Yes – just like Jerry Springer, the host gets to spout some opinions about the whole ordeal. I haven’t really gone into my inner thoughts about the accident until now – neither on the blog, or in real life – so strap yourself in.

 

Firstly, if it seems a bit self-indulgent to write fifteen parts about my one accident, you may not have gathered that this is a bit cathartic for me. Like I can write about it, publish it, and then I can come to terms with it and move on. And a lot of shit happened to me in the past months. Plus, I’m quietly proving to myself that I haven’t lost the ability to write. I’ve clearly got ‘quantity’ down pat, next up is ‘quality’.

 

It’s weird having a “the” event in my life. You know, how as a shortcut, someone may say “since the pregnancy”, meaning since the time they got pregnant. Now I have “since the accident”, which would sound like I wet the bed to a casual passerby. It’s easier to have a handy the to drop into conversation, because I have a whole bunch of complex emotions about the whole thing so it’s usually better not to delve by explaining my reference point.

 

Someone I know (a café owner in Richmond near the rehab centre, if you need details) said that it must be “a sign”. I don’t believe in signs (nor any gods) but it’s hard to take the accident onboard and not dissect any spiritual reasons for it happening. It could’ve been karma; maybe I’ve treated people badly in the past and it came back to hurt me. Even though I’m entirely up my own ass about this whole affair, I’m still not drowning in enough self-pity to believe the ‘sign’ angle. Mainly because it absolves any real-world person of any action that wasn’t “pre-destined”.

 

I have a lot of trouble watching TV or movies where someone gets hit by a car. Just today I was watching the Lost season five finale, and Sayid’s girlfriend is hit by a car pretty bad. Watching it happen made me want to hurl.

 

I often think about what it would have actually looked like when I was hit: which part of me went where, which part broke the windshield, the position I was in on the road after I landed, where I was bleeding from at the time… I can’t. It’s too fucking scary. Seeing a representation of someone getting hit on the screen is a bit much for me because it makes it real, and forces me to wonder if that’s what I looked like.

 

And what I looked like to the crowd that soon formed: was I this crippled wreck by the side of the road that everyone thought was going to die? That’s a million times worse than any ‘naked in public’ fear. That’s literally dying on a stage.

 

This is the blessing and curse of amnesia – the brain has clearly blocked out anything it feels is too big for me to process, and I totally get that. But the rest of my anatomy can’t do the same because it doesn’t have its own memory to wipe. Just today, I was struck by the thought that my eyes and ears would have seen and heard everything: a quick glance to see headlights are heading my way, the crashing sound as the car collided with me, the vision of my head hitting the bonnet of the car… And that’s where I have to stop because I’m thinking about it in too much detail. So while I can’t remember it, it kills me that I have senses that experienced it first hand. It’s all way too real.

 

The thing that really kicks me in the balls is that when the accident happened, everything was going so right. I had a great job, and was moving to my own apartment that was by the beach. When I came to after my coma, they were both gone and I was back at my parent’s house like a teenager – at square one again, after all this progress. So I’ve been angry.

 

I’ve spent a lot of time blaming people for my accident – like the driver. Sure, the guy must be culpable in some respects; but the police have it down as my fault. I started half-heartedly blaming auxiliary people for flimsy reasons in a desperate attempt to pin it on someone else. But the other day I had an epiphany that’s haunted me ever since.

 

It could’ve been my fault. No one else’s. Mine. I’m the reason I was in a coma.

Sure, the guy could have braked or looked where he was going or however it happened. But for me to be on the road at the time, I would’ve crossed the street without looking, or crossed thinking I had enough time. So even though (possibly) an amount of defensive driving could’ve saved Avraham extensive repairs to his car, and me a couple of months in rehab and this emotional hangover, I can’t get past the fact that this could be 100% my fault and I have no one to be angry at but myself.

 

My fault I’m not living by the beach in Elwood; my fault I no longer have the awesome job; my fault I can’t jog because it hurts the pin in my ankle; my fault I have scars on my body. But, most of all, it’s my fault for scaring the shit out of my friends and family. And I just can’t come to terms with that yet.

 

I know that’s very much a hardline – even unfair – approach, and it probably means I have a bit more acceptance to go, but it’s my thinking at the moment. I’m not trying to be melodramatic but it’s the soundest conclusion I can reach. It also doesn’t help that with no job to distract me, I have nothing but time to process such thoughts and reach ‘sound conclusions’ that are unshakable.

 

The whole ‘not working’ scenario also gives me far too much time on my hands to think and dissect (as you can probably tell by this scathing self impression), and I’ve come to the conclusion as to why I’m so critical of myself: the accident showed me that I’m no longer invincible. Not that I was fielding bullets without wincing before, mind you; but not invincible in a metaphorical sense. Perhaps because of that, I am doubting myself a lot and my self-confidence is shattered. But I suspect that this has a lot to do with the many experts in rehab that told me to expect monumental changes in thinking or character. I’m not really exhibiting any, so I have to double guess myself at every step to make sure it’s not the brain injury talking.

 

Even with that in mind, I’m getting a bit over a couple of my friend’s attitudes towards me now. It’s not an “attitude”, per se, but the ongoing implication that I’m reveling in being at home all the time. Or that I’m enjoying being paid by the TAC, who match my pre-accident income. Or that I’m simply being lazy and not working – despite the fact I have a medical certificate, and it would be illegal for me to work. In a nutshell, some of my closest friends don’t take what’s happened to me as seriously as I would like. And I can’t despise them for it because they were – and still are – there for me in the absolute shittest time of my life to date.

 

I can’t blame them – even through the coma and brain injury, most of the stories I’ve gotten back about my time with amnesia have been “fun”. The shit I was speaking, for example. So they’re the stories I repeat, because the others are god-awful depressing or boring. I try not to dwell on the subject with friends now, although I usually bring it up far more often than I’d like to. So you can see how someone would think it’s a laughable subject – I’m just not ready to fully chortle at it yet. There’s no gentler way to express this, but it has fucked up my life royally for the time being. It’s not as funny as I make out most the time.

 

At the end of the day though, I think that being able to make fun of it – in this blog, for example, and the times I have in conversation – is a sign of strength. As a wise man once said: you have to laugh at things, otherwise you would cry. Taking a bad situation and turning it into something you can deal with is fucking hard; much harder than I ever thought it could be before the accident. I’ll get there one day.

 

Thanks for coming along for this part of the ride.

        

As a sorta-distant friend – OK, OK, acquaintance – said to me recently, “You can’t expect to go through so much trauma and not be different.” And I absolutely dismissed his opinion, coz hey – I hardly know the fucker, so who is he to opine?

 

Plus, I’m totally of the opinion that I’m the same – please see the fifty references in earlier posts about not being retarded and being fine.

 

But, just like how people didn’t tell me that I was beginning to look to buff before the accident, I now get accounts like, “Oh yeah, you were still pretty fucked up when you got out of rehab.” So they may be on to something.

 

The thing is, I feel exactly the same now as I did then, when I was discharged. But, according to reports, I was definitely ‘slow’, and ‘disconnected’ back then. I quizzed my mum, and apparently yeah I was a little bit slow, she says.

 

A friend has told me that I’ve ‘lost the spark in my voice’. And another friend has told me, in a roundabout fashion, that I’m now a bit of a cunt, so have I had counseling?

 

Being analytical has always been one of my strengths – or dismissively analytical as the case may be, because I dismissed most ‘complaints’ due to what I’ve perceived as environmental factors. I’m not working; I’m not doing anything; so of course I’m a bit flat.

 

I do feel like I’m progressively more of myself back though, not that I’d ever admit that a part of me was ‘missing’. The cunt remark, for example, I’ve established is due to the fact that I’ve always been a bit of a cunt (to the point where my old nickname was ‘The Cunt’), but I would dress it up a bit and probably make a joke. That power recently went walkabout, so I would just come out with a cunty comment and leave it hanging thickly in the air.

 

I hadn’t really identified it earlier, but in a way I knew I was doing it; or, more to the point, I knew social interactions weren’t as fun for me as they used to be. (Being a plain old cunt in nowhere near as good as being a funny cunt.) I feel like I’m getting back on track now though, but as always my friends will be happy to report back if there’s any discrepancies.

 

I have changed emotionally though, and this I totally put down to environmental factors (feel free to step in and correct me at any point here).

 

My best mate and I now call me ‘needy’. I’m not asking for heaps from people or anything, it’s just that I’m at home all day while they’re at work, so when they’re free to do something, I treat it as a given that they should do something with me. Which, obviously, is not apparent to all. Or anyone.

 

I’m pretty vulnerable. I met a guy that I fancied pretty hardcore back in December, and even though we “just” had an awesome chat and swapped numbers, I thought I was in. Like, totally in. So, I sent him a text message. Then waited a couple of days, didn’t hear back, so texted again. Gave that one a couple of days, then – shock, horror – in a totally not gen-Y move, I tried calling him. It rang out to voicemail. Long story short, even though by this point I figured the guy wasn’t interested, I had to be rejected before I could move on. Thanks to stalking him on Facebook, I finally got it sometime in February. Poor fucker.

 

Stil on the vulnerability, I’m very open to persuasion. My sister has been reading the blog, and after one entry (part 12, from memory) she texted me to ask if I’m OK, because I “sound depressed”. I wasn’t, but immediately I thought, OH MY GOD MAYBE I’M DEPRESSED. I also use my Facebook status to update when I put up a new chapter to this series, and a friend commented on a recent one and put, “YAAAAAAAAAWN.” And I thought, am I… am I boring people? She maintains she was being a smart arse, but that kinda stuff does hit me quite effectively now.

I am having memory problems though – to the point where I totally forgot to mention it when I originally posted this entry, so this is a hasty addition. They warned me my short-term memory would be shonky in rehab. They were right. I don’t forget anything significant, but stupid little things. For example, I forgot that my sister, her husband and I had played Guitar Hero together, until I suggested playing it again, only to be told we already had a few weeks ago. My counselors suggest making a diary to help me keep track of goings on, but I just would never write “We played Guitar Hero” in a diary due to its insignificance. I’m am quite hard on myself for my memory though – if I’m watching TV and there’s a guest star, I’ll beat myself up if I can’t remember their name. My long term memory should be unaffected though, so check me out beating myself up all Catholic-style for no reason.

 

Physically, I have no hangovers. Sure, I was wearing a neck collar to help my collarbone heal for a while, and district nurses had to come to my house every day to change over the lining, but beyond that, there’s not a lot. I can’t jog due to my ankle pin, though I’ve only attempted to do so once which resulted in a bit of pain. I have some weird numbness above my left knee but it’s too vague to describe to even ask for assistance with, especially considering I have no damage on that side of my body.

 

It’s also disheartening to note that I now have no particular affliction to crossing the road or being generally more aware of vehicles. It defies belief, but I haven’t managed to walk away from the whole experience with any grand life lessons.

 

The problem being: amnesia. Everything that’s reported back to me is everything funny that happened – the shit I was talking while in PTA, that sorta thing. It’s hard for me to grasp that it was probably a gravely traumatising experience for most involved, especially for my family and the friends that were either on the scene, or waited patiently for me to come out of a coma. But I called my sister a yuppie cunt to her face, isn’t that hilarious!

        

As one of my friends eloquently posted on Facebook, “Aren’t you bored?” I was using my status update to boast / report that I now have a medical certificate until May 31, so won’t be working or generally being productive until then.

 

Since the accident on September 11, I’ve been discharged from two rehabs – once on October 30, which is when I’ve been at home since; and the other sometime in January. It’s now April. I’ve pretty much been home for six months, so that’s an absolutely understandable question.

 

The thing is, I’m not bored. At all. I don’t know if that says more about my ability to keep myself entertained, or how “intense” my recovery is,  even at home. I’m tipping the former.

 

The thing is, if six months ago, someone said to me, “Would you like six months off work, paid?”, I would’ve been like, fuck yeah! Bring it on.  But the reality is a bit different than what you’d speculate – it’s not partying 24/7, it’s watching a lot of TV and getting out of the house as much as possible because you just might suffocate if you stare at the same four walls all day.

 

I do try to keep myself “busy” though – that’s ‘stay at home’ busy, not ‘contributing member of society’ busy. I have a routine that’s slowly evolved.

 

It started out with Ellen and The View – 12pm and 1pm on channel 9, respectively. My continuing interest in them is pretty low, to be honest – you can only watch Ellen dance over the coffee table so many times before it loses a little appeal. But it did give me something to frame my day around; especially considering I started my stay-at-home career during summer, the shit TV season. It has given me a renewed appreciation of Lost and Desperate Housewives though, so I dutifully download the new episodes of those on Mondays and Thursdays.

 

Once I was discharged from outpatient rehab, I started at the gym. The TAC is paying for me, so I’m really meant to be doing a physiotherapy program, but I’m just doing a normal one. Poorly. Don’t get me wrong, I was a gun at the gym before the accident – and plenty of people have cheerfully now reported back, “Yeah, you were getting in to great condition before your accident” – but without the framing of work to schedule my day around, it’s just harder to motivate myself. And I’m giving myself a very generous allowance to slack off once I’m there, because, as I tell myself, I’m only ‘just’ getting back into it. However, just like Ellen and her dancing over coffee table, that lie is losing steam real fast.

 

I have friends that only work four days a week, and they’re luckily three different days off. I can harass Monika on Monday, Kelly on Tuesday and Kristy on Wednesday. We don’t do something every week, but texting them at 8am saying DO U WANNA DO SOMETHING TODAY? gives me something else to do.

 

Since the accident and subsequent coma diary, my sister has gotten adorably clingy – so every Wednesday night we have ‘sibling night’, which has been dubbed ‘date night’ but c’mon, it’s my sister, that’s gay. And since that’s been going well, I started a sibling night with my brother every Monday.

 

It does seem particularly needy to frame my week around friends and family like this, and it absolutely is, but it gives me something to do and ensures I get out.

 

This blog keeps me suitably occupied as well. It has probably gone unnoticed, but I do try to update it three times a week: Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Or, if I’m feeling slack, I go for twice: Tuesday and Thursday. It’s rarely been kept to schedule, but having something to avoid doing feels just as purposeful as actually doing something.

        

Even though I was “free” and back at home, I hadn’t quite finished rehab yet. I still had to complete outpatient rehab.

 

Cue another play on words using Amy Winehouse’s Rehab.

 

Unfortunately, for blogging’s sake, I wasn’t given any notes that I could make fun of. I came close to not having anything to make fun of – I was discharged from my main rehab on October 31, and they apparently had to “squeeze” me in at outpatient rehab to see the treating doctor before they began breaking for Christmas. They did, though, and started me on an ‘intensive’ two day a week program sometime in late November.

 

This is in stark contrast to my program at inpatient rehab, where I had a pretty full day. Well, once I was promoted from PTA stage at least. My most hardcore day was Wednesday, which kicked off with speech, then occupational therapy, then physio, and then psychology. Most days I had at least two sessions, which were an hour long. It sounds like I’m bitching about nothing, but all I wanted to do was lie in bed and watch Ellen and The View and rehabilitating totally interrupted that. Not because I was finding that I was overtly tired after the accident or anything – fact is, I’m just a lazy bugger.

 

They must have done a bang up job at rehab though, because by the time I got to outpatient rehab, all my counselors – besides my physiotherapist – discharged me after the first session.

 

Occupational therapy said hi, sat me down and asked me some logic questions, then gave me instructions to make a coat hanger, which I then dutifully made. This will come in handy in my dream coat hanger creation career if I ever pull my finger out and do something about it. I probably should, because as soon as the hanging loop was done at the top of the fucker, she said, “OK, great job! You’re fine.”

 

I had two sessions with the speech therapist. I was slurring my speech a bit, and sometimes tripped over words – not because I couldn’t find the word (I knew exactly what I wanted to say) but I just couldn’t sound it out as fluidly as I used to. She told me to slow down, then she said, “I won’t discharge you because it’s a hassle to reinstate you, but if you have any problems, come see me.”

 

Physio was more exercise bike and standing on half fit balls to build up my balance. (It wasn’t just because my ankle was fractured – brain injuries can often affect balance. I was dodgy even on my “good” ankle.) The goal of physio was to get me back to gym – after maybe three sessions, she started asking me which gym I wanted to go to.

 

The session I was most looking forward to was the driving assessment – I wasn’t allowed to drive again until a therapist went on the road with me and saw that my driving wasn’t affected.

 

So, one morning we did just that – me and a fully-fledged driving instructor in a dual control car, with the therapist sitting in the back seat. It wasn’t like a driving assessment for your licence – it was much more lax than that. If it was, I would’ve been asked to stop driving so they could drive back – I fucked up heaps. I sped to get an amber light, I didn’t realise a car was indicating right because they were doing a U-tun on a roundabout rather than turning right, so went when they were coming my way… At the end, they asked, “Where do you think you went wrong?” I reeled off that list. They said, “Yup, and you were speeding most of the time too.”

 

Licence: back. I was now a fully-functional adult again. With a reinforced opinion that I was largely unscathed by the accident because, hey, check out how quickly they discharged me.

        

It was a pretty joyous occasion to be discharged from rehab. My sister got all teary that I was actually “walking out of hospital”, which I thought was sweet but odd until I considered the alternatives she was referring to.

 

Mum drove us home, and we put on the kettle as I flicked through the mail that had been redirected from the two properties I was tied to: the apartment I was living in, and the apartment I was moving to. Bill, flick, flick, notice of something or other, flick, flick, letter from AAMI (insurance company). It was addressed to “Joshua Dale”, and had only the street address of the old apartment – not the apartment number. I opened it up to have a read:

 

Dear Mr Dale,

 

Our records show you were involved in a car accident on September 11 with Mr Avraham Weinfeld that has been determined to be your fault.

 

The car has been repaired at a cost of $4,500, which is your responsibility. Please forward this amount to us at your earliest convenience.

 

Regards,

 

Some Cunt at AAMI

 

Helpfully, AAMI had provided a number to call. I rang. Bring, bring.

 

“Hello AAMI.”

 

“Hi. I just got this letter (reels details).”

 

“Yes, how can we help?”

 

“I know all about the accident – all about the accident – because this dude hit me, I was in a coma and then rehab. For the past two months. I was only discharged from rehab today, actually, and read your letter.”

 

“Oh sorry to hear that,” said Miss Empathy 2008.

 

“I’m not paying to repair the car that hit me.”

 

“But it is on record as your fault, it says here that you ‘ran out in front of the car’…”

 

“Listen, I have amnesia, and no idea how it actually happened. I won’t be giving you money to fix the car that almost killed me.”

 

“Well sir, I’ll make a record of that…”

 

“You can make whatever the fuck you want, I’m not paying.”

 

And so on.

 

The best thing about the whole endeavour for me was that I learnt the guy’s name: Avraham Weinfeld.

 

It’s not the first time I’d thought about the driver. In fact, it had come up in quite heavy rotation with people who visited me in rehab. A friend told me that when he was younger, his Dad was driving the family somewhere and a P-plater hit them. Someone in his family had to be hospitalised, and you apparently could not get rid of the father of the P-plater – he was there almost every day apologising.

 

People asked if I had heard from the driver that hit me. Which hadn’t, until the insurance claim letter.

 

The only indication that he may have tried some follow up came from my mother. Y’see, he was Jewish – it’s a pretty Jewish area, so no real surprise – and the first ambulance to the scene was a Jewish ambulance. (I think the Jews are instructed to call the Jewish ambulance first.) The ambulance driver that came out to the scene later called the hospital in an attempt to reach my Mum and find out how I was. To take that as constitution as a check up from the driver involves a certain amount of quasi-anti-Semitism: an assumption that they all speak to each other.

 

I have no doubt that he has thought about the accident since. In fact, I have always half-heartedly maintained that, given the option, I’d rather be the one that was hit rather than the driver. (However, I’m sure if I was given the option I’d go for the one without extensive rehabilitation.) That dude probably has a conniption every time he turns the key in the ignition; and has flashbacks of my tall lanky ass coming through the windscreen every time he drove down a suburban street at night.

 

So, although contrary to the title I don’t wish Avraham any particular harm, I do think it was fairly poor form to not attempt to make sure I was OK. 

        

On October 31 2008 – Halloween, and round about a month and 20 days since I was hit by the car, I was “finally” deemed well enough to be released on an unsuspecting public. I put finally in quotation marks because thinking back, I can’t really recall hanging to get out of the joint. I obviously wanted to, so was pretty pumped the day came.

 

It was preceded by a ‘weekend stay’, as they call it, the weekend prior. Saturday morning my Mum picked me up, took me down to the parent’s house in suburban Seaford. I saw a few mates, watched TV, and was dropped off back at rehab Sunday night.

 

The purpose of the weekend stay is, pretty obviously, to suss out if any newly-acquired injuries would affect ordinary day-to-day life. This wasn’t so much the case with me, as mentioned I was moving to my own apartment in Elwood from a share house in St Kilda when the accident happened – so finding myself living back with the ‘rents again at 27 was most certainly not ‘ordinary day-to-day life’.

 

I’ve lived here before, obviously – just before the place in St Kilda East, actually. When I moved out, the parents must’ve gotten the inkling that it was for realsies that time, as after I moved all of my furniture out with me (and it was literally everything upstairs, my domain), they went ahead and bought their own furniture: like a bed, a couch, a bookshelf… you get the idea. And bless their determined cotton socks, now refuse to move any of it, so my stuff is in storage while I’m living on top of the crap wares purchased for weekend visitors.

 

Anyways, there wasn’t any problems, so I was shuttled outta rehab and into parenthab. To signify the event, and to warn of any forthcoming doom, the rehab centre holds a ‘family meeting’, where they discuss any problems that might arise and how I did in rehab. Like school, I suppose, but I didn’t get a report card – just some notes, that I’ll faithfully produce and desecrate below.

 

Physio

You’ve been very compliant with everything you’ve been asked to do in physio and as such you’ve made good improvements.

I honestly had no idea I was allowed to be anything but compliant. I wish they’d told me that before I subjected myself to countless kilometres on an exercise bike and spent hours balancing on half an exercise ball.

 

Neuropsychology

Given information received from the accident scene and the lengthy period of post-traumatic amnesia, we would expect some changes in your thinking skills post-injury. Josh, you reported few changes. (Mum) has reported to some repetition in conversation and not recalling conversations as reliably. No changes in behaviour have been noted.

I have no come back here or anything to be a smart arse about – I was one repetitive little mofo. If the re-enactments of the people who copped it are anything to go by, I would deliver a sentence again, later, with the same enthusiasm as the original time I said it. Which was probably not more than a few minutes before, but what can I say: was fucked up.

 

Josh, you have coped remarkably well with your injury and being in hospital.

Again, no come back – just wanted to reiterate that no one thinks I’m retarded. Well, no medical professional. Go me.

 

Speech therapy

My role your speech therapist has been to assess your communication skills following your brain injury. At a day-to-day level, you have demonstrated the ability to independently meet all your communication needs. Your written expression skills were considered functional for day-to-day tasks.

The written skills were a bit of a concern for me, coz of the whole ‘like to pitch myself as a writer’ thing. But hey, this is part ten of an epic blog post that’s got about 7,000 words now, so I’m hoping that means I’m OK. Otherwise you have totally just read an unmitigated load of crap.

        

By all accords, I had quite a busy life while I was in sitting in my little room in rehab. Not actually at the rehab centre, of course – but shit, in general, just went down. And all without me.

 

You may recall I was in the process of moving when the accident happened – and I wasn’t just moving ‘anywhere’ – the apartment I was moving to was stunning. It was in Elwood, and was actually beach front – on the corner of Barkly Street and Glenhuntly Road, if that means anything to you, or you wanted to look it up on Google maps or something. Though why you would is beyond me.

 

Probably the most emotionally-charged entry in the coma diary is the day that the family figured out that I wouldn’t be able to move into the place once I came out of my coma, so they had to sign over the lease – so some other motherfucker moved in instead. I hope they’re enjoying their walks on the beach. And the entry was so emotionally charged was because my sister knew how much I was pumped – I’d taken her on a drive by the week before, excitedly pointing out the people that were taking up space in “my” living room.

 

The loss of the apartment has been the hardest thing for me to deal with – and to be honest, I’m still kinda not over it. You don’t understand, it was awesome. For a while, I was dirty at the family for signing it over – but I wasn’t allowed to drive for a good couple of months, so would have been stranded at my luscious pad with nothing to do but stare out the window to the ocean. Besides the fact that I didn’t have a view to the ocean from the apartment. I wouldn’t have even been able to do my shopping, unless there was a supermarket within walking distance.

 

Why couldn’t you go back to the share house, you might be thinking – only problem was, when I decided to move, they all decided to move too. Even the freeloader. So they moved while I was under, and unfortunately for me, to a two-bedroom house without even a study for me to put my stuff in and quietly move in without telling a key resident.

 

So we come to the reason why I’m probably the most distressed about the loss of the apartment – I was moving back to my parent’s house. Apparently I had asked my Mum during the severest stage of amnesia if I could move back with her ‘where I could feel safe’, but I haven’t the faintest recollection of it. She was quite touched, apparently. So, at 27, I was back with folks. Ordinarily, the shame would be a killer, but I really had no choice.

 

It wasn’t just the apartment I lost – I found myself without a job, too. I was a contractor at AXA, and the project I was working on was in the process of wrapping up also. Thinking about it after the fact, I can’t remember any milestones I had to complete before I finished – not because my memory’s now a bit fucked, but because I honestly had nothing to do. I’ve since found out they were on the verge of offering me a maternity cover job in marketing, which would have been rad. But the world turned into a right piece of shit while I was in hospital with this whole recession thing, and AXA shed about 10% if its work force – so there certainly wasn’t anything for me to do there.

 

        

Now, I’ve gotta do a post about my mates and how they were during the whole affair. They’ve totally impressed my parents, coz Mum now bangs on about how nice my group of friends is. Coz, y’know, the thing you’re really seeking is parental approval.

 

Firstly, I have to give special mention to Michael and Ash, not only because they were home at the time and were the ones that attend to me at the scene. Ash had also recently finished a first aid course, so knew what to do… as well as what not to do, such as move too much. No, I have very special reasons for mentioning them – they’ve both commented on these entries on my blog.

 

Ash, I have to reiterate, is not a parasite. He thinks the first part made him sound like one. “It’s just based on the facts, buddy,” I shot back via text. Though I should probably point out that while Ash is a real estate agent and could’ve found a place for himself, the other two flatmates decided it was OK for Ash to move in. Permanently. And also decided they shouldn’t tell me that. So apparently, Ash wasn’t the problem. I didn’t have a problem with Ash being there, at all – I just thought four people in a three-bedroom apartment was too many. Would’ve said the same about anybody that was moved in without my knowledge or approval.

 

Michael, on the other hand, pointed out – via Facebook comments – that I haven’t mentioned that he came into hospital every day. In his words: “Hey I think my computer is not working....cant seem to see the part of the blog that says "Michael came and visted me every day at Hospital and spent $1000 on parking fees"....but I am sure it must be there.”

 

So yes, Michael came in to the hospital every day after work. He even started bringing me cigarettes (y’know, like you would for a prisioner) when my family refused to get me any because their suggestive tactics didn’t work. Maybe if I was left a bit more retarded, I would’ve fallen for their ‘but Josh, you never smoked’ tactic, but hey, I’m just sharp.

 

Because there’s been a lot of focus on me and my recovery, I’ve been trying to ask my friends what their reaction to the accident was. Partly so I don’t feel so narcissistic.

 

The most memorable is my friend Leila – another friend, Bree, called to tell her, and Leila asked, “Josh? (Pause) Josh Dare?” I was as shocked as Leila, believe me. Dunno why I’ve singled out that one, but it’s just the first to come to mind.

 

For a while in rehab, I was asking the best way to tell people what happened to me – only because I had a tendency to blurt out too much info. I was having a text conversation with Troy, who I just told I was in an accident and in hospital. I must’ve taken too long to write back, coz he shot, “What, you’ve fallen into a coma now?” And I replited, “Actually, I was in a coma for a while…”

 

Another guy, who I hardly know, had apparently tried calling me while I was in hospital but before I got my phone back, so thought I should send him a text. “I just find that pretty hard to believe,” he replied. Come in to hospital and see the scars, I told him. He did. Showed him, I guess.

 

My other friends all got together at the old apartment the weekend after I was hit. I’d like to think that they all traded their personal heartfelt stories about me to ease the pain, but like I said before, not been left retarded.

        

Much more interesting than the other patients at rehab were the people that worked at the rehab centre.

 

The person I liked the most was actually a cleaner. She’d come round every day and have a little chat. Mainly about the books I was reading on the toilet, because she’d notice them while she cleaned the bathroom – accrued quite a little library in there. But she was down to earth and totally normal, which is something I could really respect after dealing with the dual freak show of the other patients and bitch nurses.

 

The main bitch nurse – Jacqui – had such a scowl that even my mates started calling her bitch nurse. The nurses came round every day to ask me if I’d taken a shit. “Have you opened your bowels today?” was the way they prompted. Sometimes they’d ask if I’d taken a shower. The day that Jacqui came round to ask me just that, I hadn’t (it was early) – so told her I’d do it.

 

When she left, I got in the bathroom, locked the door, stripped off and got in. Was showering away behind the shower curtain, as you do, when I heard the door slide open. Even though it’s locked, there’s a knob that can be turned to unlock it on the other side if you’re determined. Seems Jacqui was.

 

“How are you going in there?” she asked of my naked self. “Fine,” I curtly replied.

 

She then slid the shower curtain wide open. I was naked, and facing right at her. “Do you need any help?” she asked. Not in a sexual this-could-turn-into-a-porno way, but in a way that would almost sound like pity if she wasn’t copping a good look at Mr Josh.

 

“No,” I shot back, turning around – coz, you know, looking at my ass is much less offensive than looking at my meat and veggies. But what can you do.

 

The coolest nurse I had was this big black nurse called Mary. She had a thick accent. Would love to pinpoint it and tell you where her accent was from, but I don’t know if I’m being racist when I say it sounded Jamaican. Racist because she was black and had an accent, so she must be Jamaican.

 

I’d just moved to a new, non-brain injury ward, so she was sorting out my room and making some small chit-chat.

 

“What happened to you?” she asked. I told her I was hit by a car, and from on-scene reports I was thrown 10 metres.

 

“And what dew you dew?” she asked. I write, I told her.

 

“You should write a book here about your accident!” she excitedly told me. “You could call it: ten metahs in de air and still a-live.”

 

I hope Mary has somehow found this blog, because I’ve been on fire lately and she would be totally proud.

        

So there was quite a set of characters at rehab. In the end, I was there for a month – from October 3 until October 31 – so plenty of time to experience them.

 

Fair share of units there though. And not because they were damaged, but because they were just… odd people.

 

Every morning, they held ‘breakfast group’ – rather than your food being brought to the room, you’d come to the common room and eat with everyone. I think the theory was that everyone could socialise, and maybe make a friend. I didn’t meet anyone I had a connection with, friendship or otherwise, so it was a bit lost on me.

 

It’s quite easy to have a conversation with everyone there though. There’s a fail-safe conversation starter: “So what happened to you?” Then you launch into a ten minute story about your recent drama. Incidentally, I hope doing this blog isn’t following the same line as those conversations, because I honestly didn’t care and could not recall a single one of the other stories I was told.

 

So I carried on with breakfast group while I had to, but after a while they gave me a bit of freedom – and choice. The clincher for me was a quarter of an hour conversation at my breakfast table about having a shit in the morning. “Gotta let the horses out of the stable,” was one of the quotes.

 

My social worker was quite happy to take me out of the group when I relayed the story. She wasn’t the only worker I had though.

 

Speech therapy

I thought speech would be a bit of ‘nothing’ session, coz hey, I can still talk. But rehab speech therapy isn’t so much as talking – it’s more about connecting what you want to say to the sounds that come out of your mouth. Logic and reason can be damaged at the same time as your brain.

 

My speech wasn’t (isn’t) as flawless as I like to think though: my speech was pretty slurred. And I sometimes had trouble sounding out words – not finding the word, because I always knew what I wanted to say; but actually pronouncing bigger words would cause me to stumble. I still get that a little bit now, but I’ve not paid heed to the only advice provided by my speech therapist: slow down. I’m a fast talker anyway so it’s a bit painful for me to apply the brakes.

 

Another thing she wanted me to slow down on was eating. When I first got to Epworth, while I was still emerging from the PTA, she watched me eat a meal, thought I ate too quickly so could damage myself, and as such recommended a soft diet – like pasta and general mush that could be presented as anything if the right seasoning was applied. Apparently, Mum tells me she was there when that fateful quick meal was eaten, and I’d just finished telling her how hungry I was before dinner came – so no wonder I ate quickly.

 

Apart from ravaging my diet, she conducted a few tests to see how my reasoning was. For example, she asked me to complete an exercise that stated, “Bethlyn would love to visit her friend, who lives around the block, but halfway round the block she gets too tired from the walk and has to go home. What’s wrong with this statement?"

 

SHE’S WALKING THE WHOLE WAY AROUND THE BLOCK, I excitedly replied when I realised I wasn’t retarded. Well, not retarded enough to recognise stupid old people moaning about nothing.

 

Occupational therapy

Another therapy I thought would be useless was occupational therapy, and surprise surprise! It was.

 

I actually asked about the point of occupational therapy, and I was told it was created when servicemen would return from the war(s) and get kinda lost – so it’s training to get back into work.

 

Not that I did any of that – truth be told, I had only three occupational therapy sessions: one where they asked what I did and how the brain injury might affect it (it won’t), another where we walked to a supermarket and I bought ingredients to cook a meal, and the final one where I cooked the meal. Lasagna, if you’re wondering. My mum, who took some of it with her when she visited, said it was a bit stodgy.

 

Was a bit shafted by the cooking though – the kitchen at rehab was a bit old, so the oven was dodgy. The lighter didn’t work for the gas-top oven, and when I told my therapist she came over, swiveled something, and then it lit. Figured it must’ve been the equipment, but at the exit meeting with my family when I was discharged, she warned that I made need supervision when I’m cooking. Yeah, as if I’m gonna cook.

 

(Neuro) Psychologist

Due to the brain injury, a neuro psych was assigned to assess if there was any change in my thinking or my ability to process. In my head, these were the most “intense” sessions, but couldn’t really relay any stories about what I did – besides more logic tests.

 

And almost losing my shit when she told me that, because of the PTA, I’m not allowed to have alcohol or drugs for 12 months. “But what about New Year’s Eve?” I asked in October, thinking forward. “It’s good that you’re thinking about challenges ahead of time,” she responded immediately.

 

I clearly had no support for my lush-wanting ways here. Was I expecting her to go, “Well… just New Year’s, I suppose that won’t hurt”?

 

I do have a little hangover from the PTA though: my short-term memory can be a bit screwy (hence the flashcards, earlier). For example, as I was typing this I thought of something else I wanted to say about the neuro pysch but when it came time I couldn’t think of it for the life of me.

 

Physio therapy

This was probably the most important facet of my rehabilitation, considering my fractured vertebrae and ankle – which were both protected by a neck brace and a cam boot, respectively, so made the physical exercise (like riding an exercise bike) a bit awkward.

 

Apart from a bit of cardio, physio didn’t really ask that much of me. Oftentimes I would be told to throw a ball against a wall and catch it to see if my reflexes were still OK. There was a bit of balance work too, so standing on one foot on uneven padding or walking in a straight line.

 

My physio instructor holds the medal for being the person who made me feel the lowest in rehab though. The gym was on the other side of the street to the rehab centre, but I didn’t have shoes, meaning only one foot was protected (thanks to the cam boot). So her suggestion: wheelchair.

 

“Where’s my dignity?” I moaned before I sitting down. “You checked it in when you got here,” she replied.

        

Now, this point of the story gets a bit easier for me – not, like, emotionally or anything, just because I can actually remember this stuff.

 

Like my sister said in her diary, I didn’t get a “Hollywood” moment. Which is a shame, because that would’ve been cool. Apparently I once said to a friend that it’d be interesting to have amnesia. (And now check it out! I do!) But while I don’t have a particular moment where my memories start again, my earliest recollection is being in rehab.

 

In my second room, I’ve since found out. My first room was locked deep in the acquired brain injury ward, and I was in a “Craig bed”. That’s what they called the padded cells that masquerade as beds. It’s a cage with a hinged door, and gymnasium-like padding all over the walls of the cage. I had no access to leave myself, so had to call out whenever I wanted to use the bathroom. I think – like I said, I have no memory.

 

But the most amazing thing for me is that I never had to ask what I was doing there. Guess I got a pretty good explanation when I was coming out of my coma. I always knew I was hit by a car, and I was at Epworth Richmond. And that I wanted a cigarette.

 

Despite all of the suggestive programming that my family tried. I asked for a ciggie earlier, and they said, “But Josh – you don’t smoke.” I won though, when my best mate Michael could start visiting me and I had a regular packet coming in every day.

 

I did a lot of TV watching around this time. That was when Brit Lapthorne had just gone missing overseas and they were trying to find her. See, my memory can’t be that bad if I can remember that.

 

My memory was a risk though – one of the symptoms of post-traumatic amnesia is lack of short term memory. My neuro-psychologist would come past the room each day with three flash cards, and then come back the next day and ask me what the cards were yesterday.

 

I had a little trouble at the start. She’d ask the standard questions like what date is it, where are you, and “How old are you?” And I shot back, “28.” Easy, right? Except I’m 27. I had to actually do the math and go, OK – I was born in 1981 so… well there ya go. I suspect the fact that I had a birthday only a couple of months earlier was a contributing factor. But it was only one birthday, not two – so who knows.

 

Apparently there was a bit of a discussion about the flash cards with my family. See, I figured the best way to remember was to remember the initials of the pictures – pretty clever, eh? Brain injury my ass! And one lot I had a fork, a plate and a bird – which I told the nuero-psych that I’d call a pterodactyl (because ‘P’ worked better with the initials system I’d worked out).  The nuero-psych told my family not to encourage me to do that, because ‘it reinforces bad learning’. Pterodactyl, c’mon! That’s fucking intelligent.

 

Unlike some of my buddies in the acquired brain injury ward. Even before the accident, that seemed like a misnomer – like, here’s a brain injury I “acquired”. That other one? I got it for Christmas.

 

I was down the hall from a moaner – must’ve been in an accident that really fucked his head up. I could hear the nurses come around, to give him a shower probably, and he would moan away the whole time like a retard. Which is probably not a cool thing to say, because it’s quite possible he was one… now.

        

Now, as you may have gathered about the conversation I had with my sister about ‘drinkable water’, I was speaking shit. Lots of shit. Apparently it’s quite common with PTA: post-traumatic amnesia.

 

I can’t remember a thing from the accident. I’ve got no memories earlier than when I was in rehab, so strike out September (I got to rehab at the start of October). Hence my liberal use of “apparently” earlier.

 

The ‘last’ thing I remember is putting some stuff into my car, then walking back to my apartment and thinking, did I lock the door? At which point I would’ve turned around to walk back to my car, which was on the other side of the street. Probably in front of the car that hit me. I put last in quotation marks because I’ll never know if that was the actual last event before I was hit because of the amnesia. It totally makes sense though, because I didn’t have anything in my hands, so wasn’t carrying anything fresh out to my car.

 

There’s a period of recovery from PTA, where your short term memory is shot and you will spew crap. I got a gold star in this regard.

 

You’re under attack

The first recorded one come from the coma diary my sister kept. I warned her that she was under attack by an alien pirate radio station.

 

Quite an elaborate fantasy there, so naturally I’m proud.

 

Nice rack

My sister copped the next one. Coming into the Alfred to visit me, she walked in at the same time as a nurse.

 

“Nice tits,” I said.

 

“Who?” asked my sister. “Me or the nurse?”

 

“YOU,” was my sleazy reply.

 

The family continues to cop it

My brother came in to visit me. I must have something to say about his weight, cos when he walked in, I greeted with, “Hey tubby”.

 

And she won’t elaborate on the context for me, but at one point I got aggressive with my sister because she wouldn’t untie my restraints (I had a habit of pulling out my feeding tubes and catheter). So I called her a “yuppie cunt”.

 

I’m hungry

At one stage, while my sister was visiting, a nurse asked if I’d like dinner.

 

“No thanks!” was my chirpy reply. “I’ve ordered Pizza Hut.”

 

The nurse must’ve left the room after that, because I turned to my sister and her husband and hurriedly whispered, “Bec! Call Pizza Hut!”

 

They lied. “We tried Joshie, we can’t get through. We don’t know what’s going on.”

 

And the winner is…

Apparently at some stage, I was on a game show. A dating show, to be specific – according to the story I seemingly spouted at my family when they asked how my day was.

 

I won, and went on a date with a chick called Sharon. So arguably she won.

 

Good day

I still had plenty of tall tales for my family. Mum came in and asked me how my day was. I told her I just got back from New York. She asked how it was. I told her it was OK, but lunch was terrible. Bless her heart for humouring me.

 

The big one

Now, this is the story that still has resonance with me because it took me ages to believe it wasn’t true – and it’s the only one I actually remember. I thought that I had been transported down to the Mornington Peninsula for a day trip to visit my nanna, who was sick and in hospital before my accident. Don’t “remember” doing that specifically, however I “remember” staying in hospital there. I watched ABC2 and ordered Pizza Hut.

 

The reason it stuck around for so long is that I totally remembered pissing the bed. I had a little debated about whether to get up, but in the end I just went. It was uncomfortable sleeping in wet clothes all night.

 

I told my friends that story, minus the bedwetting part, when they came in to visit me. They played along, til next time they were there at the same time as a family member, who said that never happened. But! But! I’d wet the bed!

 

I now figure that it was a cover up memory, because it had all my hallmarks: travelling, Pizza Hut, and something to do with urine (y’know, my catheter). Fascinating though, isn’t it?

        

So, right about now in the story I was lying in a coma at The Alfred intensive care unit with a device that looked like a turkey baster drilled into my head that measured the swelling of my brain. Obviously if my brain started swelling and putting pressure on my skull, that would be a Very Bad Thing.

 

My sister was told that my memory would be shot when I came to, so she started making a coma diary for me. It also helps to pass the time and gives me a recap of what was going on while I was under. Here’s an excerpt:

 

11/9, about 5:30pm

Josh, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back straight away. You sounded extremely upbeat about your planned move the next day and wanted to talk to you about that. We did a drive-by on your flat the previous week and I was so excited for you.

 

11/9, 7:30pm

I was calling you back… your flatmate Ash answered the phone. He said, “Bec, I don’t want to alarm you, but Josh has been hit by a car.” I thought you might have had a bit of a scare and maybe minor injuries as I rushed to the Alfred Hospital. I was calling you as you were hit by the mini-van.

 

11/9, 8:30pm

You finally arrive at the hospital. Apparently it had taken an extra-long time as they sedated you at the scene. Angelo and I became more worried as time dragged on and I shit myself when a policeman wanted to talk to me. After about an hour a doctor came to speak with us… until this stage we really didn’t know what was going on. I half expected you to be in the emergency centre, upright and smiling apologetically for freaking us out. Bob (Dad) had arrived by this stage too.

 

We were ushered into a private room with two couches. A box of tissues on the coffee table separating the couches. The doctor was South African and still had quite a strong accent. She painted a reasonably positive picture about your status – lots of micro bleeds, bruising but a long recovery.

 

12/9, morning

You’re still hooked up to a shitload of machines:

1.     Ventilator that helps you breath, with a tube down your mouth into lungs

2.     Morphine drip

3.     Other drugs that keep you well under

4.     IV drip

5.     Feed drip (tube up nose and down throat)

6.     Catheter (ouch!)

7.     Heart rate monitor

8.     Brain pressure monitor (in skull)

9.     Fairly sure I’ve missed one or two.

 

There is nothing to do but wait and see if the pressure in your brain increases.

 

19/9

Things about Josh:

-       Has ‘thing’ for chicken parma

-       Ambitions to be a journalist

-       6’4, good looking. Epitomises the “all the good looking ones are gay or taken” single girl lament.

-       Has a close knit group of friends who are described as ‘awesome’ or ‘cunts’ depending on mood.

-       Cranky til 11am in the morning.

-       Self-pic extraordinaire.

-       Can run v. fast with significant back pack weight then spark a ciggie straight away.

-       Is hard to really stress out but gets cranky lots.

-       Hates planning things too far in advance but interestingly will write quite anal to-do lists.

-       Finicky about expiration dates on food but will leave bathroom uncleaned for ages.

-       Can talk to anyone.

 

20/9

Nurse: Sue. Sue has psoriasis; all over her arms and itches a lot. I find this quite off-putting; if you were awake I’m willing to bet you’d find it disturbing as well.

 

They are going to start backing off your drugs today. Bob and I are hoping for a ‘Hollywood’ stytle wake up, but the booklet tells us to expect anything to two weeks of what we saw today:

-       lots of movement

-       opening eyes but not seeing

-       you were coughing a bit

-       cranky bear mutterings?

 

Today you also pulled your catheter out. OUCH.

 

21/9

BEST DAY SO FAR

Today you were opening your eyes and seeing, could recognise us and were trying to talk. When Angelo asked how you were, you said, “I’m alright. JESUS!” You laughed at us when one of your farts was particularly stinky.

 

On the way out, as we were making our goodbyes, you were trying to say something so I leant in closer to hear… You were saying “kiss”, and planted a big smacker on my cheek. Bless! No prizes for guessing my girly reaction. Bob shook your hand in a very manly way. I guess we got our Hollywood moment.

 

24/9

Statement of today: Lyn (Mum) asked if you needed a nap. Your reply: “What do you think I do all night?” Cranky before 11am.

Statement of yesterday: “Why do I sound like a fucking retard?” (Funny at the time. But not funny cause it’s true.)

 

29/9

I gave you some water. Exchange went like this:

Me: “Would you like some water?”

You: “Only if I don’t have to eat it.”

Me: “No, you drink this one.”

You: “OK then.”

Big thirsty gulps through straw.

You: “Wow, that tastes just like water!”

Me: “No shit, it is water.”

You: “GET OUT!”

Me: “NO WAY!”

You: “THAT’S AWESOME!”

 

You also asked what happened, and were very surprised to hear that you had been hit by a car, that your ankle was broken and your neck was fractured. All in all, some interesting conversations. Started getting really super cranky. After waiting 18 days for this, I’m almost wishing you’d go back to sleep.

        

And then what happened?

I was taken to the Alfred Hospital. My sister managed to beat the ambulance there. Turns out she tried calling me while I was lying on the road, dying, and one of my flatmates answered and said, ‘Actually, don’t know how to say this, but Josh has been fucked up’.

 

The flatmates came to the hospital too. And Ash, who had cradled me on the side of the road until help arrived, was very conscious of my blood that was on his hands when he was talking to my sister. Admiring the bang up job he was doing sitting on his hands while he chatted to her, he excused himself to the toilet to wash his hands – and when he got there, he saw that he had my blood smeared everywhere, army camo style, from wiping his face. That is all class.

 

Meanwhile, my Dad had made it to the hospital too. It was a regular little get together while I was waiting to be admitted to intensive care. Not that I knew – I was not with the world. Speaking of family and the world, my mum was actually holidaying in Morocco when it happened. My sister and my Dad decided not to trouble her with the news yet.

 

The damage

You wouldn’t know it to look at me these days, but I was quite the fucked up little unit. As anyone who witnessed my sad carcass on the side of the road would tell you, I was quite the mess. The damage was:

 

- Shattered ankle

My left inner ankle was pretty much split in two. It’s now pinned, and hopefully my body is hard at work reattaching itself to it, or whatever it does. Incidentally, I’ve been back to the Alfred since, and they’ve said I can get the pin out in six months. I said yes. My Dad doesn’t know why I would. I don’t know why you wouldn’t.

 

- Smashed cheekbone

I say smashed as I have no idea what was wrong with it, besides the fact I know I now have a plate. And got some plastic surgery so you can’t even tell. Yay to emergency plastic surgery.

 

- Fractured spine

That’s a bit dramatic – one of my collarbone vertebrae were fractured. I work a neck brace for a while. It was “darling”. I looked like one of those dogs with a collar on to stop them chewing themselves.

 

- Lacerated kidney

Not that we knew – I found out weeks later. Can’t have been too serious then.

 

- Bruising of the brain

And the piece de la resistance – my brain was bruised. Must’ve gotten a little shaken up when I went from the car to the road. Not that anything really bothered me at this point – I was in a serious coma. However, when I emerged from it, it still wouldn’t bother me as I have (had?) post-traumatic amnesia, so can’t remember anything from the accident.

 

When that list was relayed to my waiting family, they called my Mum straight away.

        

The story so far

I’m 27, and was living in a share house in St Kilda East with two other people. Well, firstly it was an apartment, not a house; and it was meant to be only two other people, until January this year, when a mutual friend – who’s also a real estate agent, so perfectly capable of finding his own place – asked if he could stay for a couple weeks. Fast forward to September, and he was still there.

 

Hence why I decided it best to move out by myself, to an apartment I found in Elwood. It was a beautiful apartment too – right on the beach, polished floorboards throughout, had a rooftop that anyone could access. The perfect summer pad.

 

So, on the night of September 11, I was packing stuff in my car to move the very next day. Which, as you’ll discover, didn’t really work out as planned.

 

What happened
I was hit by a car.

 

Apparently crossing the street to my car, and walked in front of a moving vehicle. (I’ll talk more about the ‘apparently’ angle later.) From on-scene reports, I was thrown 10 metres. The car was practically totaled – and I’ve been told, had a dint in my perfect imprint across the bonnet and roof. I know this, as it was parked out the front of my old apartment for a lifetime – so imagine if you were one of my flatmates, dealing with the trauma of a friend being hit by a car, and having to see the frigging thing every day for who knows how long.

 

Neither the car nor the driver were in any condition to drive – apparently immediately after hitting me, a Hebrew screaming match commenced between the (Jewish) driver and his passenger. Seemed like quite a party too, as no cars could get past so plenty of people were standing round, witnessing a little too late.

 

Speaking of, I’m told there was a woman from the car behind who was screaming that she ‘saw everything’, but by the time she’d been briefed by the local community (read: other Jews), when she spoke to the cops it turns out she ‘didn’t really see anything’. Really? Coz the flatmates saw DODGINESS in plain sight.

 

Then what happened?

The Jewish ambulance was called. I’m guessing that the Jews that hit me called them. I’ve since learned that the Jewish ambulance is basically useless, as they’re just high-level first aiders. Surprised they even looked at me, not being Jewish and all. But they helped me breath and cut off my clothes while a normal ambulance was called.

        

Believe me, I have a very good reason for being absent for near on two months - and there'll be an accompanying epic blog post to explain it. Can't wait to write that one.

In the meantime, cheeers for your patience!

If you're super eager, you can:

• Subscribe via email, using the box to the right
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• Sit pretty! Won't be long.

        

I ran out of excuses. I'd been stalling because of stuff like, it's winter, my sister's wedding is coming up, work probably wouldn't like it.

I ran out of hair product. I used a whole tub overseas and it's hard to buy anything decent if you don't know the brands.

And I ran out of patience. My hair was shitting me the whole time I was away; it just wouldn't behave.

So I did it. Finally.

I shaved my head.

Check it out:



S'alright?

        

To whom it may concern,

We are the “proud” owners of a Lemair fridge which is still under warranty.

Earlier this year, the fridge developed a fault. The refrigeration section was not cooling. These things happen, and were swiftly dealt with by your company at the time. After contacting Paul, the then service coordinator, we were referred to a technician, who promptly came out and fixed the fault. That is, once your company was able to dispatch the correct part after the third attempt. On the bright side, that’s under four tries, so stiff upper lip and you may almost have a reputable company etc.

All was well in the land of perishable food to be stored at 4 degrees or below for a time. Unfortunately, the fault has reoccurred.

We knew the drill. Once again, we contacted your service coordination area and Zarina emailed on the details of three businesses to contact who may be able to fix the fridge:

The Ultimate Appliance
A & I Appliance
ICE Age Refrig

We’ve contacted all three, and have not had any success. The Ultimate Appliance has either folded or chooses not to man the phones, as there is never an answer and messages left on voicemail go unreturned. A&I Appliance flat out refuse to service the area. And Ice Age are adverse to entering the wild and dangerous boundaries of Melbourne’s inner south east suburbs.

However, I been able to speak with the technician at Ice Age, David, who informs me that the problem is in fact the low rate paid by your company, making it unfeasible for him to travel to St Kilda East from the northern suburbs. The refrigeration business must be cool in more ways than one, as I asked what the ‘gap’ would be. He told me it was $40.

So, as it stands, a measly $40 stands in the way of our household being able to purchase perishable items. And $40 is, coincidentally, the exact amount required to stop us using the phrase “Tecma Lemair is the world’s shittest company” at any opportune moment. We are skilled in the ways of bitching. The conversation doesn’t even need to be about fridges. We will make it so. We are that good.

The alternative, as you are probably aware, is to return the fridge to the point of purchase for a refund. As that’s about 30km away, and we’d need to hire transportation for the retarded coolbox, this would absolutely cost us more than $40. And although we can’t claim to rub shoulders with the fridge buying set in order to spread anecdotal negativity, I have been known to loiter at Retravision spouting incriminating hearsay to potential customers in order to defer sales to brands that have not yet attracted in-store crazies. Although this method attracts an impressive success rate of purchase avoidance, a special case such as the one that has been unceremoniously shat on us requires special attention.

I promise to set up camp inside a prominently-displayed Tecma Lemair fridge for the day, waiting for the door to open to scream “Tecma Lemair killed my baby” whilst whilst madly clutching a cunningly-disguised roasted turkey lovingly wrapped in a saran with grotesque splashings of tomato ketchup dolled wildly, indicating to now ex-potential sale that the purveyors of said fridge were indeed directly responsible for the slaughter of a child. How, they will not ask. As an artist, I will leave the execution to the imagination of the viewer. It will be riveting.

Depending on the audience feedback, I may decide to take this one-man show to the Melbourne Fringe Festival, where a provocative name such as “A Tecmair Lemair took my baby” which would surely draw crowds due to controversial comments from Lindy Chamberlain, practically guaranteeing a worldwide tour culminating in a widely-seen showcase spot in an Off Broadway revue. The American audience may have never heard of Tecma Lemair before, and after my razzle dazzle expose, they will never want to.

$40, or gratuitous slander against your company when, in all honesty, it’s not really your fault. More to the point, it’s absolutely not our fault way more than it isn’t your fault, so I'm chucking this your way to sort out.

So, please, just pay the man his $40 more.

Cheers,

Josh

        

Greetings from Bangkok!

It’s good to be back in Bangkok, a city I have fond memories of. Y’see, my family came on a holiday here a few years ago, on the way to Phuket. Beyond the floating market and the Golden Palace, there’s not a lot to the place. Except sex tourism. So, naturally, we went down to Patpong Road, the seedy strip, found an establishment called Pussy Galore and watched Thai women pull a variety of objects out of their vaginas in various ways.

This is how we enjoy spending our time together as a family.

Having done the tourist thing last time I was here, I thought Bangkok would be a good stop over destination to spend a few days on my way back to Australia. I’ve never one to sneeze at a life experience opportunity, however, so I have tried something new.

I’m staying at a gay resort. Well, I say resort: it’s a bed and breakfast attached to a sauna. Reportedly the biggest in the world. And it is freaking massive. Beyond what you’d usually expect to find in a sauna, they have a disco, two bars, pool, fully-equipped gym, and a sit down restaurant that appears to be black tie, but that would be impossible as the diners would be in little more than a towel.

Above the sauna complex, they have what they call the barracks: simple rooms with two beds and a TV. There’s no bathroom, as there are shared facilities – including shower – in the hall. I did my research on Google and found that these rooms are “cruisy” at all hours.

So I paid double to stay in the garden suites next door. I have my own bathroom. I need not be cruised when I’m going to drop the kids off at the pool of a morning.

Now, I’m not a gay tourist or a sex tourist – I’m down with saunas, but ordinarily I wouldn’t elect to live in one. But now ‘gay holiday’ is one thing I can check off the list of Things To Try. So now, in the off chance somebody queries if I’ve stayed at gay resort, I can raise my head high and say, yes – yes I have. And boy it was fucked up.

It shouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, but the average age of the other tourists staying here appears to be in the late 50s. The average aesthetic age of the Thai boys they’re trying to attract appears to be about 12. And there’s me in the middle, wondering, what the fuck am I doing here?

I went to dinner last night, and the restaurant was packed with twosomes: old, lonely Caucasian guys sitting next to young, disinterested Thai guys. Both staring straight ahead, not really engaging. Assumedly both are involved in a transaction that appeases both parties.

Rank.

As I filed in for breakfast this morning, I realised how out of place I am. Old seedy men heaped toast and cereal onto their trays, making small chit chat that I was sure masked their true conversational desire of swapping the best tactic for enslaving a poor population of Asian people as their modern sex slaves. All the while, the locals sat round and did their best pretty impression.

I half expected someone to approach me, grab my arm and whisper, you don’t belong here.

I say expected, but I actually wanted someone to approach me and tell me that. I check out in a matter of hours anyway, so I suppose it’s inconsequential. But I know, if I had the choice, I would house a whole array of comical items up my clacker before engaging in this seedy decrepit world of Western tourism gone wrong.

        

I’ve picked up the airport tour where I left off: Copenhagen International Airport. My flight got in at 4:50pm. My connecting flight to Bangkok departs at 10:50pm. This leaves me with six excruciating hours to wile away at the airport.

That wasn’t the plan, mind. I actually know a couple of great Danes (chortle, chortle), and when I was here last I checked I could get out of the airport to visit them. I could. I messaged them both on Facebook. They’re out of town.

So here I am again in the transfer centre lounge, killing time. Anyone who’s caught a lot of connecting flights knows the drill. Each activity is drawn out to its most painful limit. For example: when I landed, I felt like getting a coffee and maybe doing a crossword. Casually strolled to the closest coffee bar, idly window shopping on the way. Inspected coffee prices and variety in stall one. Continued to coffee bar two. Compared prices. Returned to the first to double check. Decide on one. On the ‘outside’, it would be a frustrating and fruitless endeavour, but stuck in the terminal, each moments’ deliberation occupies time that you’d otherwise spend staring into space.

Even consuming said coffee can be stretched out to a full hour if you have your procrastination cap on. I ended up getting a cheesecake as well, spending the last of my Euros in the process. A novice’s error would be to eat the cheesecake while drinking the coffee. No. You eat the cheesecake, slowly, deliberately, until done. Then and only then may you start sipping the coffee.

You are, however, permitted to sip coffee and do crosswords. Flicking through my Lovatt’s Puzzler, I bought some more time by paying an inordinate – and undeserved – amount of time to the editor’s letter. This month, it’s dedicated to thanking the readers who took the time to answer their recent survey. Turns out the number one other activity for those who enjoy crosswords, according to their survey, is walking. Followed by watching movies. If you need a party starter, you need look no further than a Lovatt’s puzzler.

She even chucked in a few jokes about the feedback. Diane of Warwick wrote into say that whenever the month’s Lovatt’s comes out, she never gets any housework done. “Sorry about that, Diane!” the editor giggles, the exclamation point punctuating how very crazy and whacky that anecdote would obviously parlay in a household full of walking, movie-watching crossword enthusiasts. Fancy forgetting your housework! Etc.

Barb of Newcastle writes that she loves Lovatt’s because it makes her feel smart because she learns new words “all the time”. I don’t know if Barb has ventured far from the puzzles section of the newsagents, because when the most challenging of clues in the crossword book is “He, …, it” (the answer being “she”, for the people up the back), it doesn’t sound as though she gets out of her literary house a lot, so to speak.

Couple of puzzles knocked back, decided it was time to get out of my literary house, so I wandered to the airport’s book seller and browsed the English titles – easily buying me a half an hour’s reprise. I’ve picked up James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces. Y’know, the Oprah fraud. Figure it can’t be too bad if Oprah recommended it initially, and I’m already re-reading the two Augusten Burroughs novels I brought away with me.

Getting on to the internet and blogging is an activity I’ve put off for as long as possible, because I know it’s a good decent solid hour that I won’t even notice. I’m even typing this up in Word before I connect to juice every last minute out of it.

May be repeating myself here, but OMG Copenhagen airport is a fucking decent perv. After the disappointment of Greece, coming here is the equivalent of the coffee beans you sniff in perfume shops – it’s totally cleared away that Mediterranean whiff so I’m free to soak up the Scandinavian scent.

There’s just something about the Scandinavians though, isn’t there? Even the ones that have let themselves go a bit are altogether not that bad. Is it good skin, diet? In-breeding? There’s at least a couple of hours airport investigationing there, so I’ll fill you in when I find out.