Broken Dreams (7 page)

At the time of my accident, seven years ago, I never thought I would come to terms with being a quadraplegic in a wheelchair. I heard the doctor say that I was paralysed from the lower part of my chest down and would have to go around in a wheelchair for the rest of my life—but for a while I was living in hopes that maybe the doctor was wrong, and one day I might walk again. I reckoned that if I saw a good-looking girl or a bucket of booglies (crayfish) then I'd walk. I saw both, and I'm still in my wheelchair.

My change of attitude began the day I started exercising in the spinal unit at PA. That was when my sense of hopelessness began to disappear. I thought then that I had accepted my fate mentally, but in my dreams it was a different story. I reckon the first time I pictured myself in a dream as being in a wheelchair, instead of walking up a road, that was a fair indication that I had accepted things not only physically, but in my mind as well.

I am a bit of a dreamer. One time I dreamt I was pushing myself in my wheelchair down to the Mitchell showgrounds to watch a game of football, with a six-pack of stubbies under my arm. On my way I lost the pack, so I turned around to try to track it down. Then I saw a police car under a big bottle tree, with two policemen inside it. When I went over to see if they could help me, I found they were drinking a six-pack of stubbies ... At that moment I seemed to be woken up by some idiot yelling out: “You bastards, you're drinking my six-pack of stubbies!” It was my own voice I heard.

Being paralysed has been a real challenge for me. I have to rely so much on other people. Since coming home to live in Mitchell, I have to wait each morning until the girls are ready to shower me. This is frustrating; it's impossible to get into a routine and they shower me at different times each day. At Westhaven, it usually happened at the same time every morning. And at home I do miss the wardsmen who used to lift me in and out of my wheelchair. At home, my sisters do this job.

I have experienced feelings of disappointment, despair, frustration and desparation. I guess there has even been a time for tears, which I am unashamed to mention. But I have found that the more time I've spent in my wheelchair, the easier things have become.

As I sit here typing, it is the happiest time for me since I broke my neck. As I type, my three-year-old nephew Daniel is beside me. I used to think Daniel was a true blue Balmain supporter in Sydney's rugby league. When he sees me he says: “Uncle Bill, Balmain are the best.” So you give him a couple of dollars for being a good mate. But when Daniel sees my brother Peter, who is a Gold Coast supporter, he says: “Peter, the Gold Coast are the best, hey.” Then Daniel will see David Nixon, an Illawarra supporter. “David, Illawarra are the best,” he'll say. Perhaps you could say he's just being diplomatic.

The splint I use has been made especially for typing. It is moulded to fit on my first finger, with a rubber stopper on the end which enables me to press the typewriter keys. Using one finger, it takes me about two hours to type a page. It comes along slowly but surely. I enjoy doing things for myself.

If you are quadraplegic you have to accept things, get in there and have a go. You don't let the wheelchair get in your way; if you want to do something badly enough, then you'll do it. My goal for the past seven years was to go to Cairns, which I did. My three goals for the next seven years are: to go to the horse races at Doomben, in Brisbane; to go to the Gabba to watch Queensland play a shield match in cricket; and to visit the Hall of Fame at Longreach. I set goals that are reachable. If you sit down and start feeling sorry for yourself, being negative, then you're no bloody good to anyone. You are only young once and life waits for no man, woman or child. Like the
Phantom
comics say, in the jungle the strong survive.

During the past seven years I reckon I've done more good for myself than I did in my whole life before 24th September 1983. I've changed my ways because I had no other choice. If I hadn't broken my neck, I often wonder where I'd be today.

In a way, I guess I was unlucky to have met my accident diving into a creek. If I'd been injured as a passenger in a car, I might have received hundreds of thousands of dollars in compensation. But us fellows who dive in the river more or less get kicked up the arse and told not to do it again. For me, it has been tough living on a pension of $315 a fortnight. Actually I am glad I never got compensated, because then I would never have worked in the Community Youth Support Service in Roma, and I don't think I would have written any poetry, let alone this book.

For I have taken up writing poems, and in a way I have
shocked myself with the way some of them have turned out. I had never written a single poem until I broke my neck. I don't really call them “poems”—they are my feelings, written down. When I was at school I hated the thought of writing poems or stories. No one ever taught me how to write poetry. After I broke my neck, I wouldn't talk or express what I was feeling in my heart. A few of the nurses told me to have a go at writing a poem. But that sounded so hard to me. To begin with, my negative attitude was that it was too hard. But when I moved to Roma, sometimes when I felt lonely or a bit depressed, I'd get a pen and a piece of paper and disappear to a nice quiet place outside. I soon found I was able to write out my feelings and that writing a poem wasn't as hard as I thought. My poetry was very personal and I didn't like to show it to anyone—I was afraid someone would say it was rubbish. I felt proud of my poems, but I was shy and lacked confidence. I have now written about sixty-five poems, and I'm still not sure whether they are good or bad. They are about my mates, horses, my dog, myself, my feelings and women.

Before I broke my neck I had plenty of girlfriends, but I can't honestly say that I've really been in love. I guess the nearest I came to it was with Michelle Bligh and another girl named Andrea. (The last time I heard of Andrea she was living with a bloke in Melbourne, so I give her my best and wish her well.) Girls like Michelle and Andrea come once in a million years.

Back when I was about ten years old, the more I saw of girls the more I liked horses. In some of my poems I express my feelings as I see the beauty of a horse, wild and untamed. I feel that the spirit of the brumby, like that of a human being, should remain free.

I have been seven years without a girlfriend. This was something I would never have thought possible. Without a girlfriend, the first two years were very hard and at
times I felt lonely. Then I found I got used to being alone. While I was at Westhaven I had a few crushes on some of the girls in Roma. There was always someone sticking their nose in and giving me a lecture about how I would end up getting hurt. But if I went through seven years of not liking any girl at all then I wouldn't be human. I think, too, that everyone in a relationship, whether they're male or female, gets hurt at one stage of their lives. It makes no difference whether you are in a wheelchair or not. But I have come to realise that women aren't everything. I am pretty happy, overall, with the way things have turned out in the past seven years, and if the right girl does come along, who knows ... I guess she would have to be pretty tough. If she doesn't come along, I guess you just have to say “that's life”. And, as the saying goes, “life's a bitch, but only if you let it be so”.

One thing I do watch is that I don't become too dependent on the people I am close to. Although I grew up with Peter and my sisters, I still find it hard to ask them to do anything for me. I was the same when I was in hospital at Brisbane and at Westhaven.

To be honest, I still reckon a dog is a man's best friend. You can talk to a dog and go down to the pub when you want to: your dog won't try to stop you. If I had a girlfriend who didn't want me to go to the pub, then all she would have to do is let the air out of my wheelchair tyres. That would leave me up shit creek without a paddle.

I've had a few frustrating experiences. Once I was sitting typing this manuscript when the splint fell off my finger and landed on the floor. Since I was the only one home I had to wait an hour and a half before someone came along to pick it up for me. Another time, at Westhaven, I felt like spitting out the dummy when I put a splint on to eat. No matter how hard I tried, I just
couldn't get the right angle on my spoon to scoop up the food. One of the nurses came into my room and tightened up the splint and everything was okay. I am usually fairly patient, but when things which I normally find easy to do are not working then my patience turns to frustration.

Something that really pissed me off concerns my family. Two of my sisters had boyfriends who slapped them around. The thing that made it hard for me was that there was nothing I could do about it. Seven years ago I would have taken those blokes apart.

One time I started crying and swearing about being a quadraplegic in a wheelchair. It was the first time in seven years that I cracked up and let my temper get the best of me. I felt like packing up all my gear and going away, trying to forget what had happened and starting my life over again. Just worrying about myself. They say you shouldn't interfere in other people's fights. I reckon when it's your sister in the fight then you have the right to step in. Any brother who didn't do that would have to be a gutless wimp. Blokes like those have to realise that they don't own women. My favourite brother-in-law is Danny Halpin, who wouldn't raise a hand to anyone. He is a great bloke.

I can honestly say that I have never hit a woman. When I was fifteen, my mother told me that if ever I hit a woman she'd kill me. Recently I asked her, “What would you do if I had a girl who punched me up?” Mum said: “Nothing. You would probably have asked for it.”

Seven years in a wheelchair has been an experience. I look forward to the next seven years. I hope that maybe a few tetraplegics, quadraplegics and paraplegics will read this book. Maybe they'll realise it isn't so very difficult to write about your life. Everyone has different opinions and feelings and each story should make good reading. My advice to them is to have a go. I was
frightened once and kept everything I wrote to myself. I never thought I could write a book by myself.

During the next seven years, if I drink a few less stubbies, chase a few more women and write another book, then I reckon you will be able to say that Billy Dodd's life is no longer full of “ifs” or “buts” as he comes face to face with reality.

This last chapter contains some of the poems I have written. As I said before, no one taught me how to write poetry. It was some of the nurses who first told me to have a go, to express what I was feeling inside my heart but found too difficult to talk about. When I moved to Roma, I sometimes used to get a bit lonely and depressed. So I would take a pen and paper and disappear to a nice quiet place outside. Soon I was writing down my feelings, and I discovered that writing a poem was not as hard as I had imagined. Although I felt proud of my poems, I lacked the confidence to show them to anyone. They were very personal, and I was afraid someone might say they were rubbish. I'm still not sure whether the poems are good or bad—I leave it to you to judge for yourself. And by the way—happy reading!