On Broken Wing

Copyright © 2013 by Irene Ross.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/14/2023

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1     Reflections

Chapter 2     Hospital

Chapter 3     Institutions

Chapter 4     Strength and Courage

Chapter 5     Changes

Chapter 6     Beyond Tears

Chapter 7     Surrender

Chapter 8     Distraction

Chapter 9     Sheltered Workshop

Chapter 10   Only Way Out

Chapter 11   Factory Hand

Chapter 12   Good Company Bad Company

Chapter 13   Heart Break

Chapter 14   Broken Wing

For Mary—a life of living

and learning with the lasting effects of meningitis on the brain.

Mary, this book takes a look at the ups and downs of your journey through life—that journey which shapes us into who we become. For you, my sister, I write this story to find the joy in your journey, along with the sad times and the challenges along the way, and to accept and appreciate the events that shape your life.

Over the ten years of going back and forth deciding to write this, I realised I would regret it if this story was not told.

Book proceeds will ensure Mary has some comfort and support as she ages.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my husband and children for supporting me during the writing of the book. I know at times it was a struggle.

With a book of this kind, there are people to thank, especially those who shared their personal experiences of actual events. I know it was hard to revisit some very painful memories. I thank you for the courage it took for each of you to do this. I appreciate and value your contribution, for without it the book may never be.

To all the people who positively supported and encouraged Mary to push herself to the limit and to learn and strive to do the best she could, some of whose names are mentioned in the book. Thank you.

To the Wondering Hippy, thank you for your early edits of this very raw story; your advice was most valuable in shaping and bringing this book together.

Chapter 1

Reflections

The cold light of day was upon her. Her sweaty palms, her mind scattering her thoughts, jumping from thought to thought. Her emotional upheaval blurring her ability to focus on anything; it was as if the world around her was a movie playing in the distance. Voices becoming a focal point, hoping this might be of someone she might recognise, and then fading as she moves passed people in the corridor. Her eyes were searching for directions to the room where she may glimpse the very person she hoped she’d never have to say goodbye to.

Trembling all over, she headed in the direction of the wards, she stumbled! ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ her quivering soft voice came as she tried to apologise to a passing wardsman.

‘Mary, Mary, this way,’ the nurse said, rushing to her side, with a smile. Mary walked past me as I sat in the waiting room outside the ward. Realising she did not see me, I followed her into the room. As I slipped into the room, I found an empty chair in the adjacent corner. Where I settled I watched her and wondered how all of this had started, what life could have been otherwise for this once little girl with the innocence we all envied, and the impact of time and influences that forced themselves onto her.

The way she was moulded and squeezed into a tower of strength is truly nothing short of amazing.

I sat watching Mum and Mary whisper to each other words I could not hear, but I knew it was special, just between them, private personal moments—that special something that should not be ruined by voices of others, hospital noises, or the presence of strangers. I heard footsteps entering the ward. ‘Does your sister know that her time is near?’ a voice asked. Not instantly recognising the voice, I looked up at her. I could see she was a middle-aged lady with blonde dyed hair and several visible light indented lines round the edges of her eyes. With a rounded face and chin line, she had soft looking cheeks. It was the hospital social worker I had spoken to earlier in the day, now standing beside me. Her looks reminded me of someone I met many years ago with similar looks who was warm and kind. I thought to myself she must have witnessed families in this situation quite a bit. I finally opened my mouth. I nodded and said softly, ‘I think so.’ I turned back to Mary sitting on the bed, holding Mother’s hand. Watching their gentle and very special interaction, I began drifting back to our childhood to a time when I thought Mary would have been her happiest.

It was 1953, in a small country town of Regional Australia. Not long after the Second World War, we had very little food in our kitchen cupboard. It was a time when most families were strapped to feed themselves with basic staples. They, the experts, say depression in a country always follows war so the country can re-establish itself, and the economic playing field is levelled for its people. I did not understand just what that meant. For me it was a time when I remembered the laughter as we played games in the yard trying to keep ourselves busy. That day our play was interrupted by visitors—a strange, short but quite lean man, who limped as he walked, wearing a black felt Fedora hat, smart grey jacket, and pleated pants that matched accompanied by a slightly taller lady with auburn hair wearing a feather that stuck up and out of the back of her head. It looked rather odd from my perspective. What on earth would she stick a feather in her hair for, I wondered. Her dress was olive green with a little lace collar, very stylish with high heels to match. She was very well dressed, I thought, except for the feather! What did they want? We had never seen them round here before, I thought, wondering if Mummy knew them. David, Mary, and I edged our way from the middle of the yard over to the safety of the rear of the house, just far enough away for a quick retreat if needed but close enough to listen to the conversation in hopes of identifying who they were.

Stammering a little, Mummy thanked the short man with a limp as he handed over a large brown bag with a smile. He and his wife said, ‘It’s not much, and the bread is a few days old, but with so many little ones to feed . . . well, it just might help.’

Grateful for the goods, a warm smile appeared as Mummy hung her head downwards to shield her eyes and hide the tears welling in her eyes, and barely audibly said, ‘We are ever so grateful.’

Her voice began to crack as a tear, began to trickle and made its way down her cheek. She raised her eyes to show her gratitude to the lady as she handed over the brown satchel with its contents—a loaf of crusty hard bread, a block of handmade cheese, two onions, three potatoes, and a small packet that contained broken biscuit pieces. Mummy called for Joy, and as she passed the bag to her, Mummy gave her instructions to take it into the kitchen and place it on the kitchen table. As Joy took the bag, Mummy said, ‘Joy, be sure not to crush the goods, please.’ Scurrying with the goodies to the kitchen, Joy placed it on the table, eager to unpack the precious goods.

The news spread fast about the stranger and his wife and the contents of the brown bag, especially the broken biscuits. For us this was a rare treat that only happened once in a blue moon. Back then, at the local grocer you could purchase crumbs or broken biscuits from large biscuit tin for three pence. These biscuits did not come in neat packaged sets. If you could afford to buy biscuits to treat yourself’ and a treat it was, you would ask the grocer by saying, ‘Half a pound of non-cream biscuits please.’ Then, he would move his ladder over to the end of the top shelf behind the counter and bring down a large metal tin, usually two-foot tall and eight inches wide with a very colourful picture of a Rosella parrot on it. That was something our mother had not done for such a long time, so that was a real treat, broken and all.

‘Thank you . . . Thank you for thinking of us,’ Mummy said as our visitors walked away.

Times were very tough, and for a large family such as ours, ten children all told, it was especially tough to keep everyone fed and clothed. Back then, there were no ongoing handouts by charity organisations and no welfare payments were heard of. You had to fend for yourself, and many families broke up just trying to survive. As a child I did not realise what this meant for our family and I was not to realise for some time, but for now my focus was going to be on the illness. Mary’s illness would be something of a mystery to us, an illness with lasting effects that would map the future course of so many innocent and unassuming youngsters’ lives.

The day’s game playing had ceased with our visitors, anyway, and chores soon would have to be done. That day, it was the twins, Joy and Joel, David, Mary, and I at home with Mummy—the youngest five of our family. The five older children were aged between twelve and eighteen years, with the four oldest—Francis, Jean, Donald, and Leigh—working at the factories, the metal fabrications factory and woollen mill, just four kilometres away. Mummy said they were very lucky to have a job, but it was only because they did the same amount of work as the adults and were paid a third of the wages. That didn’t matter—work was work. That left Seth, who at age twelve was always in between—not old enough to go off to work and not young enough to be considered part of the youngest group of the family.

He and the twins, aged ten, attended school, when they could go that is, as they mostly stayed home to help Mummy with us young ones, the home, and gardens.

At five I had a snotty nose, bare feet, and was always wearing a very tattered hand-me-down smock dress. I usually got all the hand-me-downs from Mary, who was two years older than me at seven. Then David came, the youngest boy in the family, who, as a nine year old, seemed to think he was the boss of his little sisters. In most cases, David was the first one to take on any battles Mary and I had with the neighbour’s kids’ we played with in the street, especially when the play went sour and ended up in a rigorous verbal stoush of ‘That’s mine!’ ‘No, it’s mine!’ or ‘It’s not your turn’, depending on the game we were playing. Sometimes the words would become a shove or push and that’s when David would always be there to defend us. I’m not sure how he came to be there at the right time. He just seemed to come along when we needed him.

Older than David were the twins Joel and Joy, then Seth. He always seemed to be much older as he was fast approaching his teenage years, so he would take much pleasure in pointing out at every chance he got that he was going to be a teenager soon. It’s funny as a child if you were asked your age and you happened to be seven years old, your reply would be, ‘Almost eight’, no matter if you were just seven and one day old or seven and eleven months and twenty eight days old. Whereas the older we get, the reply is reversed.

I