to change appreciably. As his health improved he gained more freedom. With daily physiotherapy he could almost lift his left hand to his mouth, while his right arm got halfway up his chest. Although he never regained movement in his hands, soon, with the aid of a brace, he could feed himself, smoke a cigarette and turn the pages of a newspaper.
Unbeknown to Dr Burke, Dad had engaged the services of a chiropractor. Everyone was becoming frustrated with the Austin’s conservative methods and their effect on Robert’s morale. The young chiropractor used a spoon to gauge Robert’s reflexes and seemed impressed by the results. I noticed that even while the chiropractor examined him and speculated about his future mobility, Robert went on watching the football on television.
The following Saturday, Dad took Robert to training. There is a photograph of him sitting near the boundary. This confronting image still takes my breath away. Robert, wincing in the sunlight, is thin, twisted and clearly uncomfortable in his neck brace. The deterioration in his condition is graphic. A few diehards (only fanatics watch training) talk among themselves. Dad brought Robert home later. I was amazed by his courage and patience. ‘He is the master of his condition. It does not seem to upset him any more. I often think it must attack him at night, when he is alone, but he betrays no sign of this.’ We watched a cricket programme containing footage of some of his old companions. Robert chuckled as he watched them, without any self-pity.
One month after his first outing, Robert was permitted to stay overnight at Crosby Drive. We had never put him to bed before. This was a complicated procedure and everyone was involved. The old bedroom, with its countless trophies and photographs of Robert, was full. It was like putting a French monarch to bed: the entire court was present. Even Sammy crept around, engrossed. I had never seen so many pillows. It took us a while to get used to dressing and undressing Robert. Being inanimate, he was difficult to manoeuvre. We were all frightened of dropping him. Finally we got him onto the bed and propped him on his side. I hated having to bend his legs and expected them to snap. Ensuring that he was comfortable and that there was no risk of pressure sores was a complicated business, though we had watched orderlies do it a hundred times. Dad, strong as a bullock, was patience itself, puffing away conscientiously. But it would take years of practice before we got it right.
Robert now had a catheter in his bladder. By day he wore a leg bag. We disconnected this at night and let the catheter drain into a bucket beside the bed. I emptied the urine into the toilet, noting the colour for any sign of infection, then sterilised the bag. In those days Robert had to be turned during the night to prevent chafing. Terry and I were meant to turn him at 2 a.m. Unfortunately I slept through the alarm and Robert remained on his side for six hours. This was dangerous, as he already had some red marks—constant stigmata in his new life. We all laughed about it in the morning. ‘Sleep well, thicko?’ Robert inquired.
Then there were suppositories. Robert no longer had control over his bowel movements. Every second day suppositories were inserted in his rectum to generate a movement. This could take one or two hours. When it was about time we sat him on a commode with a towel around his waist. Robert hated this and felt intensely uncomfortable. The whole household waited. ‘Any action yet?’ someone would call out from the kitchen. ‘No—false alarm,’ came the response. This was the bit we had all tacitly dreaded, Robert probably more than anyone. Sometimes people had to leave the room for a few deep breaths. But my parents handled this unpleasant chore superbly, going about their work briskly and cheerfully, never betraying impatience or squeamishness. Twenty years after rearing him, they were nursing their first-born again. After it was over, we showered Robert on his commode, cleaning his bottom, shampooing his hair.
We quickly learned what Robert could and couldn’t wear. Anything tight-fitting was forbidden: belts, collars, ties, underwear. Denim was too harsh on his skin: soft, baggy trousers were desirable. Shoelaces had to be loose, otherwise the circulation in his feet was reduced. Even on non-suppository days it took a couple of hours to get Robert up, from the awakening slice of toast to the final lift into his chair. Some days things didn’t go according to plan: no sooner had he arisen than his bowels would work and the ritual would start all over again.
Robert went to the chiropractor’s office for more X-rays. Consulting the Austin’s set was out of the question. Dad began investigating other types of therapy. Any lead, and there were many, was explored. Robert remained hopeful but passive. I was more sceptical about chiropractic in those days and doubted the value of these weekend manipulations. One day the chiropractor brought along a colleague and I became uneasy as they fiddled with Robert’s neck. Later Robert told me that one of them had said there was a remote chance that he might walk again. I thought this encouragement was tactless.
One evening these desperate remedies caused a scene. There was a gathering at Crosby Drive. Robert wasn’t there. One of the guests was Tony Capes, the Footscray vice-president. Capes was witty and urbane. He and my mother, both passionate about music, were fast friends. Capes began to rhapsodise about his greatest passion—Wagner. ‘Who are they?’ I asked. I thought that Wagner must have been one of Robert’s bands, like Marmalade or Cream. Capes’s derisive expression taught me the meaning of the term faux pas.
Capes was also a doctor. When Dad told him about the X-rays he became upset. He defended the Austin and said it was the best place for Robert. Quackish distractions would only harm Robert. I don’t think we used the word denial in 1974, but Capes said that my parents were resorting to chiropractors because they hadn’t accepted Robert’s condition and were still deceiving themselves that he might walk again. Robert had regained some movement because the bruising around his spinal cord had receded, but there was no chance of a full recovery.
Strangely enough, I had never nursed any such delusions. Ever since the accident I had accepted that Robert’s paralysis was irrevocable. Full recovery was a physical, even an ontological impossibility. It was as if we were talking about two different people—the athlete and the cripple. The former was dead, unrevivable. That’s what haunted me.
People became terribly upset, Tony Capes included. My parents broke down, as if they were receiving the news all over again. I had seen this coming. Our emotional lives were volatile, ungovernable. There were waves of acceptance, even optimism, followed by rejection and despair. People rallied, then grieved. One night—it may have been after Capes’s outburst—I went out into the garden to get away from the others and wept so convulsively I became frightened. I knew I had reached the nadir of sadness. Battling to control myself, I focussed on the night noises, the banter from nearby households, happily unaware of our dilemmas, the occasional whimper from my attentive dachshund, mystified by my vigil in the garden. It was cold out there, but I knew I had to outstare this mood—confront it, survive it. In order to live I would have to accept Robert’s affliction. But how to cope after a morbid adolescence? How to survive with this unshakeable sense of annihilation?
Gradually I composed myself and in doing so crossed an emotional Rubicon. At some deep, inexpressive level, I resolved never to allow myself to become that upset again. I would never collapse. I would never futilely suffer in the garden. Hysteria didn’t help Robert or my parents. Someone had to stay calm and objective and I was going to be it. I would try to be strong. I would even try to be good, god help me. Even if people thought me a bastard, a monster of detachment, I would never weep like that again. I would cope.
My father was exhausted. Footscray was doing well and seemed likely to reach the final five, as it was then configured, but Dad wasn’t in good shape. Other people must have been worried about him too, for it was decided that the two of us should go away for a few days. Friends lent us their house by the sea. We played tennis each day. I can still remember the exact scores. I won each contest, including a 4-6, 6-4, 10-8 marathon. Dad must have been worn out! As always, I relished each victory and replayed crisp forehands and rare aces in my head until the next game. At night we drank unaccustomed liqueurs and I smoked cigars. Dad started one of our intimate conversations. He was worried about my unsociability, my lack of a girlfriend. He said he would have to take me away on a footy trip. I let that one go through to the keeper, to mix my metaphors.
June, seismic already, ended eventfully. Robert became a journalist with the Sunday Press, a new tabloid. The Age and the Herald had finally relented and formed an alliance to combat the Sunday Observer. Sales of Newton’s rag had continued to rise since February. Evidently headlines like ‘MY BILL’S NOT A HOMO’ appealed to the burghers of Melbourne as they prepared for Sunday worship.
Ian McDonald, sports editor of the Sunday Press, hired Robert to write a story about his accident, followed by a weekly column on cricket and football. ‘My Story’ was compelling. Robert’s natural candour and lack of pretension made him a winning subject. Possibly surprised, I noted in my journal: ‘It was quite neat, personal’. Robert talked about the accident, as much as he could remember of it, and about his first night in hospital. He described his daily regimen and said he felt stronger all the time. He cited the sudden improvement in his right arm, aided by twice-daily sessions in the gymnasium. He was typically self-deprecating. ‘Last week I put my finger in my mouth accidentally. As an achievement it was a little difficult to swallow, but it represented a small milestone.’ He said he had enjoyed going to a training session and a subsequent game, but not the attention that went with it. ‘I went into the dressing rooms after the game and the feeling was tremendous. I would have preferred to stay in the background, but they pushed me forward and clapped and all that. Dad couldn’t believe I was still there—he thought I would have been back in bed by then.’
I well remember Robert’s reluctance to encroach on the players’ limelight—I can almost feel the traction of his modesty—for I was the one pushing him.
Robert was looking forward to getting out of hospital and to spending more time with Salli. ‘I find it upsetting that I can’t even pick her up. That hurts a lot. It’ll be better when I get home. She’s good, Salli. Already she seems to be used to the wheelchair and everything.’ Speculating about a future career, he said he would make a good runner for Dad. He would have been faster than Uncle Colin, Dad’s slightly portly runner at Collingwood, whose profane interpretations of the coach’s messages were legendary among the players.
I was particularly struck by one passage, which I recorded in my journal:
My greatest task lay in staying happy. It becomes a deliberate task and you must work at it. Not because you don’t mean it but just because it needs a hell of a lot of concentration and effort. It’s funny, but at some point there’s a changeover of responsibilities. Suddenly you find you are responsible in a way to the people caring for you and you have to look after their morale almost as much as they care for you. Your family is caring for you so much they become pretty vulnerable themselves, while you are learning to cope better each day. So it means I have as much of an obligation to them as to myself to keep up my morale.
I was moved by his compassion, his intuition. I realised there was something formidable about what Robert was becoming.
*
As always, these developments were offset by physical complications. Predictions that Robert would be out of hospital in two months proved illusory. He wouldn’t leave hospital until the end of November, nine and a half months after the accident. In the meantime, he was beset by new problems. He began taking medication for postural hypotension. Most paraplegics and quadriplegics suffer from spasms—involuntary movements that occur when they are lifted or turned and that can propel them from their wheelchairs. With Robert, these spasms were particularly acute, perhaps because of his sporting past: a frame that had been used to constant exercise. He likened them to severe cramp. He was especially vulnerable in bed. Spasms often happened while he was being dressed or undressed. These tremors locked his limbs, making it impossible to continue. The danger was that he would be thrown to the floor, breaking a leg or a hip. He soon required massive doses of Valium—as much as 90 milligrams per day. Later this was reduced to 60 milligrams, still a phenomenal amount. I once took 20 milligrams and slept for twenty-four hours.
Valium was just one of the drugs Robert needed to go on functioning. I forget most of the other names. Brands came and went, but not Robert’s reliance on drugs. Four times a day we heaped a dozen pills onto a spoon and held it up for his approval. Robert knew every drug in his pharmacopoeia and would often point out a rogue pill. When he was convinced, he gulped them all down at once with a huge draught of water.
Urinary infection was a constant risk. Robert drank copious amounts of water as a matter of course—several litres daily. Nevertheless, he began to suffer bladder infections. His catheter would block, stopping the flow of urine and causing great discomfort. Flushes and spasms heralded these attacks. They happened at any hour of the day or night. Often we had to rush him back to hospital so that his catheter could be changed. A sphincterotomy, in which the sphincter of the bladder is partly severed to ensure better emptying, was recommended, but Robert rejected this. Dr Burke believes that he feared a loss of his residual sexual function if he had the operation. Robert, in his quiet way, was beginning to manage his own health and to keep his own counsel.
In July the phantom pains in Robert’s paralysed limbs were succeeded by real pain in his thumbs. With the new movement in his hands came acute discomfort. Dressing Robert or slipping on the wrist brace was an anxious business. Robert recoiled in agony whenever we touched his thumbs. His cries and recriminations were unnerving.
While we waited for his release, work started at Crosby Drive. The games room underneath my parents’ house was converted into a small flat. Uncle Kevin removed the old table-tennis table in his van. Meanwhile, Robert’s weekly articles began appearing in the Sunday Press. He got on well with his collaborator, Joe Fairhurst, a seasoned sports writer from England. Joe visited Robert during the week then went away and wrote up the story. Robert loved the challenge, and the diversion. His own connections and regular hospital visits from leading sportsmen, complemented by Dad’s contacts, gave Robert an advantage over other sports writers. This inside knowledge resulted in several scoops. But there was more to his journalism than just headlines. Robert had real sporting acumen, an older man’s understanding of the athlete’s psyche. Hospitalisation had also sharpened his encyclopedic memory and zeal.
