GregKidd

On Sunday I would visit Dad.

Now there is no Dad in reservoir. Not even an echo. I despair but I cannot fall into despair, because Greg Kidd lived against all the odds of dying in that dead end country base hospital in 1965. So I must live.

From the time after the accident, Dad wrote:

“A pit with no way out had swallowed me and sent me spiralling downwards. That pit was also a lingering nightmare from which I hoped to soon awaken so I could get on with my life. What was happening could not be happening to me; such horror only happened to other people.

To combat the nightmare, I daydreamed about the things I would soon be doing. My dreams confirmed the temporary nature of my situation. They portrayed me as an able-bodied youth doing all sorts of physical activities. Not a wheelchair in sight.

I returned to my horse-riding and tractor-
driving. How well I recalled those long nights on the John Deere as I thrust it into the darkness and took my mind elsewhere! I directed my mind away from the blank picture my life had become; I had to do so, or I would lose my grip on that precious mind. If this were to happen, the safety to which it took me would yield to the unreality of the despicable things that were happening to my
body day after day…

Promises had been made about transferring me to the Chermside Chest Hospital in Brisbane whereI could receive treatment for my respiratory difficulties, but when Dr Owen and entourage stopped bothering to see me during their weekly ‘ward round’, I despaired that this would ever happen. It seemed that I was being set up to fulfil the expectations that quadriplegics only lived for a few years post injury, most of them succumbing to kidney failure.

One day, after being bypassed by yet another ward round, anger and frustration boiled inside me so powerfully that I summoned as much energy as I could to call the doctor over and demand:

“What about me?”

When he reluctantly complied, trailing the usual collection of white uniform wearers, I
demanded to know what was happening. I am not sure how influential my outburst was but within two weeks I was informed I had been accepted, not by Chermside, but the recently-created spinal cord injuries (SCI) ward, Ward S7, at the Princess Alexandra Hospital in South Brisbane”

Ever watched a game where the team expected to lose ended up winning?

That’s what people mean when they say “Any Given Sunday.”

“…we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back into the light. We can climb outta hell… one inch at a time”

Climb outta hell M. Dad left you a path.