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Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 9 of 13) Page 9 of 13
As the numbers of volunteers increase, they present unique challenges. Most know nothing of head injuries or physiotherapy, and must be trained. So I contact a Dr Freeman whom I have read about as an advocate of home therapy. He agrees to come for a visit and advise me how I can help best. In the meantime, I become a teacher and demonstrate exercises and techniques. I show how to pick up a leg, how to push an arm, how to find and stretch tendons and ligaments, and how to support Scott's broken clavicle. I encourage and praise, but most of all I express my deep gratitude, always reminding them the main thing is that they have to feel comfortable with Scott and Scott must feel comfortable with them.
When Dr Freeman visits, he agrees with me that there is more to Scott than the doctors have taken the time to see. He says the essence of any treatment must be to keep Scott moving at all costs, constantly stimulating his brain through repetitive exercising, in the hope the brain will make new neural pathways. 'It is very hard and tedious work,' he said, 'but if you have the patience, the reward may be a big increase in Scott's ability to move by himself.' He promises to come back in six weeks, and agrees that I should continue training people.
Another challenge is to coordinate the increased numbers of volunteers. I calculate I will need ten a day, seven days a week – seventy volunteers a week, nearly three hundred in a month, although hopefully many will repeat. Overwhelmed at the sheer numbers, I continue to pass out leaflets. After my phone is installed, they call to reserve times. In addition to teaching, I now manage schedules. I tack a large sheet of paper to a wall and create a monthly calendar for bookings. Dutifully I write names in squares, but find I must adjust to changing circumstances, and my calendar fills with cancellations, scratch-outs and transferred names.
I am taping a leaflet on a post near the bus stop when I sense the gaze of someone over my shoulder. Turning about I look into the composed blue eyes of a woman in her sixties, tall with silver hair swept back in a bun and only a hint of make-up. She is dressed in an understated grey skirt and vanilla blouse with a delicate ivory brooch at her neck. Her features and countenance are lovely, hinting at great beauty in her younger days. 'Is this your son?' she asks in a firm and soothing voice. I nod yes. 'My name is Shirley. I have a few minutes and would love to meet him.'
That's how Shirley and I met. She lives in the neighbourhood and comes by often to sit and talk with Scott. She asks about his life and his dreams in the way grandmothers do best, without judgement or condescension, and works on his vocabulary and articulation. I know how Scott missed having a grandmotherly figure in his life, as my mother lived in Wales and he rarely saw her. Now I hear a lot of laughing and whispering going on between them.
When other volunteers are available, Shirley joins me in the kitchen for a pot of hot jasmine tea and we discuss Scott's progress, as well as art, music, and broader family issues. Gradually she becomes part of the Carl family. I am delighted Scott has a grandmother, and I an intimate friend.
Scott once presented Shirley with a card written in his handwriting, promising that someday, when he could, he would take Shirley to Bondi Beach and dance with her after eating crackers and cheese. A sweet dream.
Months later, Shirley confides she doesn't know why she was drawn to Scott and me. 'I've never volunteered to do this sort of thing before,' she tells me. 'I just felt I had to do something.'
In the coming months, many of my volunteers would say the same sort of thing: I don't know why I was drawn to you and Scott but I couldn't say no . . . I'm usually not a do-gooder but I had to help . . . There was no posturing to impress others, no egos on sleeves, just a selflessness that was heartwarming.
One morning I open the front door to a young man in black leather with chains on his shoulder, long, spiked, blue hair, and silver earrings. He extends a hand and in a soft, respectful voice, introduces himself as Robert. 'I've heard about what you are doing,' he says. 'Would you mind if I watch?'
My first instinct is to tell him, 'Thank you, we're fully booked.' But I hesitate. I had vowed never to turn anyone away. So I step aside and welcome him into our apartment, with its calm atmosphere of incense, candles and classical music. To the discomfort of two volunteers who are massaging Scott's arms and legs, Robert leans against a wall and quietly observes for two hours before slipping out of the door.
That night, a three-course dinner is delivered along with a glorious bouquet of summer flowers and a tape of the Bruch violin concertos, with a note on light blue stationery saying, 'Thank you for inviting me into your home. Love, Robert.' I feel sheepish that I almost turned him away. To this day, Robert is a reminder of the danger of judging people by their looks and not their hearts. I wish to write back to him, but I have no address, and can only hope I will see him again.
Many volunteers walk in the door seemingly as their muse dictates. Strangers show up unannounced and pitch in. I quickly abandon my schedule, to rely instead on whomever providence deposits at my open door. By the end of the first month my volunteers exceed a hundred, and I notice increasingly they are coming from beyond the neighbourhood.
That night I check my finances, only to confirm my worst fear. The expense of living a normal life has quickly drained the money Stefan sent from my BMW. When the volunteers catch wind of my situation, they rent a stall at the Paddington Flea Market to sell whatever the neighbourhood might donate. Word circulates on the grapevine, and soon cardboard boxes and brown bags of used clothes, books, tapes, art, furniture, tennis rackets, shoes, pots and pans appear at my door as neighbours empty their closets and garages. Twice a month, volunteers man the 'All proceeds go to Scott Carl' booth, and for the remainder of my stay in Australia, the money they raise pays our expenses.
I pray for good weather, because when it rains we have to cancel the stall and I'm inundated with all kinds of objects until the next market day, and I simply have no room for them.
Quite unexpectedly, two months later, Robert appears again. His hair is washed and trimmed. The earrings have been removed, and he is dressed in crisp, dark blue trousers and a light blue sport shirt. It is even ironed. He works with Scott almost every evening and reads to him from books on spirituality. They become good friends.
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.
