Chapter 37 My Encounter with the Bogeyman

                                      Chapter 37   My Encounter with the Bogeyman   

Soon after moving into the house, I discovered I was pregnant again, but within eight weeks had lost the baby in hospital. Following that second miscarriage, Peter was required to undertake further ambulance training in Brisbane. Ashley and I stayed with Pete's mum while Peter spent his two weeks living-in at the training session.

    I’d had some problems with haemorrhage after the miscarriage, but soon after arrival in Brisbane, it increased to a copious flood. My GP consulted an obstetrician/gynaecologist. I had a traumatic experience at his hands.

    His first  action was hormone tablets which I had to take two hourly all night. That meant that I really got very little sleep. When they were ineffective, it was necessary for me to see the specialist in his surgery the next day. At his rooms in a small block of shops across town a group of pregnant women sat outside the building, taking up the only stool available to sit on. I suppose to the women I didn't look as if I needed to sit down, but in fact I was near fainting from the loss of blood. In desperation, I sat on my overnight bag and leaned my back against a post for support.

     Blustering in at last, the doctor apologised, “Sorry everyone, I couldn’t get away from golf.”

    Never in my life have I been treated so appallingly by a professional. When it was my turn to go into his office, he questioned me closely about my recent medical history. I felt sick and dizzy and when I didn't know the answer to one of his questions he threw down his pen on the desk, shouted at me and walked out. After a few minutes he came back in, by which time I had the answer to his question, (I made sure I did!)

    Then he asked me to get up on his examination couch, cautioning me, "Don't put blood on the sheet! Agh... too late!  You already have!" 

    He informed me that I needed hospitalisation. “How are you going to get to the hospital?” 

    “The ambulance will take me.”

    Since he looked a bit doubtful, I added by way of explanation “My husband is in the ambulance.”

    At that he went out to his wife, who was acting as receptionist, and told her, "Call the ambulance. They'll probably take her. Her husband’s in the ambulance."

    I wanted to shout at him, ‘I'M SICK ENOUGH FOR THE AMBULANCE!!’

     When the ambulance arrived, I knew the driver. He was very considerate, which made a nice change that morning. He insisted on placing me on a stretcher and took me to the Royal Brisbane Hospital where I was admitted to a private room. (Peter and I had health insurance in those days.)

    A stroke of luck occurred when I was admitted by a nurse I knew. My arms were so weak I couldn’t take off my own clothes.

    I’d eaten no dinner the night before and had no breakfast, expecting I would need an anaesthetic. A ‘nil by mouth’ sign was placed at the head of my bed. I lay all day, my back aching from my empty stomach hammering on my spine, and hardly saw a soul. At 5 p.m. a nurse rushed in with a tiny bowl of pHisoHex and a wash cloth for me to wash myself, and while I was doing that she injected me with the pre–med. At the same time other staff arrived with a theatre trolley and a pair of leggings.  After a brief cat-lick with the washer I was loaded onto the trolley and wheeled off to the theatre. I was shocked to hear from the anaesthetist that my blood count was down by a third. No wonder I was feeling so weak. In a flash I woke up back in the ward, and the haemorrhaging had stopped. Peter came from his hotel to visit me at eight o'clock and I begged him to bring me water, the first fluid I'd had in nearly twenty-four hours.

    Next morning, the doctor’s first question was a gruff, "What's the date next Friday?"

    I volunteered a guess and he snapped, "No!  That's not it."  So I fell silent. 

    The sister at his elbow came up with the date and I was to see him on that day at his rooms in the city. I called my friend, Carol, a nurse who lived in one of the suburbs, to ask if she could come to take me home. Before I left I wanted to clean my teeth, and found i was so weak I couldn’t get to the bathroom. It took some weeks of lazing around being cared for by Pete’s mum before I was strong again.

    When I saw his nibs for the appointment at his rooms, his mood had not improved. “Why can’t you take the pill?” he snorted when I refused a script.

      “Severe headaches.”

    "Well, what are you going to do?" 

     Oh God, why didn’t You give me the courage to say, "Mind your own business!"

     Instead I said, “Condoms.”

       He was appalled. "Oh, your husband can't do that!  I'll give you a script for the pill."

    I swore silently that I'd never darken his doors again, and as I left the building I threw the script into a rubbish bin.

     Back at home, life settled down and I gradually regained my full strength. Ashley still wandered. At the end of my tether one day, I found him at a bus stop, 200 yards from home.

    I asked, frustrated, "What are you doing here, Ashley?"

    "I'm going to catch the bus."

    "Why?"

    "Because I want to take a holiday."

    Ask a silly question...

     At five am one morning, Pete and I woke to a commotion in the kitchen. Copying my bad habit of slicing the plastic top off an ice-block with the Stay-sharp knife, Ashley had sliced open his middle finger. We rushed off to the hospital Casualty. He was still only two and he had his first stitches. They would not be his last.

     Someone from the ambulance gave Peter a number of large wooden boards from a tractor case...'handy bits of timber.’ Unfortunately it contained many nails poking out along the sides, and Peter decided to dump them, (before they caused any damage to Ashley.) Dumps are fascinating places, especially for men and boys. With discarded building materials, odds and ends of treasure (other people’s junk!),and stray cats, males can be amused for hours. Ashley ran off chasing a stray cat, while Peter disposed of the wood. I stayed home.

    When they returned to our house Peter rushed through the door obviously agitated and upset. He was carrying Ashley, who seemed all right, but a  little tearful.

    “I’ve killed him! I’m sure I’ve killed him!”

    Apparently Peter finished his job at the dump and proceeded to search for Ashley, who seemed to be missing. Then he heard whimpering coming from the trash site. Our son was under the timber! Peter thought a nail had penetrated his skull. Another had given him an inch-long  gash to the temple.

    Number two rush to the hospital saw his second lot of stitches that year, this time to the side of his head. His skull was only scratched.
  
    Just before his third birthday I went shopping for a few hours with my mother. Peter took Ashley walking up the main street of the town. Arriving home, I walked into the house to find Peter sitting quietly with a glass of scotch.

     “Just settling my nerves,” he said. “I’ve had a traumatic morning.” He was literally still shaking.

    It ocurred on a Monday morning. Near the quieter end of the street a plate-glass window had been smashed over the weekend. As they passed it Peter suddenly noticed his son’s hand gushing with blood. By the time I got home Ashley was asleep from the hospital’s tranquillising drugs he’d been given while they stitched the wound. His bandaged hand contained eight stitches and was scarred for life.

    When he turned three I took him to a private kindergarten in a public hall. It wasn't a great success for Ashley because he and another little boy spent all day running up and down the long floor space. It turned out to be great for me though because I met a lot of other young mothers and the following year when our children went on to preschool, our group met at each other's houses for a cuppa and a chat.

     Immediately we’d settled in the town, I was asked to take control of a large Girl Guide company that had lost its leader. This time I had a full company of girls, about thirty. They were wonderful kids from the outskirts of the town, often from poorer families too. I did have a unit helper who took care of collecting the fees from the girls but otherwise I was the only  leader. Sometimes I went away for training. Most of the time though, I was still anxious and too scared to do much of a variety of activities with the girls. We hiked a lot, and once I took them to camp with the help of the leader in charge. Sometimes a local reporter turned up at our regular meetings and photographed me presenting one of the girls with a badge or something. They have difficulty in the country finding enough news! I felt like a local celebrity. Woohoo!

    Nearing the end of 1975, the girls and I from 3rd Company Girl Guids planned a concert to present to the parents and friends for our breakup. I had so many ideas but no confidence to carry them through. The kids did most of it themselves. I look back now and agonize over my inadequacy. As the day of the concert approached, I again had some interference in the sight of my left eye. Sure it was optic neuritis, I decided to ignore it until after the concert. I didn't even talk to Peter about it. By the Saturday night of the concert I was completely blind in the left eye. I kept thinking, ‘I’ll deal with it later.’ I found it difficult not to bump into things on my left side, and Mum told me later that at the concert Dad had walked up to me to speak and I had walked straight past him. He felt ignored and hurt. 

    On Sunday morning, all worry of the concert now behind me, I felt free to concentrate on myself. I confessed to Peter that I was totally blind in the left eye and needed to see a doctor. We left Ashley with Mum and Dad, where Pete explained the situation. Mum hit the panic button. At my doctor’s rooms we found a locum in charge who had recently returned from the Persian Gulf. Apparently he had seen a lot of torn retinas there and he was confident that was my problem.

     “ I’m sure it’s a torn retina, you’ll just have to fly down to Sydney and get a laser put on it.”  Wow; I’m going to get a trip to Sydney.

    He referred me to a visiting ophthalmologist who’d be in clinic the following Thursday. Meanwhile I went home to stay inactive in bed with a patch over my eye.

    It was a long four days.

    When I finally saw the opthalmologist, he referred me back to my neurologist, and his most significant comment was, "One of the things the neurologist will want to eliminate is multiple sclerosis."  That was enough for Peter. 

     However, I only heard the word 'eliminate'. The ambulance boss couldn’t do enough for Peter, insisting we leave straightaway to drive to Brisbane to see my neurologist. I stayed flat on the stretcher for the 4 1/2 hour trip, because they were still worried that it might be a torn retina.
   
    As I was having extended monthly cycles doe to hormone deficiency at the time, the neurologist  suggested I see an obstetrician before going on prednisone just in case I was pregnant.

    Without warning he picked up his phone to speak to his receptionist and said, "Get me Dr M. on the phone."

     I went cold when I heard that name, and surprised myself by having the temerity to speak out.

    I jumped in, "No, I won’t see him!”  It was the bogeyman!

    “Cancel that!"  Then to me, "I am sorry. I should have asked you."

    "I'll have anybody," I said, "anybody at all, but not him." Revenge is sweet.

     Finding out I was not pregnant, I was treated over several visits with steroid tablets for optic neuritis. Gradually some sight returned, but not much. One-day my specialist requested Peter attend with me at the next appointment. He beat around the bush so much trying to tell me the diagnosis, that I finally asked, "It’s not Multiple Sclerosis, is it?"

    His stuffy reply was, "Well of course, that is the condition about which I have been speaking."  I laughed at my own foolishness. 

    When Peter and I reached the car park we sat together in the car for a while; and I cried on his shoulder.

    “I’ll always look after you sweetheart” But I was born to be a carer!