They said I gotta go to rehab

Back in early November, I think, I was brought out of a long induced coma. I cannot recall the precise moment I woke up. There was no distinct transfer from being asleep to being awake. It was a slow and gradual process over a few days.

My body had been put through the wringer, ravaged by a malevolent infection. I think it was calledCandida Liberata. Happy for any medico to correct this if need be.

The infection had made me very, very sick. I am told that I was the sickest man in Queensland at the time. At once stage I was attached to around a dozen machines, including a respirator, a dialysis machine and the Impaler. It took around ten staff to move me and my paraphernalia to obtain a scan. I was barely alive. Dr Thomson has told me that he has only ever seen two other patients survive from such a poor state. A few times, he told Camilla that I would not pull through.

Somehow my body clung to life and with the assistance of a powerful arsenal of drugs warded off the infection. Camilla and my parents kept a bedside vigil. They experienced an unimaginable hell, as did Imogen. As did my other friends, relatives and workmates. I sincerely wish that my near and dear could have been spared that experience. It was a supersized sh*t sandwich with all the trimmings.

Coming out of the coma, I can vaguely recall being in a room somewhere (it didn't feel like a hospital) where parts of the walls and furniture would morph into twisted, animated creatures. It felt like the nurses were constantly trying to restrain me and were yelling at me to cease screaming. I thought that I was howling like a banshee, but unsure if I was thinking it or doing it. It must have been the sort of hallucinogenic drug haze that was the firmament for Dylan to craft his greatest albums like Highway Sixty One Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Bob can have that stuff all to himself. Why anyone would want to voluntarily subject their consciousness to such a state is something I will never understand. Kids, don't do drugs.

I then recall being immobile in a hospital bed unable to move or speak. I was just too weak to lift a hand. I slept most of the day and night but was becoming increasingly aware of my surroundings and able to understand what people were telling me. I was in the Intensive Care Unit with a nurse rostered to care for me one on one twenty four seven. I saw dozens of doctors.

I can recall Melbourne Cup day, early in November. I was aware that the race was coming up and I recall my father handing me a form guide, asking me to select a horse so he could back it for me. By this stage I could lift my arms a bit, but could not read or properly manoeuvre my hands. I gave him my shaky hand and we caused my finger to sort of fall on a horse's name. I can't remember the name of the horse, but it was a pretty average one and was paying long odds. Dad popped down to the TAB and backed the horse for me. I then sort of watched the race on a television. I cannot recall much as my vision was very poor. I really just knew that it was on. Anyway, my horse did well. Very well. He hit the line in a photo finish. It took quite a while for the stewards to review the footage, and I remember the suspense. As it transpired, my horse was beaten by a nose. A fair effort really. Not the most scientific way I have been known to bet on a horse but commendable in the circumstances.

Then started my long and difficult rehabilitation. All the muscles in my body were completely wasted for lack of use. It is amazing how quickly and completely the muscles atrophy when they are not used. My nurses told me that I would need three to five days of recovery for every day in the coma for my body to completely heal itself. This was a best case scenario of six months.

We started with the basics. I still had a trachea fitted so I needed to learn to speak again. My nurses were able to insert a speaking valve whenever I gave them a shaky hand signal and, for short periods at a time, I used it to speak. I could only manage a few words or, more accurately, word type sounds. My brain was very slow and it was difficult to get them out.

My speech and cognitive function improved quickly. The trachea was removed and I was able to engage in conversation. I was still slow to think and my speech was slurred. Two of my partners, Bruce and Darrell, came to visit me. They have since told me that they left the hospital gravely concerned that I would never recover full intellectual function. I am normally pretty sharp and reasonably articulate. The man they spoke to that day was neither.

I started speech therapy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy. I was frustrated with my feeble body but more frustrated that my mind was slow. To me, this was far worse than any physical impairment. I could not imagine myself living and working in a manner that did not challenge me to think. When formally tested, I struggled to count back from one hundred in multiples of seven. I could not recall names or events. I confused reality with the alternative reality I had dreamed in the coma. I thought my sister Shelley had had twins and I asked her about them. Thankfully, not least of all to her, she had only had one baby. A gorgeous boy called Ben. He was born the day I first went into surgery, I think. He and the Impaler are therefore almost the same age. Ben is much nicer and causes fewer problems.

The mind came back first. Pretty quickly, in hindsight but agonisingly slowly at the time. A few weeks post coma, I was thinking and speaking clearly and my vision was good. I could have easily come out of the coma blind, mentally impaired or physically impaired. It was a blessing that I recovered complete mind and sight. The nurses called me their miracle man. It was a miracle indeed.

The body was much slower to heal and the physios had their work cut out for them. We were starting from a zero base and it took weeks for me to learn how to stand for a few seconds. I then started walking with a frame. First to the door. Then about ten metres. Then a little more. These tasks completely exhausted me, but I was determined to one day walk like a man again. It seemed light years away.

By early December, I had made sufficient progress to leave ICU to be taken to a ward. I then took up domicile in Ward 1B, where I still remain. Domicile, not residency. Ward 1B is not home, even a temporary one. Home remains in Indooroopilly.

The physios kept pushing my body and I was able to ditch the frame and start pushing around the Impaler. This was a terrific moment for me. There were two other VAD patients on the Ward, Noel and Catherine, who were confidently pushing their VADs in front of them like shopping trolleys. They were walking around like real people. I did not think I'd ever be able to reach that point and I was envious of them. I could barely manage pushing the Impaler for twenty metres.

The physio who became my primary therapist is a delightful lady called Lisa Moore. Lisa is amazing. Over the last few months she has assisted my to rebuild my wreckage of a body to the point where I am walking the treadmill for thirty continuous minutes with incline intervals.I am leaving the hospital for regular outing home and elsewhere. I attend barbeques and go to restaurants. I have never been at all interested in personal fitness and the like and it was difficult to accept the treadmill as a new friend. I could not see how it would ever get along with my other good mates like the television, the wine cabinet, the bookshelf and the stereo. It just was not me. However, necessity creates strange bedfellows and I am now committed to a new life that ensures I make time for regular exercise. We've even bought our own treadmill for when I return home.

My rehab is still ongoing and my body is far from recovered. The Impaler uses energy as quickly as a Chevy Impala guzzles petrol. I get exhausted easily. I still have some residual numbness in the right shin and foot and occasionally in my right hand. However, I am now strong in mind and reasonably strong in body, such that I am ready for transplant surgery.

Until next time,