Courage has a Face

Courage has a face.

It was one of those Ancient Mariner moments. Never to be forgotten. In a rural town the annual show was in top gear when everyone brought their best to town. Lining up for the ‘best burger in the business’, I glanced over to notice a woman seated alone. I could tell at first glance that she was no ‘lady who wore pearls’ kind of farmer.

As I was searching for a spare seat to eat my best burger, she waved me over and indicated that I could share her table. Our eyes locked and it seemed that we had shared an old soul experience. You know that instant when you click with a stranger.

‘So what brings you to town?’ she smiled into my eyes.

Not wanting to disclose that I was a journalist nosing out some stories with local content, I replied flippantly: oh the cows of course!

She laughed a great guffaw of mirth, ‘Aren’t we all?’

We enjoyed our light conversation but I had the feeling that I would hear more from this formidable woman whose posture indicated strength in her character and her purposeful gait was that of someone who knew her self-worth. Little did I know.

Do you believe that similar energies attract? I do. It has been said that opposites attract but that is not always true. It is a certain way of perceiving events and how they fit together that draws similar personalities. I had that feeling about my new friend. And I didn’t even know her name.

I wandered around the animal yards just to take in the sights of all those adorable foals, chickens, goats, lambs and those animal smells which are so different from those in the city. That unique aroma of cow poo has its attractions.

And there she stood in deep conversation with a group of beef cattle judges. Brazenly, I strolled over and joined the group.

Glancing at her name tag, I was able to greet her: ‘Hello Carolyn! Long time no see!’ she laughed and immediately pretended that she knew me but I wore no name tag for obvious reasons. I stretched out my hand: ‘Sara,’ I said so that she would think we had already introduced ourselves at the tea tent.

She looked at me rather intently and said: ‘Where’s your property?’

This could be a stumbling point. Truthfully, I said: ‘Down south in Angus country. You wouldn’t know it. Not a breeding property. But I’m here to investigate the Brangus - any chance you could give me a few pointers?’

She laughed: ‘Try the breeders’ association. That’s your best bet for some accurate information and not just gossipy trivia….’

I passed her a card from my father’s now defunct stud which he had operated until his death three years ago. She didn’t seem to be the type to delve into my background and after a quick glance, she pocketed it with one swift movement.

‘How about catching up for lunch? The barbecue here is top notch!’ On cue, the breeze wafted the tantalising aroma of onions grilled in beer and the smoke of the fires captured memories of other barbecues. It was pure nostalgia.

Strong women are the backbone of our nation.

So quickly dismissed as the wife of the farmer or the mother in the family, they are the strength in our society. I heard a professor say that at a university conference. It wasn’t until I heard Carolyn’s story that I understood exactly what he had meant.

After we had enjoyed a very good steak, we sat for a bit with a strong brew of tea – no alcohol for me till after the sun had passed under the yard arm – and I ventured to ask her about her property.

‘We’ve got a small place just outside Mt Perry – Brahmin of course – that’s why I’m here. Need to be in the know with what is current in the industry.’

I waited for her to continue as she looked into the far distance, way beyond the time and place.

‘I’d like to get a bigger place but right now I can’t manage any more than what I have. My husband is wheelchair-bound and my three teenagers are away at boarding school so I don’t have a lot of help managing the herd. Most of the mustering is my job and I try to keep the really big ones till school holidays.’

‘Gosh, that’s a lot of work for one person.’ I sensed a story about to emerge.

‘Can I ask what happened to your husband?’

I waited for her gaze to leave my face. She shook her head and sighed. ‘It’s quite a long story.’

‘Please tell me,’ I looked earnestly into her eyes and saw a great deal of pain.

‘Oh well, the short version is that he was taking a drink from the rain-water tap and bumped his head on the tank. He had one almighty bruise but we thought nothing of it. We breed ‘em tough in the bush!

A few months later, the headaches started and Panadol just did not cut it. So off to the local GP we went and my God, were we in for a downhill ride. Off to a specialist in Brisbane. Diagnosis: brain tumour, aggressive and operable. Before I could even think about it, the panic set in. He was rushed into hospital and surgery was performed the next day. To say I was in a rollercoaster of emotions does not describe my feelings. After a few days of hospital visitation, the doctor called me aside into his office. Grimly, he told me that my beloved husband, Spick, a tall, rugged, strong countryman would never walk or talk again. To say I was in shock was to understate the devastation that engulfed me. My best mate, my rock, the father of my two sons would never walk or speak to me again? It was inconceivable. I just could not contemplate what that meant for us.

However, the medical profession think they know it all and gave me no options. After a day or two, although I felt desolate, I thought I’d better take their advice. How could I care for a man who was unable to walk and more importantly, totally unable to use his legs? I’m not a weeper but I cried myself to sleep those few nights. How could I leave my darling husband there to be cared for by strangers? How could I go home alone to battle on with running our property alone? I could see no choice but to follow the medical advice.

I gathered myself together to go into the hospital to take a last look at him in that hospital bed. Even the smell there was antagonistic to every fibre in my body. How could Spick endure this end of life? I know it was anathema for me.

As I approached the door, a young nurse was attempting to feed him. I stood at the open door and watched.

‘Come on Mr Briggs, open your mouth, there’s a good boy... Come on now. Just a spoonful. Be a good boy now, come on, open up that mouth….’

I had seen enough. There was no way I would allow my husband to be spoken to in that manner by a nurse who knew nothing about him. There was no way I could live with myself if I knew my husband was being treated like some kind of imbecile so far from all that he knew and loved. If I had known that removing the tumour would cause this much loss of brain function, I would never have signed the papers. How wise we are with hindsight!’

I sat transfixed. I could not have imagined that I would hear such a personal tale told with such sincerity. Barely daring to breathe, I silently waited for Carolyn to tell me the best part of this story.

She continued in a more purposeful tone: ‘It’s really quite an experience when you stand up to the medical professionals who think they know best. I was told that I was signing my husband’s death certificate if I took him out of the hospital. That I had no idea how to care for a patient of that kind. Of course, I didn’t have any nursing experience but I knew where I could find it. My decision was made and I felt oh so good.

Arrangements were made. It was easy to deal with the local people who knew me at home. A few telephone calls later and the house would be renovated to accommodate a wheelchair and a bathroom would be built on the end of the veranda. Ramps allowed some easy access. Thank God it was one of those old sprawling farmhouses which had been constructed just a metre or so off the ground.

When it was all done, I announced to the specialist doctor that I was taking my husband home. Oh, how he repeated his warning that I was signing his death certificate. In response I said that my husband wouldn’t last 5 minutes being treated like an imbecile by the junior nurses. That shut him up.

It was easy enough to hire an ambulance – just very expensive! Then I engaged an experienced nurse to travel with him, all the way back home. It’s a long drive but we planned it carefully. Now, I’m choking up just thinking of the look in his eyes when I told him that we were going home.’

I, too, was overcome with emotion at the way this woman could tell me this amazing story of her strength and courage to live life on her terms. As I remember that time, I am swallowing back tears.

‘Oh Carolyn! What happened next?’ I implored her to continue.

‘Pretty simple really. I told Spick that he had to look after himself. I was no nurse. After two weeks, the trained nurse had put him into a routine to bathe and dress himself. She recommended exercise so I got him an exercise bike and we strapped him onto it. He still rides that bike every day for quite a few hours. As soon as his upper body strength increased, I got him a dune buggy. That meant he could be outside whenever he wanted. He was able to get around outside and check on a lot of stuff which saved me some time and effort. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his brain except the part that had been damaged by the tumour and its removal. He couldn’t walk and his speech had been impaired. Apart from that, he lived a good life.

I made all his favourite meals except they all went into the blender so he could feed himself easily with a spoon. Wanting to prove the medicos wrong, I made sure he was getting the right nutrition. He would not die while I was in charge!

Together we had created a family which I wanted to increase. My heart told me that I needed a daughter. I wanted another baby. After all, I was only 30 and thought I had to take matters into my hands. I went to my local GP who knew all about us and how we lived. Without going into all the details- please don’t ask- I was able to conceive and nine months later, my cherished daughter was born. How lucky was I? with my two boys and a little girl and my husband with me, all was well in the world. When I think about it, I sometimes have to suppress a smirk to think that I challenged those medicos and won.

All things outdoors entertained my husband. His daily job was to look after the chooks, gather the eggs and water the vegetable garden. One of his passions was to grow potted plants. So off to town we went and bought a good supply of all the necessary stuff. He enjoyed those simple pleasures. I loved the way he wanted to be outside doing something and to be useful. There was not a single decision I made about the management of our property without first discussing it with him.

As much I would have loved for him to ride the boundary fences with me, there was no way I could get him on a horse. It was simply impossible. I drove him all over the property albeit in a very bumpy ride as much as I could. One thing I thought of was to put him in his dune buggy on the back of the trailer and go over to the yards when the cattle were being loaded onto the trucks. That way he could supervise the loading of the weaners bound for the saleyards in Gracemere.

He wanted to be involved and I wanted him to be involved. He talked to me constantly and together we continued to grow cows!!!

It was surprising how people reacted to him. Some were a bit embarrassed to see my rugged bushman in a wheelchair muttering (in their mind) some kind of goobaldy- gook. They made no effort to communicate with him. It maddened me and I made sure that they never came onto our property again.

However, others were marvellous and spoke to him as if he were the old Spick who was definitely the man of the family. To me, he would always be THE man!’

She stopped talking. There was nothing I could say that would not sound trite. I looked into her face and saw courage.

She had entrusted me with this amazingly personal story. I felt so privileged.

‘You are the most courageous woman I have met!’

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘You never know what you can do till you have to do it!’

A wiser and more tolerant person walked away with a gem of a story.