Ten Degrees of Reckoning (15 page)

Colleen, Mike’s sister, arrived in Whangarei only twenty-four hours after Judy’s admittance. Isabelle offered her a sleeping room at the hospital, but she refused. She slept in a chair by Judy’s bed for two and a half weeks. During her entire stay, each time Judy turned her head to look at Colleen, she didn’t know who she was.

“Hi, I’m Judy. And you are . . . ?”

Colleen would remind Judy of their relationship, and of the brain injury that caused this loss of recognition. It was so odd and troubling to Judy, this brain injury. She hadn’t recognized anyone who came into her hospital room, but of course up to that point they had all been strangers. She could remember with great acuity everything that had happened at sea. She could remember everything about Colleen; she just didn’t recognize her from one minute to the next. Colleen didn’t mind the repetitions, but this deficit in her brain, termed visual agnosia, was of great concern to Judy, despite the doctor’s counsel. In an effort to make some sense of things, she would splatter Colleen with questions.

“Did you cut your hair? Did you change your outfit?”

And each morning when Judy opened her eyes, she didn’t recognize the room she was in.

“Did they change the wallpaper?” she asked frequently.

Colleen rarely left the ward. The team assigned to Judy warmed up to her immediately and offered any assistance she might need. On her day off, Isabelle drove Colleen to the Bay of Islands, to an area in the vicinity of the search and rescue. Colleen was very grateful to Isabelle, but it is not unusual for many of the hospital staff in Whangarei to provide outreach care far beyond the physical needs of the patient. Overseas patients and their families are entertained, taken home for dinners, and accompanied on outings.

The Whangarei Hospital staff might be ready for almost anything, but they were completely unprepared for the onslaught of local and international media interested in the Sleavin story. They were shocked to find some of the reporters and photographers on the ward, disguised as cruising friends or as visitors to other patients. There had never been a need to monitor visitors, but it didn’t take long for the hospital director to become very protective. Isabelle, too, guarded Judy’s privacy fiercely, as she continued to coordinate all the services Judy required. Surgery was scheduled to remove the embedded stones and shells in Judy’s feet, a psychiatrist was assigned, and a brace was made for Judy’s back. They were anxious for the day when Judy would be more mobile, so they could move her to a side room with increased security.

Isabelle had become accustomed to seeing certain visitors, such as cruising friends Marco and Annique from
Ruquca,
and Martha from
Chandelle.
Still, she was suspicious of every stranger, so when a beautiful woman with a warm, open smile arrived on the ward and inquired after “the American lady,” Isabelle adopted her recently acquired, most official manner.

“And just what umbrella are you under?” Isabelle remembers asking her.

“Umbrella? I’m just me,” she replied, “and I was wondering if there is anything the American lady needs.”

Her gentleness disarmed Isabelle, and the woman, who introduced herself as Diana Moratti, was given a list of items to purchase. Diana, or Babe as she is generally known, went downtown and returned with the purchases: knickers, a dressing gown, and slippers. Only a morsel of American culture had seeped into Whangarei, in the form of a McDonald’s, and Babe made a side trip there to buy some “pikelets,” as Judy would learn to call pancakes. Babe asked Isabelle what else the American lady might require, and Isabelle told her that eventually she would need accommodation.

“That’s no problem, she can live with us,” Babe said. “Oh, by the way,” she added kindly, “may I know her name?”

Judy’s mother, Caryl, came to New Zealand to relieve Colleen at Judy’s bedside. She stayed at the hospital, in one of the sleeping rooms offered by Isabelle. Caryl began making arrangements to take Judy to a hotel upon her discharge, and then to a hospital in California when she could travel. Judy remained resolute in her desire to remain in New Zealand. She understood her mother’s good intentions, but she was unprepared to call California home without her family, at least in her present condition.

Isabelle told them there were nine offers of accommodation in private homes, and that several in the surrounding area would be screened for appropriateness. Isabelle asked the hospital’s occupational therapist to check out Babe and Ian Moratti’s place in Tutukaka first. She pronounced it safe and more than manageable for Judy. There was a long driveway with a locked gate for privacy. There were beautiful grounds and a lovely home, with the cottage just steps away. The cottage itself had a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a tinier bathroom, and a small lounge area where a cot could be placed for any visitors, or, as Judy preferred to call us later, her “adult supervisors.”

The drive from Whangarei to Tutukaka took forty-five minutes. When Judy and Caryl arrived, Babe spent the day helping Judy get familiarized with her new home. It didn’t take long to put things away; Judy’s possessions were limited to the clothing charitably provided by Babe and some cruising friends. When Ian arrived home from work that first night, Judy went down the driveway to meet him at the gate, a walk close to one-third of a mile. Looking back, Judy recalls that there was no sense that they were complete strangers, and she went over and put her arms around him and said, “You must be Ian. Thanks for having me.”

He returned the hug and said, “You must be Judy.”

And that was that.

Over the years, Babe and Ian have insisted that anyone would have taken Judy in to live with them.

“But she was a total stranger, ruthlessly traumatized,” I recently said to Ian.

“So?” he replied.

“Once she left the safe cocoon of the hospital and realized the significance of her loss, anything could have happened,” I pressed. “Your property is gorgeous, but your home sits on high cliffs. Judy could have easily thrown herself over.”

“We both wanted her to come,” Babe said. She was emphatic.

“Aside from the possibility of severe depression,” I added, “she had physical injuries to contend with, a constant string of visitors—”

Ian interrupted. “We decided to deal with whatever came up.”

“Who wouldn’t have done it for her?” they both repeated.

In reality it was an astounding responsibility, but fortunately for Judy, Babe has a gentle and thoughtful nature, and Ian has incredibly good sense. He was born on the North Island and knew what he wanted from life when he finished high school. He flew to Canada with only the money he would need to buy a chainsaw and a few nights’ accommodation when he reached British Columbia. He became a lumberjack at Whistler Mountain when there were more trees than ski cabins, and socked away a lot of his earnings in order to buy land, in both British Columbia and New Zealand. When he returned to the North Island, his friends tried unsuccessfully to talk him out of a purchase in Tutukaka, a small coastal fishing village. The inaccessibility didn’t deter him, and he used the rural logging roads to haul up everything he needed to build his home on the magnificent property he bought. He built a small cottage to live in during the building process, and it was this cottage, twenty years later, that Judy would call home, on and off, for the next two and a half years.

Whangarei, New Zealand

Dear Friends and Family,

I want to thank everyone for all their love and prayers. It’s very comforting to be surrounded by my friends and family, even though we’ re miles apart.

I was discharged from the hospital on December 22, 1995, after 3½ weeks. I went from totally immobile to a walker and then walking with the aid of crutches. As I was walking “laps” down the hospital corridor, I overheard a nurse say, “There goes Judith, taking her crutches for a walk,” so I put them down and realized I really didn’ t need them anymore. It felt good to be walking without any of this hospital equipment, as there were moments when I wondered if and when that would ever happen.

I’m now living north of Whangarei, in Tutukaka, in a cottage overlooking the rugged coast. It’s beautiful, safe, comfortable and very relaxing. I love it here. I’ve been doing a lot of walking up and down hills, and can do about three miles a day. It feels great to exercise and get my strength back. I have to wear a corset brace for a total of three months because of the healing of the two crushed vertebrae. I’ve also started swimming laps at the Whangarei indoor pool. I wear a float around my waist to keep me from bending or twisting my back. I’m only at two laps, but can see that this is a great way to exercise those muscles that walking doesn’ t affect.

When my sister and niece visited, we went to Auckland for additional medical appointments. A second opinion on my back was very positive. A neurologist checked me out, and I had an MRI. I passed all the tests with flying colors except for the visual recognition part. The neurologist opened an International Time Magazine and asked me to identify three photos. I did not know who they were. They now will allow me to stay in this country because I couldn’t recognize Bill Clinton , O. J. Simpson , and Princess Di.

For me, getting my physical strength back and my bones mended is my first priority. New Zealand is perfect for that. The medical care here is excellent, and I’m being looked after daily by a team consisting of doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, social workers, and hydrotherapists.

Some days are good, some days are hard, and I know I have a long bumpy road ahead of me. Your thoughts and prayers make this horrible tragedy easier to bear. Thank you again.

Love, Judy

This was the public face of a private mourner. This was the voice of a proud woman who wanted to show off her successes, who wanted to reassure her family that she had retained her sense of humor, and who wouldn’t bore anyone with more than “some days are hard.” She mentioned in her letter that doing laps at the Whangarei Aquatic Centre was great exercise, but only Isabelle knew how punishing the decision was for Judy to get back in the water, even into an indoor pool. Only Isabelle was in the dressing room as Judy wept while trying on bathing suits.

Certainly, at the time Judy wrote her reassuring letter, most of her needs were fundamental in nature, but every simple task was overshadowed with the question, why bother?

When Judy’s mother left, her sister Risa and her niece arrived. Her mother desperately wanted Judy to come home and avail herself of what she considered the best medical treatment. Judy hoped to appease her mother’s anxiety with a show of independence. In truth, she couldn’t do more than one thing at a time. She was glad to have only one set of clothes, because she wasn’t always sure how to put them on properly. She was glad she didn’t have to go to work or take a class, because she couldn’t follow instructions. She admitted all of this to her sister, who made lists for her.

1. toothpaste on toothbrush

2. brush teeth

3. wash face

4. panties

5. bra

6. khaki jeans

7. T-shirt

She didn’t need “8. comb hair,” because Judy had a mass of curls that no comb could untangle. And her sister wasn’t being condescending; Judy needed every detail. Risa made lists for everything, from how to take a shower to how and when to make the bed.

Judy remained at the cottage for three more months, and at no time was she without supervision. We made our schedule at home, in the United States, so that as one or two left, another would arrive. Because space was so limited, the cot came down every morning and went back up every night. If there was more than one visitor, someone would stay in the house. What we didn’t know was that as each new person arrived, our own fresh grief upon seeing Judy pulled her back into the enormity of her losses.

She probably had the most difficult time when her mother-in-law, Catherine, arrived with Sharon, Mike’s sister. There was so much mutual love between Catherine and Judy, and they wanted to be attentive to each other’s loss, but they both had lost so much.

She probably had the easiest time with her friend Bonnie. Bonnie was her friend of the longest duration and had known Judy as a single woman, before she met Mike, before she had two children. She could help Judy reach back in time and actually have an adventure or two.

Judy preferred frantic activities to peace and solitude. She couldn’t concentrate on a book or a sewing project, and she didn’t want even a minute to think. She was living on funds donated from around the world and from the family. The United States Consulate had immediately informed Mike and Judy’s parents when Judy was found, and offered help in any way. It was the consulate to whom Judy turned when she eventually needed a passport, but her experience in trying to replace her credit card was devastating. The questions shook her to her core. Where was your card lost? Was anything else lost with it?

Judy needed a car, as she came into Whangarei often, for her hydrotherapy, physical therapy, and psychiatric appointments at the hospital. One of the supervisors at the hospital figured out how to get her an international driver’s license, when she had absolutely no identification. Two cruising friends went with Judy to an auction to assist her in the purchase of an old third-hand car. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking so badly that it was almost impossible to write the check. She had been living completely in the present, going from hour to hour, checking the next movement on her list. Buying a car implied a decision about a future, and she wasn’t ready to make any decisions pertaining to future pursuits. Isabelle taught her how to drive on the “wrong side” of the road, and the fun they had in the process alleviated her misgivings.

When I arrived in New Zealand for my turn as adult supervisor, Judy greeted me with a huge hug and that fabulous smile of hers, but I could see the crushing pain in her eyes. She was very thin, and her face was drawn. Right above two new, fine vertical lines in her forehead, her hair had turned white. Just a small patch, but for me it was a badge of her bravery. I noticed she kept her bedroom door open, with a pillow propped against it. When I asked her why, she replied, “I can’t let the door get the better of me, keeping me enclosed in the room in the bed.”