Life As I Know It (13 page)

After that I was moved to the rehab ward. All I remember is the green walls and the awful tragedy of severely injured patients.
I begged the doctors to let me be an outpatient, I couldn't bear being away from Cathy and my family any longer and I found the ward depressing.

‘Please let me go home,' I said over and over. I think they could see I was going to struggle as an inpatient so they drew up a plan. I was permitted to go home if I caught a taxi every day and came into the Epworth rehab unit to spend time with the various therapists involved in my care. I had a lot of ground to cover.

I worked with an amazing rehab specialist, Chris Byrne, an exercise physiologist. By coincidence he and Miss Baird, my old physical education teacher from Loreto, are best mates. They know each other from their university days. While I don't remember a lot of the details from that time, Chris Byrne has since explained to me what happened. I now have a pretty good understanding of my injury and recovery.

The human brain is suspended in fluid and sits within the skull. There is space between the brain and the bone. When there is a severe impact the brain reverberates inside the skull cavity, causing it significant damage. That's then followed by bleeding, swelling and increased pressure. Physical, sensory and cognitive functions are affected according to the part of the brain that is affected.

After my injury, I had post-traumatic amnesia. My speech was slowed and delayed but not impaired. The things I had previously learned, even simple things like the alphabet, had been lost. I was easily confused. I had trouble with concentration, struggled to read a single article in the newspaper. I was easily fatigued. My personality had dulled. I had balance issues. I had reduced postural tone. I had lost some cognitive function. My capacity to process information was slowed. What really intrigued Chris was that I had not lost any understanding associated with horses and riding. I could speak coherently about those things and this, he believes, showed how deeply ingrained they were within me. Maybe that's what ‘innate' means.

Talking about riding a horse and riding in a race was my motivator but I was jumping miles ahead. I needed to take small steps on my road to recovery. I needed to regain the function that would allow me to cope with daily life, initially with the support of a carer, and then learn to be independent. The injury was much more serious than I understood at the time.

Chris was superb. He explained the neuroplasticity of the brain to me—where regions of the brain can alter their function to allow for the re-learning of skills. These alterations occur when the brain is set with the task of learning a new or previously learned skill. This is a large part of recovery from a brain injury. My brain had to relearn how to make me stand, and how to hold my body in a position, and how to walk and eventually run. He also understood my state of mind. He could tell when I was down and when I was strong. He knew when to set me a task I could complete successfully and when it was the time to challenge me. He knew that I was relearning how to do things in the right order—how to pay a phone bill, for instance. I was relearning how to process information effectively. Together we made those small advances.

Chris set me challenges in the morning and afterwards I'd wander down Bridge Road with a carer to have some lunch. Slowly I improved my day-to-day functions. My cardiovascular fitness also needed a lift. Being knocked unconscious and the significant periods of time I spent in hospital meant I had a long way to go to build up strength. But I felt that that was just a matter of time.

At home, Cathy and my other sisters were brilliant. Cathy became my principal carer, something I will never forget, helped by the others. They all took their turn. They knew I wasn't the real me, but that wouldn't have made it any easier for them. They looked after all my needs, even showering me. And all I gave them in return was grief.

Because of my injury my nature had changed. It seems I felt free to say what I liked: ‘Your pants are too old-fashioned, Therese. You
need to update your wardrobe.' I'm embarrassed that I was so rude; I'm glad we can laugh about it now.

Once I had relearned some of the basics we all worked together on the next steps. Foremost for me was getting back to riding a horse. Towards the end of my rehab Dad was pretty vocal. He didn't think I should ride again. But I was determined, even if there were obvious limitations as to what I could do. When Chris and I thought I was ready to at least sit on a horse, we drove to Ballarat. Dad picked the horse for me. Apart from the body's position on a horse—your brain needs to learn how to control all the muscle groups needed to stay there—there's the co-ordination that needs relearning, and there are even changes in vision. A brain injury can affect how you see.

As Chris and I ticked the recovery boxes the last one left was decision making. I could hold my position on a horse and I could gallop. But we wondered what would happen when I got into the barriers and became part of the frenzy of racing. How would I respond? Having spent a lot of time with elite athletes he knew that one of the key factors for them is the pace at which they react to visual cues. It was at that point I understood the degree to which being a jockey requires many skills in concert with each other.

During those months, I spent a lot of time on my own. I went to church at St Therese's in Essendon. I'd ask God for help and to help me be strong. I felt Mum was always with me, comforting me, guiding me, helping me maintain my faith in life.

Seven months after the fall I was cleared to ride trackwork. At Caulfield, trainer Colin Little asked me to ride a horse for him, a young, uneducated horse that still needed a lot of training. Going out onto the track the horse whipped around and tipped me off. I was unimpressed and took him straight back in.

‘I can't believe you put me on this one.'

I got on well with Colin and I was probably a bit disrespectful.
I was down the street shopping later that morning when Colin called me and asked if I wanted to ride Krasky at Moonee Valley on the Thursday night. It would be one of my first race meetings since I got my medical clearance. I was thrilled to be given the opportunity. Krasky had a good chance, I thought, and I could hear confidence in Colin's voice.

It was early October, a week after my nineteenth birthday, and the crowds were starting to come out for the Spring racing meetings. Krasky was about $10 in the market, so other horses were more favoured to win. The punters might have been hesitant about backing me so soon after returning from injury but I thought we could do it. Chris had been training me hard. My weight was down to 52 kilograms and I was ready. I settled him back off the leaders over the 1000-metre journey, we were four wide but we were having a nice run off the fast tempo. He then swept around the pack at the 500, took over, and he was just too good. We won, and we went on to win again in his next start.

The support for me at the time was phenomenal. I was given a huge reception as I brought Krasky in after that first race. The fraternity is like that. As competitive as racing is, when someone is seriously injured or struggling with an issue, people rally round them, wish them a speedy recovery and a rosy future. But once you're fit and racing again, it's on for young and old.

Soon after, while still very much in comeback mode, I was in a race where, coming around the corner, the horses got a bit tight and Damien Oliver got a little closer to me than I thought he should have. I was really angry.

‘You could have given me a bit more room,' I said, as we pulled up.

‘Oh, do you expect us to lay out the red carpet for you,' he scoffed. It was pretty barbed. We had an argument over what had happened and who was in the right. He didn't like it.

‘Go back to the bush where you belong,' he said.

‘You're just an arsehole,' I said in the heat of the moment. He laughed. I don't think he was expecting me to say anything.

We had to face the stewards over the racing incident but I didn't make a song and dance about what I thought had been a dangerous situation. You can't take another horse's running. They are entitled to continue running in a straight line without interference. In the end, neither of us was penalised, which was a relief.

When we were waiting outside the room I said to him, ‘I would have expected a bit more respect.'

‘I would have expected more respect from you,' he said. ‘We'll shake on it.' While we shook hands and agreed to disagree, I was still angry.

I needed to build some more confidence and re-establish myself. Having won on Krasky, I continued riding trackwork for Colin Little and he put me on a young horse that I could tell immediately had some ability. In March 2005 this horse was having his second start, at Cranbourne. I rode him and he won well.

‘I reckon he's outstanding,' I said to Colin.

‘I think you're right,' he said.

The horse was El Segundo, who was indeed top class. He'd just broken the track record. This was the sort of horse I'd been waiting for. I really fancied him and I was hoping to make him my horse. I wanted to ride him in all his race starts, and all his races, and to build up the rapport needed to get the best out of a horse. Other jockeys also had their eye on him. When a horse shows exceptional ability word soon gets around. Although he had no reason to, Colin kept me on for El Segundo's next start, which was at Geelong.

At trackwork at Caulfield on the morning of the race, Colin got me to ride Thunderous Applause. She was another immature horse and I fell off, landing on my hand and hurting my wrist. I also hit my head pretty hard, which worried me but I wasn't going to let
on to Colin because I was desperate to ride El Segundo that afternoon. To show I was fine I worked a horse for Mick Price. I didn't often work for Mick. I was struggling to put my hands on the horse's neck while working it and felt that I had possibly sprained it a little. Then Colin asked me to ride another. The pain in my wrist was tolerable but the young horse bucked 400 metres into the work and I fell off again. I was holding the horse as I fell. Not wanting to let him go I'd hung on, and he pulled back and tugged and twisted my sore wrist even more. I was actually brought to tears by this stage, but managed to swing back on and worked the horse. I was in much more pain than I made out.

‘You right?' asked Colin.

‘Yeah, I'm fine,' I said. ‘Bit sore, but nothing to worry about.'

When I got to my car I couldn't turn the key in the ignition. I went straight to my doctor in Essendon, thinking it was probably (hopefully) just a sprain and he could wrap it up. But Dr Paul Mulkearns was thinking broken wrist and an X-ray.

‘Can't you just wrap it up?' I pleaded. ‘I won't need to touch this horse. He's just going to win.'

The X-ray showed Dr Mulkearns was spot on. Blake Shinn was the late replacement rider on El Segundo and he got hemmed away in a pocket and ran a very unlucky second. I was out for at least six weeks while El Segundo became a star, winning seven of his next ten starts and moving up to Group 1 level. Every time senior jockey Darren Gauci won on him I thought of what might have been. He won the 2007 Cox Plate for Luke Nolen.

My wrist took a month and a half to heal and then I had to come back yet again. All I wanted was to get a decent run at being a jockey, to stay fit and healthy for long enough to build proper relationships with trainers and with the horses, especially. I wanted to find a horse and be part of its development. To take it from being an immature and inexperienced horse with potential to success at
the highest level of which it was capable. It was about the horse and about the jockey, and about the entity that is the horse and jockey.

It wasn't long after that I had another setback—at Bendigo. When the pack was racing tightly, a horse came down right in the middle of the field. Instinctively the horse I was on, Transferral, and I went to jump the fallen horse but it was awkward and I fell down heavily. I was knocked out again and didn't wake up until I was in Bendigo Hospital. That concussion put me on the sidelines for more than three weeks. I had also fractured a vertebra in my neck, which was cause for concern.

These falls, either at trackwork or in races, were happening far too frequently. On my return after this accident I was successful on Dirty Denim for trainer Mick Kent. Mick was a great help and support in getting me back in form.

With all the interruptions due to injury I had to apply for a three-month extension to my apprenticeship, so that I could continue to claim until I had outridden my metropolitan claim. My goal from the outset. My extension was granted. A week before the extension started, though, I had my sixtieth win—on Leroy the Boy on a heavy track at Moonee Valley in the middle of winter. So then I had to apply to cancel the extension. I was now a senior jockey!

I was so proud to have become the first female to ride out this claim. It was something my sisters hadn't done and it had always been a goal of mine. It's hard to set goals in racing, such as winning certain races, but this was something I had thought I could achieve if I worked hard enough. I think it was something that helped me fight my way back from the falls.

I knew I had to work extra hard to make it as a senior jockey. That's what makes or breaks any jockey, the transition from having a claim to being on your own. I was up for the challenge and I knuckled down. Unfortunately, not long after becoming a senior jockey I had yet another fall.

When I rode Greek Adonis in a race at Sandown I was crossing the field to take a position up with the leaders when another horse came around me and across my path. My horse clipped heels with that horse and I fell at the worst possible place: in front of the entire field. This is the only fall I do remember. Of the half dozen or so major falls I've had, this is the only one where I haven't been knocked out and I remember it vividly.

I can still see in my mind the ground coming up to meet me, and then being acutely aware of what was about to happen as the field tried to jump over me. Every horse passing was its own small lottery. It was an all-in moment in my life. Of all the places I could have been—a lecture theatre at Melbourne University, a pub in North Fitzroy, a beach in Bali, a winery in the Barossa Valley, an armchair in front of the TV—there I was, a nineteen-year-old woman, being stampeded by a dozen horses.