Page Utilities
Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 5 of 13) Page 5 of 13
We all exchange Christmas gifts. Scott's trumpet has been sent from America by friends who are storing some of his possessions. We hold it up for him so he can use his good hand to play the notes, and see if he can blow it. We all laugh at the funny sounds coming out. Even Scott laughs at himself.
Even though I relish the sanctity of her home with its gay Christmas tree and carols and a strong feeling of family, Scott is a little out of his element, and I realize, more difficult to manage. We sleep little, and I'm emotionally spent. With Stefan pressing to rekindle our relationship, given my burdens, the holidays lose their edge. Soon after, I return Scott to the hospital and Stefan departs for Germany, leaving me emotionally disorientated with unanswered questions. He's a good man, and thinks so much of me; perhaps I should have been more receptive. Will I ever enjoy another relationship? But I can't live in Germany, and I can't sacrifice Scott's future to my own confusion and uncertain desires.
That night I overhear Scott and Jonathan reminiscing about the times in Denmark when they both lived in Copenhagen and how little time they actually spent together compared to how close they were growing up. Scott says, 'Hey, you had your reasons. A new lady [Ulla]. That part of your life was just as important as us being together as brothers and friends.' This means a lot to Jonathan, because he is battling missing his little brother and a lifetime of memories and trying to accept Scott in his new injured form. Scott was Jonathan's shadow for their entire childhood and they never got tired of each other. They never understood friends who didn't want their little brother or sister around. But it seems to dawn on Jonathan that all he had with his little brother is still there, right in front of him. It's nice that we can all be together this special Christmas, feeling the warmth of everybody's caring.
I will never forget that sunny morning when Dr Croches walked into Scott's room with a smile on his face. 'I have good news for you, Glenys,' he says quietly, so as not to wake Scott. 'We believe your son is well enough to be discharged. But better yet, arrangements have been made for him at the Coorabel Rehabilitation Hospital. It will take a day or two to sort out, but you might want to pull your things together.'
I am so stunned that I can only stare at Dr Croches in disbelief. I'm not even aware that he has walked out, or that I am fumbling about for a chair, fearing my lightheadedness and shortness of breath presage a collapse. Four months in this small box of a room, six months of nights curled on Scott's bed, four months of struggle to push back the pall of defeat, finally to be told Scott is well enough to leave. And not simply to leave, but to be transferred to a rehab hospital, even after the immigration doctor has emphatically stated, 'Impossible! Your visa won't allow it.'
I leap from my chair and with nervous excitement pace the room, my mind racing. The word 'rehabilitation' echoes like a church bell. Now we will make real progress. Now with professional help, Scott will learn to walk. He will learn to talk. Now his brain will mend and he will be made whole again. It will be hard work, I know that, but now it will happen. All my prayers, all my dreams, all my hopes are being answered. I dream that night of the Coorabel Hospital, but what I don't dream of is what I actually find.
Coorabel, formally known as the Royal Ryde Rehabilitation Hospital, is twenty miles from St Vincent's, on Charles Street in the suburb of Ryde. I might just as well be in another country. It's a single-storey building with a red tile roof set in a verdant garden with a wall. Coorabel houses about sixty patients in wards of four to ten patients each. Scott is placed in a small ward with three others, all bedridden. One has suffered a debilitating stroke. Another has an inoperable brain tumour, and the third has a head injury. No longer allowed to spend the night, I seek refuge with Johnnie who arranges for me to borrow a small car for the forty-five-minute daily drive.
Jonathan also rearranges his commute, which is now longer than the twenty-five miles he used to pedal.
Unlike St Vincent's, where I was allowed to decorate Scott's room and where the doctors were open and supportive, at Coorabel I am treated as an inconvenience. The doctors seem secretive, with no one person in charge of Scotty's treatment. It is nearly a week before I meet the senior doctor. I am massaging Scott's right hand, working as always on both hands to build strength and circulation, when a heavy-set man briskly enters our small ward. 'I am Dr Rosen, head of the hospital. And this is Scott Carl?' I nod yes, but he isn't looking; he is flipping the pages of a brown file. What strikes me is the cool distance of his voice and the fact he speaks to me in the abstract, as if I am little more than a translucent shadow, even though I am now at his side.
'You've been here how long? Yes, it says here a week. Our facility is different from others. Our patients have severe problems. They are here for therapy and cannot tolerate noise or disruption of any sort. So you will be asked to conform to our rules precisely. Limit your time to visiting hours. No visiting at night. And you are not allowed in the therapy rooms. It is for the good of the patients.'
Finally Dr Rosen turns my way. 'Scott is here for therapy,' I say, gathering courage. 'But he has a problem. When he fell he broke his left clavicle, and because he was in a coma it was never fixed. I know it's giving him a lot of pain. What can we do about his left arm?'
Dr Rosen appraises Scotty's upper body, then glances at me. 'I suggest you forget he has a left arm.'
My amazement leaves me speechless. How can he say that in front of my son?
'Doctor, there's nothing wrong with Scott's hearing,' I say coolly, my temper rising. Scotty is in fact quietly absorbing every word.
'You have to stop being in denial,' Dr Rosen responds. It hits me then that this doctor, who knows nothing of Scott except notes in a chart, has already written my son off as hopeless. Later I come to understand how a lack of money forces Dr Rosen to make hard choices regarding the kind of treatment he can offer but now I am really angry.
'How would you like it if I chopped off your left hand?' I spit out. Immediately, I regret my outburst, but I'm only human and this man is destroying my hope. Dr Rosen looks at me with wide eyes.
From across the room, Scott's voice growls, 'You don't know it, but you're dealing with my mom. I feel sorry for you.'
Dr Rosen's jaw tightens. Abruptly he turns on his heel and walks out the door. I go to Scott's side. 'Don't worry, we'll get it moving.'
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.
