Blindsided Page 19

  We turned around and saw, in the gutter between the beach and us, a shark slicing up and down, obviously looking for food. It was big and was probably looking at us, thinking, ‘Your move, guys.’

  So we’re stuck on a sandbank that’s two metres deep and between us and the beach is a gutter that’s also quite deep. And in that gutter is a hungry shark.

  I thought, ‘What the hell do we do?’ In all my years of surfing, I’d never been in this situation. I’d never even seen a shark. We could see the lifeguards starting to run along the beach and just then it seemed as if the shark had disappeared. We thought it might have gone back out to the deeper water.

  I had a decision to make. Do I sit it out? Or do I make a paddle for it through the gutter? It was a twenty- or thirty-metre stretch of deep water. Close enough that we could almost touch the other side. Far enough that we’d be in a bit of trouble if a large predator wanted a chunk out of us. It was possible that the shark had gone. There was also a decent chance that it was still in there.

  It was one of those situations in life when you weigh up your options given the information at your disposal—‘What do I want the outcome to be?’ Then you just do it. So I jumped into the gutter on my board with my feet raised out of the water and paddled as smoothly and quietly across it as hard as I could, towards the lifeguards who, by that time, were speeding out to meet me in an inflatable dinghy. The other guy did the same. Of course I thought about getting chewed and of course I looked down for any sign of a dark shadow flitting below me. But all the time I thought, ‘I’m getting to that beach.’

  As I was walking up the beach towards my parents, the noise of the sea disappeared and the vivid colours of that summer day faded.

  I WOKE UP WITH a jolt—‘This is real, after all.’

  I wasn’t on Buddina Beach anymore. I knew that because I was freezing cold. Every one of the four blankets I had wrapped tightly around me was in place, but I couldn’t seem to retain any heat. The bed was wet. Soaking wet. I thought, ‘I can’t have peed the bed, can I?’ That would have been embarrassing. That still mattered. Then I sensed that the bedclothes were soaked through with my sweat.

  I lay there, unable to move. It must have been late at night because I sensed, through my tightly closed eyelids, that it was pitch black. I’d discovered that if I kept my eyes shut, some parts of me hurt less. Whenever I opened them, it seemed that my body was pained by the fact that the left side of my vision was missing. It was like emerging from total darkness into bright sunlight: there’s a period of adjustment. It hurts. But there seemed to be no way of easing the pain in the back of my head. It was always there. Relentless.

  As I lay still, trying to fall asleep again, I started to notice the noises of the machines around me in ICU. I hadn’t really registered them before; during the day they were probably drowned out by all the other noise. One would bleep; then, a few seconds later, another would chime. Then another. They weren’t the same tone or the same pitch; they came from completely different sources. But gradually, it seemed to me that they were connected. I almost smiled—‘Surely, this can’t be right?’

  In my strange, semi-dazed state, I came to the conclusion that I was hearing the flute intro to the Canned Heat song ‘Going up the Country’. I quite like that song. And it’s pretty distinctive; most people know it. At no point did I ask myself what might seem to you to be the obvious question: ‘How could a few pieces of medical equipment possibly combine to play a tune?’ I just accepted it for what it was. It seemed perfectly plausible at that moment. So I leaned over and wrote two words on a piece of paper on my nightstand: ‘Canned Heat’. I still have that piece of paper.

  I fell asleep again, but this time I didn’t dream. There was nothing but deep impenetrable black. The sleep the dead might sleep. But I wasn’t dead. And then, however much later, when I woke up, it was almost as if a switch had been flipped down there in the blackness. I still felt exhausted, cold and in unbearable pain. That hadn’t changed. The physical aspect was the same, and would continue to be for some days yet. But mentally—having been reminded of something from my real life, of something that existed outside the walls of the intensive care unit, of something from the days when I was healthy and happy—I felt a huge rush of positivity. It wasn’t ‘I’ll hang on for a bit longer’, or ‘Maybe I can beat this.’ It was far more emphatic than that.

  ‘I’m going to see my kids again.’

  It was a moment of monumental clarity.

  IAN LYNAGH: When we came in on the Thursday morning, Michael seemed like a totally different person. His attitude had changed, seemingly overnight. We’d told our daughter, Jane, whose birthday it had recently been, how bad Michael was the night before and she’d come up from Sydney to see him. Michael was brighter and seemed ready to get on with his life. Almost as if he’d decided, ‘This is a new day; I’m going to fight this.’ Medically he wasn’t out of the woods, but mentally he seemed to be.

  As soon as my mental state turned around, my physical condition responded in kind. It was a slow process, obviously, but it was one that I knew was in motion. I had a scan on the Friday morning and the doctors told me that the swelling on my brain was gradually receding. I could almost feel it contracting, finally relieving the pressure.

  My sister, Jane, came to visit me later that morning. Despite the fact that we had never been particularly close, she was incredibly emotional when she saw me—she seemed genuinely pleased that I was alive! As she was leaving, she started crying again. I’m not entirely sure why. In hindsight, I think it was just her way of showing her relief and happiness, but at the time it seemed as if she might be wondering if she’d ever see me again. I comforted her and told her, ‘Don’t worry, Jane, I’m not going anywhere.’ I knew I wasn’t going anywhere but home.

  AS A RESULT OF my improvement, Rob Henderson and the team decided to move me from ICU to the general ward on Sunday, where the Acute Rehab team would monitor my eyesight and my coordination. It was a significant step towards recovery. The hospital gave me a room on my own in the ward because they figured I’d have a lot of visitors. It was quite comfortable, with a bathroom adjoining. It felt like I’d been upgraded to first class. There was also a small television set. It got me thinking.

  My biggest worry was my eyesight. Rob Henderson had explained that the damaged artery had caused irreparable damage to areas of my brain called the occipital lobe and the lateral medulla. The occipital lobe is the part that affects eyesight and the damage to its right side was causing what’s called contralateral issues with my vision on the left side. As far as I could understand, that damage was permanent. But the stroke that affected part of my lateral medulla had caused no noticeable issues.

  I kept saying to myself, ‘What am I going to be able to see?’ I was worried about things like reading and watching TV—all the things that I had taken for granted before I lost a significant part of my field of vision on the left side. Those had always seemed such simple things. Now I was forced to re-evaluate my capabilities. I needed to know particularly if I’d be able to continue my work with Sky, which involved watching a screen for long periods.

  First I picked up a magazine and thought, ‘I can read!’ There were some issues in that I couldn’t see the entire page, but I could read. Then I turned on the little portable hospital TV—‘I can watch it!’ I quickly realised that small TVs were going to be easier than wide ones, though. My reduced field of vision meant that I could see all of a small screen, but only part of a large one. The left side would be missing if I was looking directly at the middle of a large screen. Regardless, it was a big thrill that I could see at all.

  ALAN JONES: I was keeping in contact with Michael’s parents on a daily basis throughout. I wanted to mention him on my radio show that goes out across Australia. But I was wary of saying anything publicly on the radio that would compromise his privacy. But at an appropriate time, he told me that it was appropriate for me to say the things that I said, and to outli
ne what happened. Lo and behold, Ross Reynolds—a member of that same Grand Slam team—had been listening to my broadcast. Not long after that, in the presence of his wife, he faced similar circumstances, and it was because she recognised the circumstances I’d described about Michael’s situation that she raced her husband to the doctor. He, too, had had a stroke and he, too, was saved.

  That night, lying in my bed, I began to think about going to the toilet. I hadn’t been eating (I’d immediately thrown up the first bit of food I’d tried) but I had been taking in a little fluid as the swelling on my brain slowly decreased. Technically, I was meant to call a nurse for assistance, but I started wondering if I could do it myself.

  I was testing myself. Finding my measure. I’ve always needed a measure.

  ‘Okay, I’ve established that I can see. But can I walk?’ I had to know. But I didn’t want to fall and set my recovery back. Or get in trouble with the nurses.

  I lay there, surveying the room in detail. I made mental notes of potential supports and handholds: a corner of a nightstand, the edge of a wardrobe. I also identified a few obvious risks: a curtain or a lamp cable to trip on. Finally, I looked for escape routes: ‘If I fall there, I can grab onto this . . .’ It felt like an assault course. ‘Can I get there?’ I wondered. It would be a matter of sheer will.

  DR HENDERSON: Michael was a great case of when you should treat the patient, not the scan. The whole way through, Michael’s coordination had been pretty much intact. I’ve told him that his cerebellum must be a bit different from the average person’s. Even though he lost a fair bit of it, he was born with a better cerebellum than most people. Your coordination for walking, in particular, is affected in that area, but in his case he was untouched. Michael didn’t know this at the time, but there was also a tiny area of stroke—a third area—close to his brain stem. It barely showed up in the initial scans. At one stage we sent him down again and asked them to do some particularly fine cuts on the scanner, right through a particular area on his brain stem, and we were fairly satisfied that there had been some stroke damage, but it wasn’t a big deal.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood unassisted for the first time in over a week. I wasn’t totally stable, but at no point did I feel that I’d fall, either. Gradually, I picked my way across the room, using the previously noted aids on the way and avoiding the hazards. I felt like I was in a video game. I made it, and the return journey was successful too. Back in bed I thought to myself, ‘I can do this. I’m on the way back.’

  MARIE LYNAGH: When we came in on the Saturday morning, Michael was elated. He told us that he had managed to get to the bathroom unaided and it really seemed like he saw that as a huge obstacle that he’d overcome. It was monumental. Now he wanted to walk. So he got out of bed and walked, slowly at first, in a straight line to the end of the ward and back.

  Having managed to get to the bathroom, I felt that I was ready to try to walk properly. Nobody else thought that, but Rob and the specialists couldn’t really argue with my progress. It seemed I was completely defying the odds. Rob said, ‘You shouldn’t really be able to do any of this. This is very unusual.’

  The next morning, just after Mum had arrived to visit, I decided that I was going to walk to the end of the ward and back in a perfectly straight line. Mum was reluctant to let me try, but I was determined, as painful as my feet still were from gout, to prove to myself that I could.

  I stood up and was instantly reminded that I had absolutely no strength. It was hardly a surprise, given how the last week had played out: a stroke, very little sleep and almost no food. But I did have coordination. I was almost conscious of trying to send the signal from my brain to my limbs, and my nervous system worked as it always had; the signals were getting through. I was elated. I thought to myself, ‘I’ve had a stroke but I can read, watch TV, walk . . .’

  IAN LYNAGH: One of the signs that I got that the real Michael was back was when I arrived one day as he was being taken downstairs for physiotherapy. There was a wheelchair sitting there for him and I said, ‘Come on, Mike, I’ll push you down.’ Well he turned to me and said, ‘I’m not getting in that.’ He was actually irritated. He insisted on walking on his own to the elevator. He wouldn’t let me help him at all. I thought to myself, ‘He’s getting normal.’

  AS PART OF MY rehabilitation process, they started taking me downstairs to the physiotherapy department every morning. I looked forward to it. It was a chance to measure my progress. I was enjoying getting stronger and being able to do some of the exercises the physio showed me.

  But, more significantly, I was realising that the physical side of my recovery was very important, just as important as my mental breakthrough. I wondered if it was because I was an ex-athlete and had been in good condition for my age before the stroke. Maybe knowing what it was to be very fit and healthy made me want to do everything I could to get back? That was certainly how it seemed and my actions seemed to confirm it.

  The physios put me through a series of balance tests: walking upstairs, balancing on one leg and then balancing on the other leg. Some of the tests had a visual element built in. They asked me to step off a low platform to establish how well I could see the differential between the platform and the floor. I suppose it simulated stepping off a footpath—the kind of challenge I’d soon be facing in the outside world. Then the physios would ask me to walk through sand to test my balance. I could do everything at the level of a normally functioning person. Nobody could understand why. But to me it was the least I expected of myself. I thought, ‘Why shouldn’t I be able to do this?’

  IAN LYNAGH: Michael got through the tests pretty much like a ‘normal’ person. [His actions were] far less [like those of] a person who’d just had a major stroke, some of it affecting the part of his brain that controlled limb coordination. There was no actual strength there, but he was able to move exactly as they wanted him to.

  As the next few days passed, my mood improved consistently. I started to get regular visits from friends who wanted to see me: Slacky, Helmet, Alan Jones—all kinds of people I realised I hadn’t seen in person for many years. But nothing had changed. Five minutes of talking and we were right back as if we were on tour, in the dressing room or on the golf course together.

  PETER HANCOCK: Tony McNamee and I visited him on the following Sunday. We were expecting him to be laid up in bed in his hospital gown. We walked into his room and there he was in his jeans, button-up shirt and deck shoes, looking like a million bucks! Andrew Slack came in about five minutes later and the four of us sat around shooting the breeze. Noddy was sitting there chatting away as if nothing had happened – unbelievable.

  It was extremely moving to see my old friends, and I registered how lucky I was to have so many good ones. Rugby is like that. When someone needs help, people come out of the woodwork to give their support.

  TIM HORAN: I went in to see Noddy and by that time you wouldn’t have known he’d had a stroke. He had ice on his feet and I said, ‘If you had a stroke, why have you got ice on your feet, mate?’ We had a laugh about that. The consultant came in while I was there and I remember him saying to Michael, ‘You’ve not dodged a bullet here; you’ve dodged a cannonball.’ At that moment, from joking about his feet, I realised how lucky we were to still have Noddy with us.

  THE DAY BEFORE I left hospital, one of the nurses came over to Mum, who was with me at the time, and said, ‘What do we do with all the cards, letters and messages we’ve received?’ I had absolutely no idea of the extent of what she was referring to. There were literally hundreds of letters of support and email messages and faxes from people all over the world. A lot of them I knew, of course—I had a wide network of friends, ex-playing mates and work associates. But what moved me more was the support from people I didn’t know. To see their level of support really shook me. I decided that once I was out of hospital and recovering at my parents’ house, I was going to reply to every single one of them. That mattered to me.
After all, if someone I’d never met from Argentina or France or Canada was willing to write or type me a message of support, the very least I could do was reply. It would prove to be quite a job over the next few days, but it would form part of a routine that I was already composing in my head.

  I’d previously asked Mum to bring in my laptop so that I could at least read some of my emails. Dad was already stressed about the number of visitors I was having, and he’d become worried that, by answering a few emails, I’d be doing too much.

  I knew he hadn’t been sleeping well because he was worried about me, but when he started being a bit negative about me doing anything, I had to say, ‘Look Dad, me writing an email is like you writing a letter. It’s not a difficult thing. It takes me thirty seconds.’ I knew that he was tired and I knew that his desire to limit my activity was coming from a place of concern, but I didn’t need negativity at that time. So I also said, ‘The best thing you can do when you come in is be more upbeat. That’s how I’m feeling at the moment and I want to keep it going.’ He was much more positive and enthusiastic after that.

  It was around that time too that I decided to get on Twitter. I’d always said that it would take a monumental event to initiate a tweet from me. I’d always been pretty cynical about Twitter and thought that it was self-serving and attention-seeking. I’d only ever used it as a news source.

  So I decided that any tweet I put out would be purely informative. I got on my account and typed the words ‘I’m still here.’ That was it. It was direct and it said what I wanted it to. Anybody who’d heard what had happened and was wondering what the status was, well, here you go: ‘I’m still here.’ It’s still there at the very bottom of my Twitter feed. I’m quite proud of it now. They were incredibly empowering words to type. Since then, I’ve viewed Twitter very differently. It remains a good news source, as it always has been, but I received, and still receive, lots of nice messages from people. I always try my best to reply to everyone, even if it’s just a word or two. It would be a shame to not continue that communication.