ShoeStrings

Wondering why my postings suddenly stopped? Well, I now have a new website at www.emma-gee.com so I guess I have been speaking more than writing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

RUNNING A DIFFERENT ROUTE.

 

 

By Emma Gee

 

 

 

Running in the rain, dodging puddles or cracks underneath me - I used to love the flying feeling it gave me – I was a bird and would fly around the neighbourhood, earphoneless, to ensure I could still hear the reversing cars and eavesdrop on strangers’ conversations.  Running was my ‘time out’, my locked realm where I was the only key holder.  Family feuds, complicated patients and boyfriend sagas would diminish, and, as if lightened with each step, I left them for the hard rubbish collection on the nature strip.

 

 

Now I can no longer fly. My wings are clipped. At 24 I had a stroke. A healthy, active and innocent neuro-occupational therapist, I now had dysphagia, dysarthria, nystagmus, diplopia, sensory, balance and mobility deficits. In plain English: my speech sounded as if I was talking with 100 marshmallows stuffed into my lop-sided mouth. My double vision cloned every image - one car expanded into two.  My left hand clawed in - like a scared turtle hiding in its shell. I felt as if I was permanently on a hook. Dangling! Touching the ground so lightly only on my tippee toes. My head wasn’t positioned correctly. It was as if, in my neurosurgery they had unscrewed my head and put it back on wrongly. I was a Tupperware lid that had gone in the dishwasher too many times and no longer fitted. My skin way too tight – the surgeon had put it in the drier. Shrunk! I now had to squeeze my outgrown body into this incy wincy case.

 

 

Instead of getting a bird’s eye view of life, I was forced to be amongst it - allowing others to wheel me, no longer free, my wheels were  unable to manoeuvre as my feet once did.  My frail body could no longer adapt even to the single pebbles or random sticks I encountered . As a stroke victim, captured, clipped and caged, I longed to run from my wheelchair…

 

 

The muscle aches resulting from long runs were replaced by ‘phantom’ or ‘imaginary’ pain. Jibbed. A Christmas bonbon gone wrong. Skidding on hot bitumen.  Grazes. At least as a child my tears soon disappeared after I’d been to sickbay, Dettolled, Savloned and bandaided. This wasn’t ‘real’ pain. Dencorub couldn’t mask this pain!  Attempts to escape my pain, by medication, only exacerbated it. Attempting to climb the barbed wire fence, the prisoner always gets electrocuted!

 

 

Six months on I learnt to walk on a frame. The fatigue I’d felt after 15 km runs, I now experienced after five metres. However, being upright gave me the taste of freedom that I’d once had. An exercise yard at a prison.

 

 

A medical appointment in the city became the perfect opportunity to trial public transport with my frame.  I thought catching the train would be so easy.  A cinch.  BEFORE, I could have run this route blind-folded! Declaring my intentions to my parents, however, signalled a major battle. “You’ll break a leg… this time you’ll be doing rehab alone!” And later “… If you must do it, do it with your mother!”  Even with Mum accompanying me, they felt that I was setting myself up for failure. Maybe I was, but at least I was attempting it. My parents were saying catching a train was too dangerous! Imagine if I had been on drugs!

 

 

Pointing out what was so scary for me even to attempt was a huge slap in the face.  To verbally declare my intentions was so hard - even harder when I knew that the likelihood of success was low.  So now I not only had to physically disprove the validity of my doubts but the validity of my parents’ doubts as well.  I tried to angrily slam the car door but it was too heavy.

 

 

It’s no fashion parade going out on a frame!.  Eye gel replaces eye liner; lipstick only magnifies the deep crevasses in my sore lips.  I no longer require a handbag or a boy to accompany me. I was now attached to a catheter and hey who needs a boy when you have a physio!  My endless wardrobe was now a waste! It might as well have been full of PJs and tracksuits. Work shirts, I couldn’t button or iron; my balance wasn’t ready to be challenged with heels, and there was no need for a name tag to identify myself.  As an identical twin, this had been a compulsory item throughout my childhood. We only swapped to trick. Now, I couldn’t move quickly enough to get lost and I didn’t need to be labelled – my disability was now as identifying as a named freckle.

 

 

Mum parked the car while I tackled the endless ramps leading to the platform. First the declining slopes!  I had once run downhill, arms out like a plane and eyes closed.  Now, I tried to test out my running coach’s theory that shifting your weight backwards helps.  Disastrous!  Instead, I ended up squatting to prevent somersaulting down.  To onlookers I would’ve looked so strange, almost constipated.  Concentrating on every step.  Poking my tongue into my cheek was meant to help!  A few times I grabbed the rail to stop myself from flipping.  All I could see and hear were feet. Heels, sneakers, heels. Heels. All walking with ease. Two out of the fifty people that passed asked if I needed help.  To the others I was invisible, or they were just too busy rushing to make the train, vegemite toast or mobile in hand.  Me - brain dead before even beginning my trip.  The two other ramps inclined - a lot easier, but they would be so hard on the return trip. I couldn’t think about that. One step at a time!

 

 

We were getting the 8:19am train. We’d chosen a “stopping all stations” to reduce the pushes ‘n’ shoves. Waiting on the platform, I must’ve looked as if I was starting a race, my frame positioned at the very edge of the yellow line.

 

 

Getting onto the carriage wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined.  I had to position myself up behind the yellow line, so that when the train stopped I’d get on.  Not so easy.  My attempt to line myself up failed. The doors opened and before I’d even crossed the yellow line the ‘beep beep beep’ sound had come over the loud speaker and the doors were about to shut. My frame was on the carriage.  I was still on the platform.  Mum, stressed at the prospect of her daughter falling down the black space in between yelled, “JUMP ON EM!”. Calmly I replied, “I can’t jump Mum!” At that moment I wished I was in a comic strip and could be in both places at once - my body in segments.  Silence!  At those times there is always dead silence.

 

 

I monkey-barred on. My knuckles white from strangling the silver rail, my eyes struggling to adjust to the light change.  I used to stand so the ‘elderly’ or ‘people with special needs’ could sit.  Now it was my turn. I plummeted into the seat.  Once I would’ve checked the seat for syringes or chewing gum.  Now chewy would assist my sitting posture and I’d had so many injections, one more wouldn’t hurt.  As a kid, I’d always been amazed at how your eyes flick back and forth trying to capture every passing image – graffiti, different people, traffic lights, fast cars, trees all blurred.  Now my nystagmus (flickering of the eyes) felt normal.  Since my operation, my eyes had raced. It was the only body part that moved quickly. Two images, both racing.

 

 

The carriage smelt like a combination of sweat and fly spray.  I could almost taste it.  At least sitting in the ‘special needs’ seat, I didn’t have to contend with large bodies, strange food, bags, feet and weird conversations. Isolated, like an odd sock.

 

 

A schoolgirl sat opposite me, reading ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’, a novel I had read and studied.  She was a nerd.  The extended academic strip on the left pocket of her blazer, long, ironed dress, and braided hair were proof! As a stroke victim, finding flaws in others was gratifying. Their imperfections were temporarily the focus.

 

 

Another lady entered the carriage at the Hawthorn stop and sat to my left. Strong perfume followed her like a stray dog. She was wearing her sunglasses. I immediately pulled mine down from the top of my head; permission granted. Now I would get fewer stares.

 

 

A small child tugged her mother’s dress demandingly. Her eyes seemed super-glued to me, as if I might swallow her if she lost track of me, “Mummy, why’s that girl got that thing?”  She pointed directly at me.  Her mum, embarrassed, grabbed her out-stretched hand saying, “She needs it to walk Sweetie. Now don’t stare”.  I hate that kids highlight out loud what adults think!

 

 

 An elderly woman standing on the trampoline surface, clearly  showing off her good balance, saw me reaching for my bag at my feet and said, “Do you want help Dear?” Stubborn and knowing that the help I’d need was endless, I replied, “No thanks.”

 

 

A bearded man then approached me, “What’s wrong with you?” and then loudly, “You got MS?” Shocked by his bluntness all I said was, “No!” secretly hoping that my concise reply would imply that I didn’t want to reveal my medical status to a stranger…let alone the entire carriage.  Perhaps my frozen facial paralysis expression misled him, because he went on guessing. “It’s muscular dystrophy isn’t it?”  And then even louder and slower “Ummmmmmm ummmmmm, I know!  It’s cerebral palsy!!”  He was almost excited by his diagnosis.  Knowing that he would continue quizzing me with a hospital full of diagnoses I said, “I had brain surgery a year ago”. I was too embarrassed to say that I’d also stroked at 24! He would then assume I’d once been a couch potato, french fries freak, smoked and got drunk. My intention to shoo him away with my remark, boomeranged. He interpreted it as an invitation. He sat down next to me. He was not physically impaired. “I’m a retired doctor and a born-again Christian”. Now I knew he was weird.  I turned my head. Three more stops to go. He continued to talk at me, “Blah, blah, blah, blah”.  He wasn’t wanting a reply.

 

 

The train stopped, nearly catapulting the carriage and leaving its occupants with whiplash. The doors opened. A white cane zig-zagged onboard, followed by a blind man.  Being blind would be so bad. I had two images, he had none! I immediately turned away, knowing that his entry would provoke a universal stare.  But the self- assurance I had glimpsed in his entry prompted me to turn back. How could he be blind but look as though he was walking on red carpet?

 

 

Sitting there, it hit me. A 200 watt light bulb! The confidence the blind man displayed was inspirational. His physical limitations were riding with him but not directing his route. Then and there, I became aware of the power of choosing things in your life. I chose to no longer be a victim. I put on my survivor suit. Getting off the train was now my focus.

 

………………………………………………………………

 

 

Crossing

Flinders Street

, I position my frame right on the curb’s edge. Close enough that cars could slice me into neat segments - guess this would make getting on the train on my way home a lot easier! Standing near your Mum in public was once very embarrassing. Now roles are probably reversed. I put my hands on my hips to appear ‘normal’ but after a while I give up and resume my stiff abnormal stance. Green man flashes. I try to zip my frame into the oncoming traffic. Normally I’d smile. This time there are too many people – all on their individual missions. They can’t tell if I am smiling with my paralysis anyway. Smiling would waste the energy I need to cross. But other pedestrians will think I am not being nice. Oh well, my mission isn’t to please them but to simply cross the road safely. Simply!  Now that’s an understatement!  People’s feet.  Lots of feet.  A city of feet.  I hate feet.  I cross half way, to the tram island - no holiday though.  Dripping fear.  No!  Tropical sweat!  Red man now flashes. Mum turns in front of me, barricading my way saying,   “Em, we’ll have to go back”. If I could run, I would dodge her herding attempts.

 

 

I charge like a full forward, determined not to undo my hard work.  Tram tracks ahead.  My frame wheels fit perfectly – like a missing piece of puzzle.  Sighting these obstacles, makes me want to veer backwards. (If they ran the other direction, I could glide across the crossing).  Instead, I inwardly sigh and try to rev up my legs, hoping that my slight increase in speed will help me clear this glitch, spring boarding the tracks.  However, I can’t sustain my speed, so stop one millimetre before the tracks, forced to lift my leaden frame over them.

 

 

An impatient commuter ‘beeps’ his horn at me. My mum’s glare silences future honks. The car speeds off, as if to make up for lost time. I intend to wave to thank the car for not squashing me, but knowing that I’ll fall if I let go of my frame, I don’t. If it’s mandatory to ‘not overtake turning trucks,’ I should invest in a ‘high fall risk’ sign.

 

 

Mum walks too close to me, her hand hovering ready to catch me or stop any traffic ‘superman style.’ All I can hear is Mum’s thumping heart. “Boomm boomm; boomm boomm; boomm boom.” I stand there panicked, trying to appear calm, Mum my shadow. I snap at her. She makes me more nervous. She stresses me. Any excuse, anything but ‘me’. If she hadn’t caught the train or crossed the road, it would be a breeze.

 

 

Having arrived in the big city, Mum leaves me with my frame to go to her course. Stranded. My appointment is 55 minutes away, just enough time for a coffee.

 

 

It’s so embarrassing when electronic doors won’t open. It’s even more humiliating when you enter a cafe trying to make your disability less conspicuous.  You’d think the doors might choose to be stubborn or lazy when a lady enters in heels.  But no.  They decide to test me.  Wishing I’d at least brushed my hair, I reverse my frame, careful not to tip my green bag taking a joy ride on my frame’s seat.  Take two: I pick up my pace, now charging at the doors, like a bull at a red flag.  Forward. Forward. STOP!  I am forced to halt.  The door sensors don’t detect my eagerness for a coffee.  The world stares. It’s like the doors have stabbed me. Blood oozing and I’ve captured the crowd.  I’m in the centre of the bull ring and I’ve been gutted.  I reverse again. Third time lucky: longing to disappear, I encounter an attractive, impatient woman who barges in front, own mug in hand, as if she has already had her caffeine fix for the day and is back for seconds.  The doors part.

 

 

I wait my turn to be served.  Invisible, they seem to serve everyone but me.  “One skim cappuccino please…with a stir…” Before I’ve even finished my order the waiter hastily says, “That’ll be $3.30” and then “ Who’s next?”  My turtle pace forces the caffeine - deprived queue to trail outside the door. I am a stuck five cent piece in a parking metre.  I need a microphone.  “Could I have a straw with my coffee?”  Puzzled by my query she replies, “Sorry M’am, um, strawberries aren’t in season yet,” and then goes on serving “Next!”  I timidly interrupt, “No!  A straw please!”  Ever since my stroke, my ‘sleeping beautified’ facial muscles have made coffees and straws co dependent.  “Ohhhhh suuurrre!” she says, bewildered at my request.

 

 

Only 30 minutes left before my appointment.  I need a seat.  The crammed café forces me to perch on a stool next to a smelly man.  He croaks, “Mate, I’m so tired.  You’ve no idea!”  His continual ‘Mates’ are so intimate, implying that I’ve known him for years.  In terms of tiredness, I feel at this point ‘the queen of fatigue’, but I have to remind myself that it is all relative.  I feel like I have a sign on my head saying, “Talk to me and watch my needed energy go!”  I sip my coffee through a straw, slurping the last bit of fluid – I need it!

 

 

I have made it half way and had a coffee.  It is only 10:45 am.  Chuffed at my efforts, I glance at my mobile.  One new text: EMMA, APPOINTMENT CANCELLED. DR SICK. RING TO REBOOK…

 

 

My doctor is away sick!. My medical appointment is cancelled! My double vision confirms my disbelief.  What a waste!.  I still have to cross the road and catch the train home.  I can’t waste my energy getting upset.  Survivors don’t cry!  I hold my tears hostage. 

 

………………………………………………….

 

 

What had begun as a verbal battle with my folks, ended up being a physical battle.  I am meant to challenge my balance and public transport skills, but I guess it’s like asking someone to speak Swahili when they’ve never left Iceland .  Parents do know best, but sometimes even though you know you’ll fail, you need to try.  My appointment may’ve been cancelled but it had forced me to trial the train, order my own coffee and cross a busy road.

 

 

I may never run again, but confidence stirred,  I think about the pre- op me! I now don’t need my runners to escape. My new realm is enabling me to appreciate the many past runs I have been on.  I can now travel with my siamesed disability. My train trip that day was rewound on my way home from the city but I was beginning to interpret the stares and questions as lining an avenue I would walk, not as a victim, but as a survivor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi everyone!

Here is my May/June blogging! Please note that to read all of the May/June blogging you need to click on ‘July’ in the right-hand toolbar -there’s too much to fit on this homepage!

A reminder to check out the NEW shoestrings website (where you can also access this blog!) www.shoestrings.net.au!  Here, you can view some of the recent gallery items we’ve posted for the Shoestrings Exhibition, see below for all the details! Don’t forget to send us your blurb and photo for the exhibition- the more we have the bigger the shoestrings community & better the sharing! We’d appreciate any sponsors/donations for this event too, so please be in touch if you can help out (shoestringsorg@hotmail.com)!

 

I’d finished my gym session and waited with my walking stick out the front to save dad time. Dad double-parked, popped the boot and got out my frame.

 

 

I thought stepping onto the road with my walking stick would be a cynch.

 

 

“Don’t w or ry Dad I’ll…” and in slow motion I fell back, landing on my coccyx, hard on the concrete.

 

 

I sat stunned, legs dangling over the evil gutter. Cars were beeping Dad, either impatient or to warn him of my crash.

 

 

“Are you ok love?” Dad pulls me upright.

 

 

“Owwwwwwww”. I only get up because Dad pulls me up.

 

 

Witnessing commuters would’ve said, “Po or Girl waiting…wonder if she’s lost?” Then “…where did she go? She disappeared!” No magic. I fell. I fell hard.

 

 

I sit in the car. In silence. Dead Silence. No radio. Nothing.

 

 

“How was your day Dad?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the throbbing, pulsing bum pain.

 

 

“Oh pretty good,” he said almost surprised that I talked.

 

 

I’m home in my red chair. Safe.

 

 

“What were you up to today?” A friend asks later on msn

 

 

“I fell,” I say                                                                                                            

 

 

“I’m k though!” I add, not wanting to w or ry her

 

 

“Ohhhh Em… Are you  sure you’re ok?”

 

 

“Yeah I’m ok. Think I’ll invest in a mouth guard and knee and hip pads though!”

 

 

Certainly knocks your confidence! I change the topic. There’s no point talking about something that is likely to happen again.

 

A TRIP TO LORNE…

 

While Mum and Dad leave f or their day trip to L or ne, I decide to stay and write.

 

 

“Sure you won’t come Em?” Mum asks f or the fourth time.

 

 

“Mummmmm!!!!!!!”

 

 

“Just checking, now is there anything we can grab f or you bef or e we leave?” Mum heads f or the do or sheepishly.

 

 

“No thanks Ma, have a good time!” I try and say without revealing my frustration.

 

 

Later, after two hours of sitting I need to stretch. I’m b or ed. I grab my stick and head downstairs. Once downstairs, I gather I may as well go outside – get some fresh air! I step down holding onto the green dusty do or frame, making sure my fingers are clear of the spider webs. Ok I’m outside. I breathe out loud. I walk up and down the concrete path from our carp or t. Back and F or th . Back and F or th .  Pacing.

 

 

My only obstacle is M or gan (my dog) who lies in front of me.

 

 

“Move M or gan!” I push him with my stick.

 

 

He now lies on his back, totally blocking my path. He wants a pat.

 

 

“I’m not going to pat you M or gan. Move!” I demand.

 

 

He moves just enough f or me to step with my left foot and swing my right leg through, plonking it on the concrete like it’s a soft pillow.

 

 

“You’re no help M or gan!” I don’t need any m or e challenges! After ten laps and asking M or gan to move over fifty times, I return inside and upstairs.

 

 

Mum and Dad return at 5 pm. I’m in the same spot. I have no evidence of my trip downstairs. I didn’t see L or ne but I did take a trip down to the lawn!

 

When w or k was delayed, the Shoestrings venue fell through, my old scooter still sat under my foyer. I felt like nothing would go right.  I felt alone. Those around me knew I was finding things tough. I received encouraging texts that I chose to read as only negative, “It’s tough but you’re going to get there Em. You’ve come too far to slow down now.”

 

 

Me pretending, seems easier f or others. Internalising your thoughts means only you will be affected. However, there are so many emotions you can keep hidden bef or e they explode. An angry bee trapped in a jar. Soon enough, I become snappy and silent and sulky and selfish. No longer in the mood to fill awkward silences and cheer others up, the jar seal is broken.

 

 

But when anyone feels bad you just need to vent. You don’t want pity, solutions or encouraging statements. These “why me?” explosions are merely dregs of what we all internalise. An overflow of emotions.

 

 

But f or the other, it seems like this venting just elicits m or e concern and a list of “fix it” responses. They squirm, twitch and stutter. An allergic reaction. Opening the jar becomes contagious. There is no pill to mask it. So what’s the best thing others can do? Listen; Let it run its course. This poem says it all perfectly:

 

LISTEN

When I ask you to listen to me
and you start giving advice
you have not done what I asked.

When I ask you to listen to me
and you begin to tell me why I shouldn’t feel that way,
you are trampling on my feelings.

When I ask you to listen to me
and you feel you have to do something to solve my problems,
you have failed me, strange as that may seem.

Listen! All I ask is that you listen.
Not talk or do - just hear me.

And I can DO f or myself; I’m not helpless.
Maybe discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.

When you do something f or me that I can and need to do
f or myself, you contribute to my fear and weakness.

But when you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel,
no matter how irrational, then I quit trying to convince
you and can get about the business of understanding what’s
behind this irrational feeling.

 

And when that’s clear, the answers are obvious
and I don’t need advice.

So, please listen and just hear me, and if you want to talk,
wait a minute f or your turn; and I’ll listen to you.

Anonymous

 

Then, my p or ridge exploded, my microwave blew up and my glasses broke. Cursed.  Another friend won a holiday and a friend heard she was successful in her job application. I was so happy f or all these friends, but I’ll be honest with you and say I felt like the ugly duckling, An odd sock. An odd, smelly sock.

 

“Everything’s going wrong,” I exclaimed to my cleaner. On cue, the washing machine starting violently shaking as if there was a wild beast trapped.

 

My cleaner said, “It’s just not balanced Em,” and leaves to fix it.

 

“Like me” I mutter to myself. “I wish I could even out my or gans and my balance was fixed!

 

What’s m or e my close friend texted me her engagement news to cheer me up. I’m so so happy f or her but I guess it wasn’t the ‘bandaid’ I needed. Comments like, other ‘couples better get their sJanes on” (to get married) made me feel w or se.  I couldn’t tie my sJanes, move in them and didn’t have anyone to sJane with. 

 

I needed to get away; I was on a ‘stinging’ spree and just hurting those close, anyone, anything. I arranged a flight to Sydney ; a hug from my niece was my desperate need! So I spontaneously booked a Saturday afternoon flight, booked medical assistance and cancelled all my daily medical appointments. However, due to ‘bumper to bumper traffic’ to the escape plane, after zig zagging f or over 100 metres a distance of 10 metres at the airp or t check–in, the Virgin Blue Assistant said, “S or ry Mam your flight has now closed!” “Are you serious?” I said in disbelief. After much discussion, I was booked on the next flight to Sydney … three hours later! I had three hours to ‘hang out’ at Melbourne airp or t. What’s m or e, the Attendant wanted me to check-in my frame and wait in a wheelchair. A chair I couldn’t push! Great! I asked to keep my frame and make my own way to Gate 7.

 

 

After a coffee, browsing books and, magazines in the Newsagency, expl or ing the ‘Aussie’ beer holders and magnets, I set out f or Gate 7 and the metal detect or on my way.

 

 

Let’s just say the entire scanning process not only lays bare  your luggage but leaves a traveller m or e vulnerable. Exposed. What I didn’t need!

 

 

So it was my turn. The security guard approached me.

 

 “Ok I’ll take this (my frame) and you walk through,” he said wheeling my frame one handed out of my sight. Kidnapped. Stranded. How could I walk without it? Did the guy think I was using it f or fun? Obviously. Now a queue had f or med behind me. Like when you regret entering the 12 item or less isle in a supermarket after being stuck behind someone with at least 50 items, a tantrumming kid or a lady who,s left her items to retrieve the ricotta cheese she f or got.

 

 

“Come on!’ and ‘ Great I’m going to miss my flight!’ Those queued behind me must hold back these  comments while officials scan their bags f or possible sharp objects they may lose. Sciss or s. Tweezers.

 

 

Embarrassed I turned to the queue to my left and said “S or ry everyone”. By this stage the guy had figured out my frame was required to stop the human jam I’d created, and had wheeled it back to me.

 

 

“Can you walk through the arch without it? He queried.

 

 

“Yep, if I hold onto something. My balance is so bad,” I say to justify myself. 

 

 

“Barry can you hold the lady’s hand and help her through?” the security man says to his colleague, handballing me to Barry.

 

 

Barry hesitated like I’d asked f or his hand in marriage. “Ohhh..ok!” He waltzed me through, rigidly.

 

 

“Just hold onto that Mam!” he said, grabbing my left hand and f or cing it to a glass panel barrier. I hold it, as there is nothing else to hold onto. Great! I wait f or my frame, hoping the glass won’t shatter.

 

 

Gate 7 was the very last gate on my right  Early! I found a seat and waited. However it was soon scheduled to board but there were no staff to check my ticket. I waited. I got up and stiffly looked up at the hanging TV - next flight to the Gold Coast. I checked my ticket, “Gate 7. Yep. But why wasn’t anyone waiting?’

 

 

Desperate and beginning to trade my calmness f or anxiety, I asked a guy walking in my direction, “Excuse me!” He half  ign or ed me, clearly unsure why I would talk to him. “S or ry” I said walking closer to him, giving him no option but to help me. “I’m due to board f or a Sydney flight now, here at gate 7, but I’m confused as the screen says ‘Gold Coast’!” I showed him my ticket in case he misunderstood me. I’d talked fast and often speed means gibberish. As soon as he opened his mouth, a waft of beer followed. ‘It was only three o’clock! I’d wasted my precious time talking to a drunk man! Great! A lady heard my plea and came over saying, “Dear are you on the Sydney flight? An announcement was just made on the loud speaker to say they had changed from gate 7 to gate 1. Great. I’d blown my second chance to leave the state.

 

 

Determined I ran. Well I tried hard to run, it was like a wobbly, out of control gallop. Others stopped and stared single–file, allowing me plenty of room. I didn’t care. I would never see them again.

 

 

“I’ll let ‘em know you are coming” The guy ran ahead, coke in hand. Thankful but also humiliated that a potbelly guy was beating me.

 

 

I ran and ran and like F or rest Gump recruited others who ran in front of me. I guess the saying ‘ save the best till last’ I had to believe was true.

 

 

They held the flight and instead of being first on, this time fellow passengers waited f or me. I’d made it! I hoped I’d left my problems in Melbourne .

 

After pedicures, picnics and plenty of hugs from my niece, I felt revived. I was rested and ready to return home until I received a call the night bef or e my flight…

 

 Returning to w or k I honestly thought would be challenging but never imagined it to be this hard. I wasn’t merely returning to w or k, I had to lag around my new disabled friend- my disability!  What’s m or e I was starting a new job, so had to meet new faces, adjust to different roles!

 

 

Once I thought the job- seeking process, from routinely circling the Saturday Age Employment over brekkie to enduring interviews, was hard. Now I had a degree, experience and a new- found insight into the disability realm. However, my package also included fatigue, many physical disabilities and limitations. Initially, I decided to go through a return to w or k agency, namely the CRS, based in the city. Although this was a harder facility to access I knew they dealt specifically with ABI. (Acquired brain injury.)

 

 

My first appointment was cancelled; my consultant was sick. Instead I shopped on credit.

 

I had a neuropsych assessment that proved I was sane pri or to the return to w or k process. However to make me eligible f or the pension, Centrelink made me ineligible f or the CRS. When redoing my application, my f or m was misplaced. So, six months later we commenced a ‘plan of action’. As you can imagine, maintaining my motivation through this period was hard. I think my confidence was lost with my f or m.

 

 

Desperate to get back to w or k I started doing a lot of volunteer w or k and started an or ganization entitled Shoestrings.

 

 

Finally I landed myself a part-time job at  close proximity to home. I purchased a scooter and rescheduled my eye operation to ensure I re entered the w or k f or ce with as little disability as possible.

 

 

Then, in Wollongong I received this phone call,

 

 

“Hi Emma, it’s Jane from the Return to W or k Department.”

 

 

“Oh, Hi Jane. How are you?” I replied, sensing a concerned tone in her voice.

 

 

“Good, but I have some bad news Emma. I’ve spoken with the hospital and they have called the return to w or k scheme off!”

 

 

I stopped swivelling in my chair. I leant back in the chair. Was she serious?

 

 

“Are you serious?”

 

 

“I’m afraid so Emma. Just miscommunication I guess.”

 

 

It’s like breaking up with your boyfriend, snippets of your journey to get where you are, are played. All those mem or ies, all that eff or t – a big waste. You feel like begging, even though you know there’s no use.

 

 

I speed through anger, doubt, loss and upset and do a full 360 degrees back to anger.

 

 

“I have a degree, I’m motivated…this is crazy!”

 

 

“I know it’s not fair. I know how keen you were to start w or k Emma.”

 

 

“It’s just that well, you’re meant to be a return to w or k agency! I know it’s not your fault but if anything this entire process has only encouraged depression and the temptation to give up all together!”

 

 

I cut her off. I don’t want to hear why. It wasn’t good enough; imagine if I had no degree and huge cognitive problems!

 

 

“What we’ll do is continue to expl or e options.”

 

 

“I don’t want to expl or e ‘options’. I’m sick of expl or ing options!” I never get upset but now I have nothing to hide.

 

 

“But Emma you have so many skills and options still.”

 

 

“The return to w or k process has drained me of all my skills and in terms of options, there are hundreds of ‘options.’ I could w or k in Iraq !”

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

She senses now that I need to vent.

 

 

“Can I do anything to help Emma?”

 

 

“A job! Even a job w or king in a cark park collecting 20 cent coins would be great!” I say sarcastically.

 

 

My head starts pulsating anger. I feel like I’m about to explode. Erupt. Tears now escape – only from my left eye. My right can no longer cry! The release is half as slow. My shaky voice brings tears and these bring blubber.

 

 

I blubber to a point I’m too upset to talk. I arrange to ring back when things have sunk in.

 

 

“How hard does it have to be? How many challenges do I have to encounter?”

 

 

“It’s just not fair Em!” My older sister says trying to soften my stiff, rigid body with a warm hug.

 

 

Later my other sister, Bec, calls my mobile from the UK after receiving my text, ‘Job fallen through. Humiliated and so upset’. My mobile battery dies, so my sister plugs it into a close powerpoint in the kitchen. A cold, hard environment to mirr or my mood. I’m numb like an ice block. My mind’s racing like a boiled kettle.

 

 

Bec’s advice is to drive my scooter to the facility and egg them.

 

 

“Yep that would be satisfying, but knowing my co or dination, I’d probably miss!” I say monotonously.

 

 

She laughs sympathetically.

 

 

“Ohhhh Em. Wish I could give you a hug”.

 

 

 About to board the plane back to Melbourne . I wait as they’re refuelling. My tears would’ve fuelled the flight, a return flight. Constant.

 

 

The airhostess approaches me with my ticket. I’m not up for demeaning talk. She squats to my level and says loud and slowly to ensure everyone hears,

 

“N o w  E m m a” and then pauses  as if trying to get my attention. “Are you ok”? She was speaking to me as if I was dumb. No personal space. In fact so close her jacket brushes my knee. If it’d been socially appropriate I would’ve dead legged her. I had no energy anyway. My eyes tired from tears. You’d think they’d sewn the gold heavy plates on my eyelids, forcing them closed.

 

 

I take off. I hate flying from ear pops to the safety brief. At least I’m moving forward and on a one-way flight.

 

 

It’s early. Between my early rising niece and the chatty airhostess I’m zapped. They’re both too bubbly. The guy sitting to my left in the window seat flicks through the Qantas magazine and lands on a page re Japan . “Are you going to Japan “? The flight attendant asks whilst passing out orange juice. It frustrates me that he assumes this. Stupid small talk. “No” the passenger murmurs not looking up, not being rude but not encouraging chitchat.

 

However, the attendant obviously doesn’t get it saying,  “I got back from two weeks in Japan last week.”  They talk over me. My closeness warrants a simple slot in the conversation. For once I leave it and pretend to be asleep. I don’t care if it’s rude. I’m over being nice for other people’s sake.