Blindsided Read online

  SIXTEEN

  SMALL GOALS; LITTLE MILESTONES

  WHEN I WAS DISCHARGED from hospital, the feeling of euphoria was enormous. Dad came to pick me up, but before I left I went down to the ICU area to thank everyone who had been so good to me, and to say goodbye. Hospitals don’t normally allow patients to do that, but they gave me a special dispensation, and I’m glad they did. Those nights when I was freezing cold or screaming in pain, these people were always there, trying to help me. I felt that we had bonded on some level. And it wasn’t just me who needed help. There were ten or twelve other patients in ICU, also needing care.

  All day, every day—these people keep doing the same things. Everyone I encountered in ICU was truly amazing, although, because of the shift roster, they weren’t all in the ward the day I left. I just can’t overstate how lucky I was to have been in that hospital in Brisbane. I had the right people around me at the right time, and without that the outcome could have been very different.

  Now that I’d been discharged and was staying at my parents’ house, I needed to deal with all the press attention. It was Brisbane; I was from Brisbane. The press were all over us. It felt like there was this thing needing to be fed, and that we had no choice but to feed it. They just wouldn’t let go until we did. The day before I left hospital, I remember going over to the window of the ward and looking outside for the first time in more than a week. To my amazement, the car park in front of the hospital was full of TV crews from various networks, waiting to get some kind of comment. I remember thinking, ‘We’re going to have to handle this the right way.’

  I’d left the hospital without speaking to the press and the question now was whether I should speak to all the newspapers and TV channels individually. That would take time and be exhausting. I didn’t need that; nobody needed it. Of course there was the option not to talk at all, but I never seriously considered doing that.

  While I was in hospital, a few of the rugby guys had taken on the role of fielding the enquiries that were coming in on my behalf. It was almost as if a makeshift Brisbane old-boys’ network had swung into action. I’ll never be able to repay those guys for what they did.

  Slacky, with his vast experience as a producer at Brisbane’s Channel 9 News, was probably at the top of the communication pyramid. Then below him you had other rugby guys like Timmy Horan and David Coe fielding phone calls from rugby connections all over the world. I couldn’t possibly have spoken to everyone who called from the world of rugby—there were hundreds of ex-players calling, all hoping for news that I was okay.

  Another friend who was very active in the communication was former Wallaby Mark Loane. Mark is a very able man in the field of ophthalmology—one of the best in Australia—and, when he heard about my stroke, not only was he very supportive but he also did a lot of helpful research into the visual aspects of my symptoms. Then you had my parents dealing with close family friends, and Isabella being the point of contact back in London. Others generously helped whenever they could. All these people acted as conduits for communication from people from different areas of my life. That was vital for me. It took the pressure off and spread the workload.

  ANDREW SLACK: Michael’s story was big news everywhere in Australia. He was very well known. With my experience of the media working at Channel 9 News, I knew for a fact that the best way to deal with the press would be to talk to them all at one single event, organised by us. You sit them down, answer all the questions they have and then they leave. By doing it that way, you essentially kill the story and they leave you alone thereafter. I strongly advised Michael and his father that this would be the best approach in this situation.

  It had been a very tense period for Dad and a very concerning period for him. He always puts on a strong outward front, but I know that, inside, he feels things. Once I got out of the danger area and started recovering, I think that, because he had experience of brain issues and brain injuries, he was a bit shocked, as the doctors were, by the great improvement I was making every day, with no side effects other than the impaired vision.

  So even when I was staying with Mum and Dad, he was still worrying all the time, urging me to slow down. He knew my personality and he was wary of me taking on too much too soon. It got to the point where I had to have a chat with him and say, ‘Look Dad, I’m okay. I know where I stand. I almost understand what’s going on.’ I felt that I had an awareness of my own body’s needs. I also told him about the rule I’d created for myself. ‘If I’m tired, I sleep.’ I still stick by that rule now.

  Because of his career in psychology, Dad probably analyses people’s behaviour more than the average person. He saw a difference in me, I think, and that seemed to concern him. Admittedly, I was talking a lot, but I knew I was talking a lot. I wasn’t doing it because something about my brain was different. I was doing it because I was excited—‘I’ve survived!’ But I also knew that I had to temper that euphoria by making sure that I got enough rest. It was a balance I had to find.

  MARIE LYNAGH: We saw him as being much more compulsive than previously. He was very talkative, compulsively talkative. Driven. He was also really enjoying his food and eating very quickly. In fact everything was done at pace. We asked Rob Henderson if it was possible there was some increased frontal lobe activity [the part of the brain that controls emotional reaction], but he didn’t see it as being a factor.

  For me, recovery was all about setting small, physically orientated goals. Little milestones. I’d done it in hospital with the trip to the bathroom, the walking, the exercises, the reading and watching TV. These were all measures for me. A means of gauging how my strength was returning and how I was adjusting to what was, for all intents and purposes, new eyesight. And I’d over-achieved on pretty much every one of those goals.

  Staying at my parents’ house in downtown Brisbane was a great way to recuperate. I’d been in regular contact with Isabella and the boys and I felt that they were carrying on with life, safe in the knowledge that I’d be home when the time was right. As much as I was receiving support in Australia from friends, Isabella was getting the same level of support at home: people offering to take the kids to school or sports commitments; families offering to have the kids to stay over to allow Isabella some time to rest. I knew this was taking a lot out of her, but it’s not in her nature to complain. She just gets on with whatever she has to do to keep the family going, and that meant everything to me. The result was that I could focus totally on resting and getting better.

  A few days after my discharge, we decided, on Slacky’s advice, to hold a press conference back at the hospital. Slacky made sure that all the press were informed, and the theory was that they’d come along, listen to my announcement, ask a few questions and then it would all be over. I thought it was a great idea. Also, though I was tired, I wanted to test myself by seeing if I was capable of doing it. Dad wasn’t so sure. He thought that I was pushing myself too hard.

  Interestingly, a guy who wanted to do a special on me for a TV show in Australia called Australian Story also approached me shortly after leaving hospital. It’s on the ABC and it’s very good. As the name suggests, they do stories about Australians and they wanted to do one on me. At the time I said no. It was just too soon and I wasn’t ready. He was very understanding and didn’t push at all. I just wanted to focus on my recovery. Funnily enough, it turned out that his wife was one of the nurses in intensive care. I couldn’t help but ask him, ‘Well, how did I go?’ At first he said, ‘Oh, you were fine.’ I went, ‘I bet I wasn’t!’ and he said, ‘Ah, well . . .’ I’m sure I wasn’t the easiest. I don’t think anyone’s at his or her best in intensive care!

  IAN LYNAGH: We were probably more cautious in managing him than he wanted us to be. I personally thought Michael was pushing himself too hard but, equally, I thought that it was probably the best approach. I knew the press would want their story. In the end I was amazed by what he was capable of doing. He wanted to walk in unaided and the press were a
mazed by how well he looked. It took a hell of a lot out of him, but he did it very professionally and courteously by thanking all the important people.

  The press conference I gave at the hospital with Rob Henderson wasn’t as big a deal for me as other people thought it was. I wasn’t exactly enamoured with public speaking in general, but I’d obviously done it in the past. But it was emotional discussing what had happened with people outside family and close friends, even though I knew a good proportion of the people in the room because most of them were sports journalists. It wasn’t as if I was batting on a tough wicket, either; they weren’t there to ask me awkward questions like ‘Why did Australia perform so poorly in the World Cup?’ It was supportive: ‘Good on you—thanks for coming out and talking to us’ was the sentiment. I think I did it well and it was a good opportunity to publicly thank Rob and everyone who’d been so good to me. The first thing I said was, ‘If you’re going to have a stroke, have it here.’ How very true that was.

  SEVENTEEN

  A STRANGER’S STORY

  I WENT FOR A lot of long walks along the Brisbane River when I was recovering at my parents’ house. They came with me for the first couple of weeks, as I was very tentative and was still adjusting to the changes in my vision. Though I could walk a fair distance without too much trouble, my balance was affected somewhat. Also, there were some safety issues. The path along the riverside didn’t always have railings and there was a sheer drop to the river, fifteen feet below. It was dangerous, and the fact that the path was used by cyclists only made it more so. It took me a while to become familiar with the surroundings, now that I was viewing them through altered eyes. So initially I needed a bit of guidance to get my confidence back, though I was determined that that wasn’t going to take very long.

  The hardest part about the walking was getting to the river, which involved crossing a number of roads. I discovered that I could hear cars coming, but not bicycles, and it was eerie having to rely on senses other than my eyesight. But my mentality was pretty much as it had been throughout: I needed to understand what I was capable of. I needed to establish a baseline of ability to build from—‘Okay, today I can do this. What can I do tomorrow?’

  When Mum and Dad were confident that I was able to venture out on my own, I pushed myself a little further. I’d probably been out of hospital for two weeks. It felt like I was a child again—‘I’ll be back around 3pm!’ When I got back from walking each day, I’d lie down and sleep for four hours or more. It was deep, dark sleep—not unlike that night in the hospital when my recovery began. I needed it.

  IAN LYNAGH: He was incredibly driven about his desire to walk. He was crossing major streets in Brisbane and he was determined to do it on his own. I used to basically hold my breath for three hours every time he left the house. We’d peer out the window, waiting for him to come round the corner. It was always a relief—‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ He was incredibly strongly self-managed.

  When I wasn’t sleeping or walking, I read a lot and answered the hundreds of emails and letters that had been sent to me. Every single one of them received a response of some kind when the return address was available to me. It was emotional reading them all and hearing from people I hadn’t heard from for years. What surprised me was that while I got a huge amount of correspondence from players of my era and later, there were also lots of letters and emails from people who’d played the game long before me. I hadn’t met most of them, but it meant everything to me that they cared enough to get in touch.

  IAN LYNAGH: Michael had a formal routine for the whole time he was staying with us. Typical of ex-sportsmen, his recovery focus was very much on the physical, as opposed to the emotional. Every day was an exercise in making one more forward step in terms of his physical wellbeing, but he wasn’t really open to discussing anything else. That’s pretty typical of him. Any time we asked him how he was, which we did pretty regularly, he’d just say, ‘All’s well’, and carry on with his routine.

  I GUESS, IN RETROSPECT, my way of addressing everything that had happened was to focus on my physical capabilities. I’d go to the practice putting green at Royal Queensland Golf Club with Dad to see how my putting was affected by my reduced vision. I’d take that idea further by hitting a few chips, hitting a few easy 6-iron shots on the practice range and then attempting to play a hole of golf. It was all part of testing myself in a physical sense in environments that I liked and that were important to me.

  IAN LYNAGH: I don’t think the intrinsic value of golf itself was important to Michael. I think it was more a case of him proving to himself that he was alive and well by doing something that (a) he enjoyed and (b) he associated with when he was healthy. I wasn’t happy with him doing it, but it’s Michael we’re talking about.

  As much as I was focused on my physical recovery, I was also aware of the emotional rollercoaster a stroke puts you through. I’d read that mood swings and depression were part of the process and I was mindful of accepting these emotions and dealing with them in the best way I could. That said, emotions had never been something I was particularly comfortable discussing, prior to the stroke—not unlike most men, I suspect. Now I knew I’d have to devote as much attention to them as to my physical wellbeing. I suppose I felt that the attention I was giving the physical symptoms could only help the emotional ones, and I still believe that. What is it they say? ‘Fit mind, fit body.’

  One day changed my views slightly, however. It was a bright Tuesday; perfect weather. Not a cloud in the sky; warm, but not hot. As I left my parents’ house I felt glad to be alive for all sorts of reasons. The euphoria of having survived was tangible and the feeling that I had been relatively spared was very strong. It came over me in a rush of happiness, as it did most days.

  I was due to meet Mick (the guy who’d brought me the chewing gum and surfing magazines in hospital) for a coffee at Southbank—a public facility that comprises art galleries, the State Library, cafes, restaurants and even a beach and swimming area complete with lifeguards—right in the middle of the city. Mick’s office was nearby.

  It was only about an hour’s walk from my parents’ inner-city house to the cafe. Mick and I were chatting about nothing in particular when I noticed a man arrive on a tricycle. It seemed to be a modified bike; it was about the same size except with three wheels. I noticed that the man was helped as he dismounted and made his way to a nearby table. I didn’t think much about it and continued with our chat.

  About ten minutes later the guy approached our table. He walked awkwardly and very slowly. He said hello. He sounded drunk, but he clearly wasn’t. Then he said, ‘I just wanted to say how pleased I am to see you well and recovering.’ He held out his right hand and I shook it in thanks. I could feel that his hand had very little power. He struggled to even lift it. I asked him to join us.

  His story was to change me significantly.

  He’d had a stroke while driving his car. He then crashed his car into a light post as a result of losing consciousness. So not only did he have to deal with the injuries resulting from a serious car crash, but the stroke left him unable to talk or walk. He also lost the use of his right hand. His sight was badly affected. His life was altered beyond repair.

  This young man had been in his final year of medical studies and had been engaged to be married. He could not complete his studies and his fiancée left him, unable to deal with his physical deterioration. He told me that he’d had to move from Adelaide, where he lived, to Brisbane. He had no family and Brisbane offered the only facility where he could be cared for and recover.

  For some reason our paths crossed that day. I’ve often wondered why. He was out on his daily ride on his tricycle with his physiotherapist and I was having my daily walk, meeting my friend. Two strangers with something in common. It was a totally random event, but an extremely powerful one. Because of a stroke, this young man’s life had taken a devastating turn for the worse.

  When he left us, I was very upset. I c
ried. It was as if this meeting had opened a compartment in me that I’d been desperately trying to keep tightly closed. It was the place where my emotions were stored. I just couldn’t fathom how his life could have been so drastically impacted by a stroke, whereas I’d suffered the same thing and was relatively okay. Why was I spared and he wasn’t? I’d attended a Catholic school as a child, but I’d never been a particularly religious man. I thought, ‘Who decides?’

  I was getting into deeply emotional territory. I obviously hadn’t reconciled what had happened to me. I hadn’t had the opportunity. All I felt at that moment was guilt that it wasn’t me on the tricycle—‘Why was this guy’s life torn apart and not mine?’ I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I regret not taking the guy’s name. I went back later to the Southbank cafe to see if I could find him, but I never managed to. I enquired if anyone knew of his whereabouts but got no leads.

  Mick was very moved by what he saw in me. But he’s also a pretty knockabout guy who doesn’t mince his words. He looked at me and said, ‘Mate, you should not feel guilty. You are lucky—extremely lucky. What you need to do is use that luck to help others.’

  He was absolutely correct. I was very lucky.

  When I started to weigh it all up, it occurred to me how truly lucky I’d been in so many ways. I’d been lucky in terms of how little damage I’d been left with. That was the obvious first thought. In a broader sense I started thinking about how fortunate I’d been to have had the stroke in Brisbane, where a lot of people knew who I was. I had my parents, great medical staff who could see me quickly, and great friends who had the presence of mind to get me to hospital.