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.