102 The Australian Women’s Weekly | MAY 2019
Relationships
Pillar of strength
Marry the bad boy, girls, and in the course of
ordinary life, run the risk of losing him. With
the thrill goes the risk – leopards, spots and all
that. I’d always been aware of that. Now, with
my six-foot frame paralysed
from the shoulders down,
heavy and rigid, legs jammed
together by spasm like
telegraph poles, with only my
right arm, right thumb and
forefinger vaguely functioning,
I was no longer a tall blonde.
I had to address my new reality.
I needed someone to wash and
dress me in the morning, and
lift my legs into bed at night.
I, once the practical one, had
lost the ability to do almost
everything physical except offer
a half-hug, propel a wheelchair
and hold a mug of coffee. Gone was the entire reciprocity
of married life. I needed a sexless saint, not a legendary
wild man.
I was alive, my brain wasn’t damaged, and I could
still work as a writer, but I had been hollowed out as a
woman. All allure, sensuality, movement and touch had
been shed. My identity had gone. In hospital, they taught
us about fertility and sexual possibilities, post-spinal injury.
For me, it was irrelevant, mocking. I was no petite, fragrant
invalid. My body was hostile to intimacy; I was insensate,
asexual, unfanciable.
My sexual bereavement was nothing, I soon realised,
compared to the loss of working hands, or of continence,
or of the ability to dress myself. Nonetheless, I couldn’t
inflict it on anyone else. I offered Dave a way out.
Previously, I’d never condemned people who couldn’t cope
when terrible things beset their partners. Some people just
aren’t cut out for it, and it’s better to set them free than
keep them prisoner. Bluntly therefore, while still in
hospital, I had suggested that we should – lovingly,
regretfully – go separate ways, allowing him to get a life.
He told me not to be stupid. “I’m going nowhere. You’re
stuck with me, kid.”
That brusque sacrifice moved me immensely and
continues to do so. I reckon it’s the ultimate definition of
love and loyalty. He proceeded to stun everyone who knew
him by evolving into a carer. Not the slickest or most
patient, but certainly the funniest. With humour and in
exchange for a free pass to the pub whenever he wanted,
he steeled himself to rescue me again and again after bowel
meltdowns, falls and breakages, and put me to bed every
night. That’s nobility! The human capacity to change does
exist. And we compromised. We hired a professional carer
to get me up in the morning; I bit my tongue as he
attempted practical stuff I once did effortlessly, wielding a
screwdriver or loading a dishwasher. In company, he still
flirts, because it’s in his DNA,
and he’s still the life and soul of
the party. And I watch, fondly,
wistfully, form the sidelines, glad that he’s still there.A deeper love
Over the years, we’ve recalibrated our relationship.
As I got better at managing my disability, the darker
times faded. We have eased into a modest equilibrium:
every morning, he and my carer Janice help me get to
my feet with a standing frame, and escort me as I stagger
up and down the living room. Even after nine years, we
both still notice tiny improvements in my walking and
foot placement, which makes us happy. We are
impossible optimists!
During the day, Dave has respite. Around the house in
my wheelchair, I am largely self-sufficient, and some days
I drive independently to visit friends. At night, he’s there to
sling my legs on to the bed, strip off my bottom half
unceremoniously, and wedge pillows expertly around my
body so I can sleep. The eventual death of my inner
superwoman has made me massively more tolerant of his
general scattiness and humbly grateful for his honour, duty
and sacrifice. The bond between us is deeper, different; love
forged with kindness and friendship. We are
interdependent: as he gets older, I can fix his mobile phone,
chauffeur him, locate his car keys. We still have each
other’s backs unconditionally. Our ability to laugh at
anything endures, although I never escape the guilt of what
I did to him. Even now, poor guy, anywhere he goes, the
first thing anyone asks is: “How’s Melanie?”
Three years after my accident, the singer/songwriter
Emily Maguire wrote Bird Inside A Cage, inspired by our
story. She summed up perfectly the redemptive power of
love in the face of catastrophe. “But it’s love that saves us
when all else has failed us/When you just can’t take
another day/But he calls my name like nothing’s changed
...” We have both suffered and lost, immensely so, but what
remains is precious. AWWMelanie fell from her horse on a cross
country course (left). Afterwards, she
told Dave to get a life – without her.