I have been thinking about whether or not I would post this story for a while. I was going to try and stay away from personal topics because I would hate nothing more than to come across as an attention seeker or a charity case. After a long hard think, I decided that I would in fact post this. Not for attention, not for a pity party and definitely not for people to treat me any differently but as a way for me to vent.
Most people only know one side to me. You know the side I’m talking about, the loud mouthed spastic who doesn’t think before she speaks. But there is a side not many people witness first hand.
Exactly twelve months ago I received the most horrible phone call I could ever imagine. The only words I can remember were, “Nat, dad has been in an accident.” I can honestly say I had never cried like that in my life. I was in a haze, I could hardly breathe and it felt like my head might combust.
My dad had been camping and was riding the motorbike when he fell off. My nephew found him and ran to my brother saying, “We need to take pop to the hospital, he has a hole in his head."
He was placed in an induced coma and flown to the Royal Melbourne Hospital. After my hysterical crying fit I decided maybe it wasn’t that bad, maybe he just needed some stitches and antibiotics. I went to bed, but lay there for the entire night going through a mass of horrible scenarios.
The next morning, Craig (my boyfriend at the time) drove me to Melbourne. It was the morning after the easter bunny had been and all I could think was “poor dad won’t have any easter eggs.”
We stopped at Kmart on the way and I filled bags of supplies for dad. He had been camping, he wouldn’t have clean clothes. He had been there for three days, he might need to shave. He might get bored, I better get him a puzzle book.
We arrived at the hospital and I pictured my dad, sitting up in a bed with a bandaid on his head and a big grin on his face. I picked up the reception phone and asked for his room number. “He’s in intensive care. Go to level two”.
I figured there was a mistake, he wouldn’t be in intensive care. I trotted along with my bag of goodies and an easter egg under my arm.
We got off the elevator, walked to the glass doors, pushed the little button and told the receptionist who we were there to see.
We had to walk past eleven other beds before we got to dad. That’s eleven other people in intensive care. That’s eleven other people struggling to live. Craig stopped, I asked him why to which he replied “because thats your dad”.
Thats not my dad. My dad doesn’t have half of his head shaved. My dad doesn’t have staples in his head. My dad doesn’t get fed by a tube in his nose. My dad doesn’t have a breathing tube down his throat. My dad doesn’t have heart monitors attached to his chest. My dad doesn’t have bruises and sores covering his body.
Then I realised that was my dad, and I cried just as hard as I had the night before.
I sat beside him for the rest of the day, trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Eventually they told us he had to go off for more scans and that visiting hours were over.
The next morning I was back at the hospital, sitting in a chair beside my coma induced dad. He was meant to wake up but still hadn’t.
I’m not sure how long it took for him to wake up. Sometimes I think it was a couple of days but to be honest, it felt like he was in that coma forever. When he did eventually wake up he was not happy, nor would anyone be if they were camping one minute and the next they were laying under fluorescent lights with a tube down their throat.
Over the next couple of days he was up and down. One day he would smile when I walked in, the next he wouldn’t even move. One day he would get up and eat in a chair, the next he wouldn’t even open his eyes. His entire body was swollen and he looked nothing like my dad.
Eventually he was moved to the ward on the ninth floor. He had a nurse with him all day and night to make sure he didn’t wander off or fall over. He wasn’t allowed to read the newspaper, watch TV, have the lights on or have more than two visitors in his room at once. He had to rest his brain in order to recover. He knew who I was the second he woke up which made it all a little easier, but it still broke my heart every time I asked him where he was and he didn’t know.
After a couple of weeks (that's a guess, I honestly lost track of time) he was transferred to a rehabilitation centre. He learnt how to do basic things again and he started to become more aware of what was happening around him instead of laying in his bed staring at the ceiling all day. He was allowed to have a weekend away as long as he had 24-hour supervision. I took him to his brothers house and it was great to see him out in the fresh air instead of trapped in a hospital or rehab centre.
Eventually I heard the words I had been waiting weeks for, “your dad can go home”.
The past year has been an emotional roller coaster. There has been ups and downs, happy times and sad. I’ve lost friends, gained new ones and realised which ones mean the most. I’ve become closer to some family members and noticed how little others care.
Even though it has been the hardest thing I have ever done, I would not have it any other way. My Dad is the most important person in my life and he will always be my number one priority.
