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Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 6 of 13) Page 6 of 13
'I know we will,' he says, giving me a one-armed hug and an awkward kiss.
How could I say otherwise? He believes in me and I believe in him. Together we will move mountains. But I have a nagging premonition that Scott and I may have unknowingly joined Alice on her plunge into a mad-hatter wonderland of frustration and illusion.
Each morning after arriving from Johnnie's, I wheel Scott to the therapy room where I leave him for two hours until I collect him for lunch in the small cafeteria, surrounded by many other patients. There I notice a young man, a policeman who was shot on duty, who always sits at the table next to us, unmoving, with his head slumped over his food. After a while, an orderly appears to remove his untouched food. I find this strange, and one day I ask the orderly why the policeman never touches his food. 'I don't know,' the orderly says. 'I'm not sure he knows how to eat. Doesn't matter really.' He shrugs. 'The nurses will feed him later by tube.'
The policeman's mother, nicely dressed and very tidy, often joins him for lunch. She sits at the table, nervous and ill at ease. Her eyes show her pain. Sometimes she encourages him to eat, but never lifts a spoon to help him. After a few minutes, flustered and unable to cope, she gets up and hurries from the room. I taught Scott to use a spoon, and it occurs to me I might teach this young man as well. After his mother leaves, I sit beside him, hold his hand, and gently wrap his fingers round the spoon handle, then model the motion of eating. Within three weeks he is eating on his own. I know the hospital staff are overstretched and I have the time to spend with him. Helping this young man seems the right thing to do.
I have never been afraid of sick people. They aren't so different. As a six-year-old in Wales I would board a city bus for the ten-mile trip to take sweets to my granddad in Whitchurch Hospital, a sanatorium for shell-shocked veterans of the First World War. A large man with a kindly face and white hair, he had one eye covered by a patch and another which was very, very blue. He had lost his eye in a German POW camp. Dressed in a stiff brown uniform with medals on his chest, he would greet me with a formal salute. Then he would sit down and play cards with me, or let me read his coloured comic books, or we would go for walks around the grounds. I would curl my hand in his, and he would hold it tight. I felt very safe with him. Sitting down among the trees and flowers my shyness about singing in front of him disappeared and I sang most of the new tunes I had recently learned. I knew they meant something to him because his face lit up and he would gently touch my cheek with his hand. I would watch the other crippled and shell- shocked soldiers in their stiff uniforms march proudly by in twos and threes, saluting each other when they passed. I'm sure it was strange behaviour, but I thought nothing of it. I loved my visits to Granddad.
But I am concerned with what I am seeing at Coorabel. Another strange thing is happening in the cafeteria. Sitting with Scott, I notice many of the patients are obsessed with the wall clock. They look at their food, then up at the clock, shake their heads, and look down at their food. Soon, unconsciously, I am doing the same thing. What is there about that clock, I wonder, that so fascinates everyone? Then it strikes me. It is six hours fast. The patients are eating breakfast at noon, lunch at six and dinner at midnight. The scene is so bizarre I want to burst out laughing. How can patients rehabilitate themselves, how can they tell the psychologist the time of day, with a clock like this? I fully expect a white rabbit to run through the cafeteria crying out, 'I'm late, I'm late for a very important date.'
Every afternoon in Scott's ward, an orderly brings a plate of French fries, sets it on a side table and leaves. I watch this go on for several days, before finally saying to her, 'You never have time to sit down and eat your French fries.'
'Oh, these aren't mine, these are for the patients.'
'But none of them can walk,' I tell her. 'How are they supposed to get them?'
She shrugs: 'I am only allowed to bring them in, not serve them.' So unless one of the busy nurses are free they remain uneaten.
After more than two weeks of wheeling Scott to therapy, I begin to wonder when I pick him up why he is always in the same place where I left him. I begin to doubt he is receiving therapy at all.
When I ask one of the nurses, she tells me Scott isn't responding, so therapy is pointless. How could this be? I wonder. But I too notice he is not as responsive as he was in St Vincent's. It isn't for another two weeks that I learn the reason. Usually Scott's medical records are kept at the nurses' station, but for some odd reason when we return from therapy one afternoon, his records are on his bed. Is it a mistake, or a secret message? As I review the contents, I know instantly what is wrong. The doctors have been medicating him without my knowledge. No wonder he's not responding. He's been drugged. This is a disaster and I start to cry. After five weeks I know our days at Coorabel are numbered.
I insist on meeting Dr Rosen. When we finally meet, I relay my experiences and concerns about Scott's lack of progress and how he is being medicated without my permission. I tell him how terribly upset and discouraged I am, not only for my son but also for the others in Coorabel with similar conditions. I tell him emphatically that the situation is unacceptable, that even though I'm not a citizen of Australia and am appreciative of all their help, I feel sabotaged.
Dr Rosen pushes back from his desk and tells me with an air of finality, 'We've done the best we can. You are still in denial, Mrs Carl. I would recommend you place him in a home and return to your friends in America. When he improves, you can come back to get him.'
I am speechless. All I can do is stare. 'I would also suggest,' he continues, 'that you give serious thought to having his tendons cut. It would make it easier to care for him.'
My mouth drops and my wits return. I stand and lean over his desk. 'Then Scott would be like a rag doll. Certainly he would no longer need therapy. Wouldn't that be convenient? You would only have to water him like a vegetable. Scott and I are leaving this place as soon as I can find a flat.'
'There's no way you will be able to manage him. I will be seeing you again.'
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.
