It is amazing just the things that you think of when you are writing a blog about things that have happened to you in the past.
As I was writing these blogs, many thoughts occured to me. While I looked at myself and thought "wow, I have been through a lot of hard knocks", the thoughts that stuck to my mind the most were of those who can't put their own thoughts down for us to read.
People have asked me through my life, what I have wanted to do. And for the absolute longest time, I honestly had no idea. But after joining this cause, Helping Hydrocephalus, Malformed, Disabled & Sick Kids In Vietnam it became pretty obvious what I wanted to do. I have plans on becoming a journalist, and hopefully will get that dream started in the next 12 - 18months. What I want to do, is write about these kids, their families and the impact Agent Orange is having on their daily lives. There are many people in Vietnam who are helping kids and I think that their story needs telling.
Thank you for reading this very short blog. I hope to have a surprise for you in one of my upcoming blogs. Follow the link, and see what you can do to help.
Jim.
29 July 2009
26 July 2009
The Colour Orange: Part III Finale.
After that incident with Ronald, much of the teasing had died down. I had proven capable of defending myself, and not being too weak. This made things a bit easier for quite some time. Still didn't stop me from being picked last for sports teams, but oh well.
If I recall rightly, I think I had a total of six surgeries from years 1 - 7. I recall one Christmas, I had been very sick in hospital, and had almost not made it out of surgery. That Christmas, I received more than the standard 2 presents. I think the best thing I got that Christmas, was dad not working the whole day. It was not often that dad passed up a full double shift on a public holiday.
One of the worst memories I had of any of the surgeries, I think was when I was about 7 or 8. One of the kids in the ward was often lonely, and when I could I talk to him from bed. His parents were not their frequently, but he remained strong. One day, both of his parents made it to visit. The curtain was drawn and a while later, they were opened again, and there was a new bed there. I asked the nurse where the little boy was, and was told that he passed away. It is one of only the few memories of hospital I had from primary school. But high school was a whole different matter.
At the age of 13, year 8 started and I was devastated. For whatever reason, my parents wanted to moved to the country. Dad was posted to the police station there. Mum was still working at the hospital, but she finished that job not long after we moved. I did not want to move, as all of my friends, except for 2 were going to be at a different school. These were people I cared about, had good friendships with, and I know would have stuck by me in the years to come. Unfortunately that was not to be the case. Only 3 people I knew were at my new school, and only 1 of them would stay. All was pretty good for the first few months. I got picked on a fair bit, but 3 of my first bullies, would end up becoming 3 of my most loyal friends. The taunting had disappeared until near the end of the year. I had started noticing that things were not going as planned health wise. By January of year 9, my back had curved into an almost S shape. This brought on much bullying. The only place where I got no bullying was at Army Cadets. There I had respect because I was good at what I did. I had rapid promotions and ended up several years later as Company Sergeant Major. But back to age 14.
When year 9 was drawing to a close. My marks started to drop drastically from the stress I was under at home and school. My parents were often fighting, absorbed in their own worlds and unpredictable people to turn to for help. By this time, I had just decided that things were much easier if I just let things be, and not say anything. It is very similar to those who have been abused over a lifetime. At some point in time, you just roll over and give up, and I did. I kept up the facade of enjoying life, until I got to the cadet hall, or to my friends place, where I did enjoy myself, but anywhere between home and school was a different matter.
At this stage, I gave up the thing I loved the most, swimming. due to all the bullying. Wearing a swimsuit for the last time at a swim class at school was the most humiliating thing. The names Hunchback of Notre Dame, Quasimdo, Half Formed, Freak became common names instead of Jim. The worse thing about it all, was that the teachers did little to step in. It is amazing that when you start having physical issues, how many people automatically think that you have mental issues and are stupid. Even my parents would say, " What are you doing, are you stupid?". It was after the last straw when my mum called me this after an especially bad day of bullying that I burst into tears. It was then that they found out that the bullying was out of control. I requested that they did nothing about it as it would have only gotten worse.
The worst case I remember of being bullied, was when I had just finished a class. For some reason, someone had taken offence to my existence that day, and did a leaping punch right in the middle of the curve on my back. I think it was one of the most agonizing pains I had ever felt outside of a hospital. Although, that changed not long afterwards.
As my spine was curving, it was doing so at a rapid rate. The doctors had called it Schuermanns Kyphosis. We asked the doctor at the time, if Agent Orange would be a cause of this condition. The doctors flatly stated that Yes, this is the cause. It is more a form of Spina Bifida, but we use Schuermanns disease so it wont be linked. The worst part was this comment. "If you attempt to take this to court, we will deny everything. We can't be seen admitting this as we will lose our licences due to certain companies not wanting anything to do with this". Needless to say, we were all totally stunned. What I didn't find out until sometime later, is that dad had taken a $5,000 payout when I was in primary school, little of which mum or myself saw.
By the middle of that year, my 15th birthday was approaching. Sometime around then, I started getting used to the pain, the bullying, and was keeping fit to alleviate much of the suffering. Around this time, I had friends over, I think it was a little after my birthday. We were all looking forward to going to the military tattoo. Unfortunately, this event was not to be. While playing pool in the barn, I took a drink of water, and threw up almost instantly. I had thought not much of it, and cleaned up and went back to hanging out with my mates. A little while later, it got worse. I bought this to my parents attention, and we gave it a few more hours. The next day, I was taken to hospital and 3 days later, I was getting my duodenum removed. What had happened apparently, was that a blood vessel had somehow got pinched when my back was curving and cut off my duodenum. I believe I was in hospital for nearly 6 - 8 weeks, and had about 4 more weeks of recovery time. It was during this hospitalization, that I had almost died a second time. It was starting to become a familiar acquintance, more oft than not, quite comforting.
Age 15 to 19 was a relatively mellow time, in comparison to the turmoil of much of my earlier existence. In reality, it was more of a calm before the storm. I had finally come to the point in time, where I had to have my back surgery. My mother had muted my earlier wish to have it on the grounds that I would miss too much school. Honestly, I ended up repeating highschool, so that ended up being a mute point. I worked out for a period of 6 months, 5 days a week. I got a pretty impressive bod by the end of this time period. Then it was on to stage 1 of a 2 part Spinal Fusion. This is what the operation entails.
Part 1 consists of opening up your ribcage, removing a rib, and cutting the anterior and posterior ligaments in your chest cavity. After a 2 week break, they went in, re-built to vertebrae, fused the upper section of my spine after straightening it. It is said that the surgery is like being hit head on by a truck at 60km an hour. They lay your shoulder blades on a table during this procedure and take out a rib. Bleeding bone is taken from your pelvic bone, to make a bonding agent, and then rods are insterted. This operation was another time I almost crossed between this world and whatever is on the other side. I was to have one more close call a few months later, when my parents and I noticed that I was starting to get sores on my back under the back brace. The rods that they had placed in my back had a screw seemed to have not been able to screw in further and started breaking through the skin, causing a major infection. A gangrene like infection appeared as well as golden staph. They removed the rods, and put me in another caste, that I had to wear for 1 year. this was to be my final skirt with death. Sick of all the pain, I had decided that I was to kill myself. I had waited for my parents to go out, and arranged my room. I then laid down for a bit, knowing that they had gone shopping for groceries. I then woke up, took out my baoynet that I had been given by my father, and knelt down on my bedroom floor. I had just started to line up the bayonet ready to fall over on it, and then my parents came home. I put the bayonet in a dark place, and never took it out for over 5 years. I don't thank God, or anything for saving me that day. I find more anger that I was at that point. Later that night, I had a dream in which I spoke to the Dalai Lama. That next day onwards, I decided I wanted to get better. It took until I was 22 to have achieved some sort of normality. I flirted with alcoholism for about 6 months. Usually my start to the day was waking up at 11 am, having lunch, getting a scotch and dry, and playing games on my computer. After a while, I started to make new friends, and moved back closer to some of my older ones. After that, I went to business college, trained as an administrative assistant. I spent a month in Melbourne, went back to Ipswich. I then met my now ex-wife on the internet, and moved to Canada.
This will not be my last post. I have many other things to write about. There will be one more post regarding Agent Orange side effects with my hip issue. New posts will include observations, sarcastic rants and other insights. Feel free to send any more comments. And thank you to those who have followed my blog so far.
If I recall rightly, I think I had a total of six surgeries from years 1 - 7. I recall one Christmas, I had been very sick in hospital, and had almost not made it out of surgery. That Christmas, I received more than the standard 2 presents. I think the best thing I got that Christmas, was dad not working the whole day. It was not often that dad passed up a full double shift on a public holiday.
One of the worst memories I had of any of the surgeries, I think was when I was about 7 or 8. One of the kids in the ward was often lonely, and when I could I talk to him from bed. His parents were not their frequently, but he remained strong. One day, both of his parents made it to visit. The curtain was drawn and a while later, they were opened again, and there was a new bed there. I asked the nurse where the little boy was, and was told that he passed away. It is one of only the few memories of hospital I had from primary school. But high school was a whole different matter.
At the age of 13, year 8 started and I was devastated. For whatever reason, my parents wanted to moved to the country. Dad was posted to the police station there. Mum was still working at the hospital, but she finished that job not long after we moved. I did not want to move, as all of my friends, except for 2 were going to be at a different school. These were people I cared about, had good friendships with, and I know would have stuck by me in the years to come. Unfortunately that was not to be the case. Only 3 people I knew were at my new school, and only 1 of them would stay. All was pretty good for the first few months. I got picked on a fair bit, but 3 of my first bullies, would end up becoming 3 of my most loyal friends. The taunting had disappeared until near the end of the year. I had started noticing that things were not going as planned health wise. By January of year 9, my back had curved into an almost S shape. This brought on much bullying. The only place where I got no bullying was at Army Cadets. There I had respect because I was good at what I did. I had rapid promotions and ended up several years later as Company Sergeant Major. But back to age 14.
When year 9 was drawing to a close. My marks started to drop drastically from the stress I was under at home and school. My parents were often fighting, absorbed in their own worlds and unpredictable people to turn to for help. By this time, I had just decided that things were much easier if I just let things be, and not say anything. It is very similar to those who have been abused over a lifetime. At some point in time, you just roll over and give up, and I did. I kept up the facade of enjoying life, until I got to the cadet hall, or to my friends place, where I did enjoy myself, but anywhere between home and school was a different matter.
At this stage, I gave up the thing I loved the most, swimming. due to all the bullying. Wearing a swimsuit for the last time at a swim class at school was the most humiliating thing. The names Hunchback of Notre Dame, Quasimdo, Half Formed, Freak became common names instead of Jim. The worse thing about it all, was that the teachers did little to step in. It is amazing that when you start having physical issues, how many people automatically think that you have mental issues and are stupid. Even my parents would say, " What are you doing, are you stupid?". It was after the last straw when my mum called me this after an especially bad day of bullying that I burst into tears. It was then that they found out that the bullying was out of control. I requested that they did nothing about it as it would have only gotten worse.
The worst case I remember of being bullied, was when I had just finished a class. For some reason, someone had taken offence to my existence that day, and did a leaping punch right in the middle of the curve on my back. I think it was one of the most agonizing pains I had ever felt outside of a hospital. Although, that changed not long afterwards.
As my spine was curving, it was doing so at a rapid rate. The doctors had called it Schuermanns Kyphosis. We asked the doctor at the time, if Agent Orange would be a cause of this condition. The doctors flatly stated that Yes, this is the cause. It is more a form of Spina Bifida, but we use Schuermanns disease so it wont be linked. The worst part was this comment. "If you attempt to take this to court, we will deny everything. We can't be seen admitting this as we will lose our licences due to certain companies not wanting anything to do with this". Needless to say, we were all totally stunned. What I didn't find out until sometime later, is that dad had taken a $5,000 payout when I was in primary school, little of which mum or myself saw.
By the middle of that year, my 15th birthday was approaching. Sometime around then, I started getting used to the pain, the bullying, and was keeping fit to alleviate much of the suffering. Around this time, I had friends over, I think it was a little after my birthday. We were all looking forward to going to the military tattoo. Unfortunately, this event was not to be. While playing pool in the barn, I took a drink of water, and threw up almost instantly. I had thought not much of it, and cleaned up and went back to hanging out with my mates. A little while later, it got worse. I bought this to my parents attention, and we gave it a few more hours. The next day, I was taken to hospital and 3 days later, I was getting my duodenum removed. What had happened apparently, was that a blood vessel had somehow got pinched when my back was curving and cut off my duodenum. I believe I was in hospital for nearly 6 - 8 weeks, and had about 4 more weeks of recovery time. It was during this hospitalization, that I had almost died a second time. It was starting to become a familiar acquintance, more oft than not, quite comforting.
Age 15 to 19 was a relatively mellow time, in comparison to the turmoil of much of my earlier existence. In reality, it was more of a calm before the storm. I had finally come to the point in time, where I had to have my back surgery. My mother had muted my earlier wish to have it on the grounds that I would miss too much school. Honestly, I ended up repeating highschool, so that ended up being a mute point. I worked out for a period of 6 months, 5 days a week. I got a pretty impressive bod by the end of this time period. Then it was on to stage 1 of a 2 part Spinal Fusion. This is what the operation entails.
Part 1 consists of opening up your ribcage, removing a rib, and cutting the anterior and posterior ligaments in your chest cavity. After a 2 week break, they went in, re-built to vertebrae, fused the upper section of my spine after straightening it. It is said that the surgery is like being hit head on by a truck at 60km an hour. They lay your shoulder blades on a table during this procedure and take out a rib. Bleeding bone is taken from your pelvic bone, to make a bonding agent, and then rods are insterted. This operation was another time I almost crossed between this world and whatever is on the other side. I was to have one more close call a few months later, when my parents and I noticed that I was starting to get sores on my back under the back brace. The rods that they had placed in my back had a screw seemed to have not been able to screw in further and started breaking through the skin, causing a major infection. A gangrene like infection appeared as well as golden staph. They removed the rods, and put me in another caste, that I had to wear for 1 year. this was to be my final skirt with death. Sick of all the pain, I had decided that I was to kill myself. I had waited for my parents to go out, and arranged my room. I then laid down for a bit, knowing that they had gone shopping for groceries. I then woke up, took out my baoynet that I had been given by my father, and knelt down on my bedroom floor. I had just started to line up the bayonet ready to fall over on it, and then my parents came home. I put the bayonet in a dark place, and never took it out for over 5 years. I don't thank God, or anything for saving me that day. I find more anger that I was at that point. Later that night, I had a dream in which I spoke to the Dalai Lama. That next day onwards, I decided I wanted to get better. It took until I was 22 to have achieved some sort of normality. I flirted with alcoholism for about 6 months. Usually my start to the day was waking up at 11 am, having lunch, getting a scotch and dry, and playing games on my computer. After a while, I started to make new friends, and moved back closer to some of my older ones. After that, I went to business college, trained as an administrative assistant. I spent a month in Melbourne, went back to Ipswich. I then met my now ex-wife on the internet, and moved to Canada.
This will not be my last post. I have many other things to write about. There will be one more post regarding Agent Orange side effects with my hip issue. New posts will include observations, sarcastic rants and other insights. Feel free to send any more comments. And thank you to those who have followed my blog so far.
25 July 2009
The Colour Orange: Part II
Memories are a fickle, and often marvelous thing. After the trains incident, many of my memories seem out of reach. I remember the white Labrador the Jone's had next door, our dog Chumley, and then clarity came the first time I met Kathy.
Kathy, I would have to say, was my first, and probably most potent love. I was 5 years old. And they had just moved in over the back fence. I remember the summer afternoons when we would play with each other, and I even recall, we had some logs made like steps, so it was easier to get over the back fence. I don't remember her childhood features much, but I remember, that she was beautiful to me. Something that was delicate, yet tom-boyish. We were pretty much joined at the hip from when we first met. I remember many times, playing in the maze of packing crates under their house. I think she was the first girl I kissed, and played doctor with. I often thought afterwards, and still do to this day, of what life would have been like if we were still close. She grounded me, and was one person who always made me feel happy about myself.
My hip was better at this point. I could play, run with other kids, take a sneak away down to the sewer lids near the rugby pitch next to the train lines. It was by the time I got to Pre-School that I realized there were limitations I things that I could do. The first and foremost, was not being able to sit cross legged on the floor. This meant a lot of teasing for awhile, until my teacher explained it to our class. It was very humiliating, always having to sit in the front row, so I could stretch out my legs. I would always sit on the outside of the first row, and it was then, that I started feeling different than the other kids. I made some close friends, some of whom I have gotten back into contact with, but many still just bullied. This continued into Primary School.
Grade 1 was an interesting time. It was the first time I had met kids who were not from the same preschool. My friends stood up for me, but after a while, people just went to different circles of friends. I made some great friends, who stuck all the way with me through Primary school. We all had one thing in common, we were very different from other kids. Frank was a great kid, and a good friend. He had ear issues, for which they had to put grommit's in his ear. Kelvin was another friend, he was different because he had weight problems. I was never sure if they were medical or not, but I enjoyed spending lots of time with him. Reece was the rebel out of us all. The trouble that boy got into, I swear, was just insane. All you ever heard on the PA was "Reece Grey to the office, Reece Grey to the office please". We knew what he had done, but would never tell anyone else. What makes this funnier, is that his mum worked as a Teacher Aide right next to our classroom.
Peter was another friend. I felt a lot of empathy with Peter. He was constantly picked on during primary school, always bullied. I used to love going to his place, we would play lego, play on his computer or swim in his pool. His parents were always kind to us, and his company was fantastic. Finally, was someone who will always stick in my mind was Ricky. I think I was almost at his place, as often as I was at my own. His mum and dad were fantastic, his sister was about 2 or 3 years younger, and was another one of my childhood crushes. The hours we spent sat under his low set house, in the dirt, playing with toy cars, and roads. One thing I remember was the time I first tried on his glasses. I think if he could have seen my face, he would have laughed hard and long. It has been a shame that I have fallen out of touch with these freinds.
These were also some of the darkest times in my childhood. It was when I first started realizing that something was not right with me as a child, and even more frightening, not right with my father. Like all Vietnam Vets, he had the nightmares and flashbacks. Some of the things that I could never tell my friends were what went on behind the doors. Between the ages of 6 and 14, most of my memories are buried so deeply inside. This is probably going to be one of the hardest things I will ever have to write about in my life.
I knew things were wrong as a kid. Mum and Dad were often fighting. Dad was often out late, working over-time or having affairs. Mum would do the same thing, though on a less frequent basis, and only with one or two people at most in many years. I remember one argument, when I was about 7 or so. They were both very angry, agitated, and vindictive. They settled down, and went to bed. About 1 in the morning, I heard dad yell " you Viet Cong whore!" Next thing, my mum was sobbing, screaming and pleading for dad to stop. It was the first time, I had seen someone snap into a different persona. He was armed with a pistol, and was hitting mum with his fists, and once hit her with the pistol. I was stood during this time, in my doorway to my room. I don't recall a sound coming out of my mouth, but I do remember the surrealness of it all.
Something must have eventually came out of my mouth, because he turned towards me, giving mum time to start hitting him to bring him back out of his daze. He was not far from my door, when he snapped out of it. By this time, I was under my bed. I think it took several hours to get back into bed.
This would not be the last time things like this would happen. I actually believe it wasn't the first, but it was the first one I remember with some clarity from this age range. Many of my positive father memories actually came from three other adult males in my life. Mr Hart, Hans, and Mr Schloss. These three men were the adult males I would learn moral lessons from in my life, until I was old enough to figure them out on my own. Many a time would I spend down at Monica's house, sharing my time equally between her, her father and her sister Angela.
I am going to be slightly nostalgic, and recall Monica as I remembered her from my childhood. Monica, first and all, was probably the second female love in my life after Kathy. I remember much of the time I spent at her place, climbing trees orsitting in her room with a group of friends while playing. I remember the first time she got her cabbage patch dolls, and how Shawn and I gave her a hard time about it. I remember playing Operation on many occasions, and above all, remeber just watching her grow up. She is one of the people I have gotten back in touch with after all these years, and I know she is following this blog. So, Monica, thank you for many things. Thank you for always standing up for me, for being one of my first girlfriends. Thank you for always letting me come over. I often think that you knew, or recall more about this time in my childhood than I do, and always tried to make it easier on me. And finally, please give my love to your Mum and Dad for being my second parents. I have always loved your family, and always will. Thanks Mon.
I think I will wrap this section up, as it is getting harder to write it. I will share with you a funny story as this one has been a little emotional and very heavy for me to write. I remember one time, I was being bullied by Ronald Davies. I had finally decided that I would stand up to him, as just before my grandfather passed away, he had taught me how to box. For boxing buffs, I am a natural right hander. Generally this means that I would lead with my left. My grandfather was a South Paw. You get the picture. Anyway, Ronald had finally pushed me to my limits, calling me hipless one too many times. I walked up to him, as I was usually the last to get into lineup due to my hip. I remember him saying "Hurry up hipless". I walked up to him, and with an awesome uppercut to the diaphram, dropped him with one punch, and took him off his feet for 5 minutes. I looked up to see this stunned look on the faces of my class mates. It was then that I heard this clapping from behind me, and turned to see Mr Peters and some of the other teachers congratulating me.
The next entry is probably going to be hard reading. But it tackles the dangerous results of us children of Vietnam Vets. I hope you stick around, and enjoy the read.
Kathy, I would have to say, was my first, and probably most potent love. I was 5 years old. And they had just moved in over the back fence. I remember the summer afternoons when we would play with each other, and I even recall, we had some logs made like steps, so it was easier to get over the back fence. I don't remember her childhood features much, but I remember, that she was beautiful to me. Something that was delicate, yet tom-boyish. We were pretty much joined at the hip from when we first met. I remember many times, playing in the maze of packing crates under their house. I think she was the first girl I kissed, and played doctor with. I often thought afterwards, and still do to this day, of what life would have been like if we were still close. She grounded me, and was one person who always made me feel happy about myself.
My hip was better at this point. I could play, run with other kids, take a sneak away down to the sewer lids near the rugby pitch next to the train lines. It was by the time I got to Pre-School that I realized there were limitations I things that I could do. The first and foremost, was not being able to sit cross legged on the floor. This meant a lot of teasing for awhile, until my teacher explained it to our class. It was very humiliating, always having to sit in the front row, so I could stretch out my legs. I would always sit on the outside of the first row, and it was then, that I started feeling different than the other kids. I made some close friends, some of whom I have gotten back into contact with, but many still just bullied. This continued into Primary School.
Grade 1 was an interesting time. It was the first time I had met kids who were not from the same preschool. My friends stood up for me, but after a while, people just went to different circles of friends. I made some great friends, who stuck all the way with me through Primary school. We all had one thing in common, we were very different from other kids. Frank was a great kid, and a good friend. He had ear issues, for which they had to put grommit's in his ear. Kelvin was another friend, he was different because he had weight problems. I was never sure if they were medical or not, but I enjoyed spending lots of time with him. Reece was the rebel out of us all. The trouble that boy got into, I swear, was just insane. All you ever heard on the PA was "Reece Grey to the office, Reece Grey to the office please". We knew what he had done, but would never tell anyone else. What makes this funnier, is that his mum worked as a Teacher Aide right next to our classroom.
Peter was another friend. I felt a lot of empathy with Peter. He was constantly picked on during primary school, always bullied. I used to love going to his place, we would play lego, play on his computer or swim in his pool. His parents were always kind to us, and his company was fantastic. Finally, was someone who will always stick in my mind was Ricky. I think I was almost at his place, as often as I was at my own. His mum and dad were fantastic, his sister was about 2 or 3 years younger, and was another one of my childhood crushes. The hours we spent sat under his low set house, in the dirt, playing with toy cars, and roads. One thing I remember was the time I first tried on his glasses. I think if he could have seen my face, he would have laughed hard and long. It has been a shame that I have fallen out of touch with these freinds.
These were also some of the darkest times in my childhood. It was when I first started realizing that something was not right with me as a child, and even more frightening, not right with my father. Like all Vietnam Vets, he had the nightmares and flashbacks. Some of the things that I could never tell my friends were what went on behind the doors. Between the ages of 6 and 14, most of my memories are buried so deeply inside. This is probably going to be one of the hardest things I will ever have to write about in my life.
I knew things were wrong as a kid. Mum and Dad were often fighting. Dad was often out late, working over-time or having affairs. Mum would do the same thing, though on a less frequent basis, and only with one or two people at most in many years. I remember one argument, when I was about 7 or so. They were both very angry, agitated, and vindictive. They settled down, and went to bed. About 1 in the morning, I heard dad yell " you Viet Cong whore!" Next thing, my mum was sobbing, screaming and pleading for dad to stop. It was the first time, I had seen someone snap into a different persona. He was armed with a pistol, and was hitting mum with his fists, and once hit her with the pistol. I was stood during this time, in my doorway to my room. I don't recall a sound coming out of my mouth, but I do remember the surrealness of it all.
Something must have eventually came out of my mouth, because he turned towards me, giving mum time to start hitting him to bring him back out of his daze. He was not far from my door, when he snapped out of it. By this time, I was under my bed. I think it took several hours to get back into bed.
This would not be the last time things like this would happen. I actually believe it wasn't the first, but it was the first one I remember with some clarity from this age range. Many of my positive father memories actually came from three other adult males in my life. Mr Hart, Hans, and Mr Schloss. These three men were the adult males I would learn moral lessons from in my life, until I was old enough to figure them out on my own. Many a time would I spend down at Monica's house, sharing my time equally between her, her father and her sister Angela.
I am going to be slightly nostalgic, and recall Monica as I remembered her from my childhood. Monica, first and all, was probably the second female love in my life after Kathy. I remember much of the time I spent at her place, climbing trees orsitting in her room with a group of friends while playing. I remember the first time she got her cabbage patch dolls, and how Shawn and I gave her a hard time about it. I remember playing Operation on many occasions, and above all, remeber just watching her grow up. She is one of the people I have gotten back in touch with after all these years, and I know she is following this blog. So, Monica, thank you for many things. Thank you for always standing up for me, for being one of my first girlfriends. Thank you for always letting me come over. I often think that you knew, or recall more about this time in my childhood than I do, and always tried to make it easier on me. And finally, please give my love to your Mum and Dad for being my second parents. I have always loved your family, and always will. Thanks Mon.
I think I will wrap this section up, as it is getting harder to write it. I will share with you a funny story as this one has been a little emotional and very heavy for me to write. I remember one time, I was being bullied by Ronald Davies. I had finally decided that I would stand up to him, as just before my grandfather passed away, he had taught me how to box. For boxing buffs, I am a natural right hander. Generally this means that I would lead with my left. My grandfather was a South Paw. You get the picture. Anyway, Ronald had finally pushed me to my limits, calling me hipless one too many times. I walked up to him, as I was usually the last to get into lineup due to my hip. I remember him saying "Hurry up hipless". I walked up to him, and with an awesome uppercut to the diaphram, dropped him with one punch, and took him off his feet for 5 minutes. I looked up to see this stunned look on the faces of my class mates. It was then that I heard this clapping from behind me, and turned to see Mr Peters and some of the other teachers congratulating me.
The next entry is probably going to be hard reading. But it tackles the dangerous results of us children of Vietnam Vets. I hope you stick around, and enjoy the read.
24 July 2009
The Colour Orange: Part I
I was born in the winter of 1974, exact date, June 30. This is the year that my life story should start, but with all interesting tales of man, it actually goes back about 4 years previous.
My father, an armoured crewman on an M113 Armoured Personnel Carrier, of the 2/14th Light Horse Regiment, Royal Australian Armoured Corps, was doing his tour in Vietnam. He had completed his daily duties, if I rightly recall, of transporting a patrol out to their bivouac for the night, and returned back to base to a starry Vietnamese night. It was hot, always was as he would say, he had missed the 4.00pm downpour, which you could set your watch by, and had just finished dinner.
After cleanup, he was heading to get some shut-eye, and felt the first drops of rain on his skin. As his diary excerpts go on to recall, he stated that he had looked up in amazement, as it usually did not rain at this time of night, and to top it all off, there were still stars out. A couple of seconds later, a drone of a heavy aircraft had reached his ears. He had seen the outline of a spraying aircraft, and like all men serving in the field, thought nothing of it. That was until June 30, 1974..
.. When after marrying his now wife, they had their first, and only surviving child. That's right, you guessed it, moi. The doctors had done X-rays on my hips. They did this because dad had stated he was a soldier, and they assumed by his age, that he was in Vietnam, and he had confirmed this. They checked my left hip, everything was normal. It was when they got to the right, that they had found out something was pretty significantly wrong. I had a condition, at the time called Hip Dysplacia. In reality, the ball joint of my hip had not developed, therefore, the socket had not developed in response.
At this point in the story, we fast-forward a to close to my first birthday, 1975. For the next year or so, I could be found in a tangle of strings, plaster-of-paris, swab cloths and sheets. At such a young age, I was in traction. You would rightly say, and I would rightly agree, "at least it wasn't hydrocephalus, or cancer", and as I said, I rightly agree. It wasn't. It was just the beginning.
I will now endeavour to take you a few years into the future, as writing about the past, allows us the luxury of time travel. I was three years old, I think maybe four. We were living in a two story house. Typical 1950's construction, wooden house, almost telegraph post stilts. Ground floor, depending on the level of money thrown at it, covered with a room, or at the lower end of the budget, even more wood, spaced evenly apart to make a garage. Or in my mum's case, a ginger beer bottling operation, which had it's occasional mishap.
At that age, I had a fascination with trains, in some respects today, I still do. But at the time, it was the steam train. Just a few years before they were retired from coal-hauling. I would hear the train, and according to my parents, my ears would prick up like a dog at the sound of a rabbit. If I had fully-functional legs, that weren't wrapped in a full lower-body cast, I would have ran down the stairs and been calling for the train to pick me up. Instead, I was a bit more dexterous than this would have you believe. According to my mum, both of my parents thought I was pretty immobilized by my plaster, so they had the "luxury" of not having to constantly watch me and were able to get household chores done. At the regular time, I recall it was about 3-4pm that the trains came, the heard me excitedly calling for the train. What they didn't expect, was how clear my voice was, just like I was outside with them, instead of playing with my toys on the floor where they had left me. Yet here I was, as mum looked at where the voice came from, perched on the window's ledge, yelling and waving at the train. Mum called out urgently to dad, who sprinted up stairs and dragged me back into the house.
I am sure that you can imagine, how shocked my parents were. For starters, their son was not fully immobilized, secondly, they could have easily have lost their only child if the weight of the plaster had not been balanced so precisely, and thirdly, they were at a loss as to how this had happened. Being parents, they decided they were going to pretend to go downstairs. They had timed it so the trains were just about to come, and sure enough, mum figured out what I had done. I was left in the centre of the room, with my toys. I checked around the house, and leopard crawled over to the couch. Then, with some agility, I managed to drag myself up to a standing position, lean over to the left at a near 90 degree angle, pivot my right leg, and pushed it forward. Then I pulled myself onto the chair, and repeated the process to get on to the window ledge.
Next thing I know, the couch was moved to a different part of the lounge room, and the television was placed there instead.
I hope you enjoyed my first post. Feel free to critique writing styles, share some stories, or just leave a comment. Stay tuned for part two, coming soon to a computer screen near you.
My father, an armoured crewman on an M113 Armoured Personnel Carrier, of the 2/14th Light Horse Regiment, Royal Australian Armoured Corps, was doing his tour in Vietnam. He had completed his daily duties, if I rightly recall, of transporting a patrol out to their bivouac for the night, and returned back to base to a starry Vietnamese night. It was hot, always was as he would say, he had missed the 4.00pm downpour, which you could set your watch by, and had just finished dinner.
After cleanup, he was heading to get some shut-eye, and felt the first drops of rain on his skin. As his diary excerpts go on to recall, he stated that he had looked up in amazement, as it usually did not rain at this time of night, and to top it all off, there were still stars out. A couple of seconds later, a drone of a heavy aircraft had reached his ears. He had seen the outline of a spraying aircraft, and like all men serving in the field, thought nothing of it. That was until June 30, 1974..
.. When after marrying his now wife, they had their first, and only surviving child. That's right, you guessed it, moi. The doctors had done X-rays on my hips. They did this because dad had stated he was a soldier, and they assumed by his age, that he was in Vietnam, and he had confirmed this. They checked my left hip, everything was normal. It was when they got to the right, that they had found out something was pretty significantly wrong. I had a condition, at the time called Hip Dysplacia. In reality, the ball joint of my hip had not developed, therefore, the socket had not developed in response.
At this point in the story, we fast-forward a to close to my first birthday, 1975. For the next year or so, I could be found in a tangle of strings, plaster-of-paris, swab cloths and sheets. At such a young age, I was in traction. You would rightly say, and I would rightly agree, "at least it wasn't hydrocephalus, or cancer", and as I said, I rightly agree. It wasn't. It was just the beginning.
I will now endeavour to take you a few years into the future, as writing about the past, allows us the luxury of time travel. I was three years old, I think maybe four. We were living in a two story house. Typical 1950's construction, wooden house, almost telegraph post stilts. Ground floor, depending on the level of money thrown at it, covered with a room, or at the lower end of the budget, even more wood, spaced evenly apart to make a garage. Or in my mum's case, a ginger beer bottling operation, which had it's occasional mishap.
At that age, I had a fascination with trains, in some respects today, I still do. But at the time, it was the steam train. Just a few years before they were retired from coal-hauling. I would hear the train, and according to my parents, my ears would prick up like a dog at the sound of a rabbit. If I had fully-functional legs, that weren't wrapped in a full lower-body cast, I would have ran down the stairs and been calling for the train to pick me up. Instead, I was a bit more dexterous than this would have you believe. According to my mum, both of my parents thought I was pretty immobilized by my plaster, so they had the "luxury" of not having to constantly watch me and were able to get household chores done. At the regular time, I recall it was about 3-4pm that the trains came, the heard me excitedly calling for the train. What they didn't expect, was how clear my voice was, just like I was outside with them, instead of playing with my toys on the floor where they had left me. Yet here I was, as mum looked at where the voice came from, perched on the window's ledge, yelling and waving at the train. Mum called out urgently to dad, who sprinted up stairs and dragged me back into the house.
I am sure that you can imagine, how shocked my parents were. For starters, their son was not fully immobilized, secondly, they could have easily have lost their only child if the weight of the plaster had not been balanced so precisely, and thirdly, they were at a loss as to how this had happened. Being parents, they decided they were going to pretend to go downstairs. They had timed it so the trains were just about to come, and sure enough, mum figured out what I had done. I was left in the centre of the room, with my toys. I checked around the house, and leopard crawled over to the couch. Then, with some agility, I managed to drag myself up to a standing position, lean over to the left at a near 90 degree angle, pivot my right leg, and pushed it forward. Then I pulled myself onto the chair, and repeated the process to get on to the window ledge.
Next thing I know, the couch was moved to a different part of the lounge room, and the television was placed there instead.
I hope you enjoyed my first post. Feel free to critique writing styles, share some stories, or just leave a comment. Stay tuned for part two, coming soon to a computer screen near you.
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