Part 3.
The Neural Psychologist gave me the ok to return to Mackay and continue my rehab but the problem being, they don’t have any physios so one is dispatched from Brissy just for little old me. They arrange to fly me and Angie to Mackay but not the kids because of costs. My sister who is driving my gold wagon loads up the kids and drives them on in front with my 10-year-old son acting as chief navigator. We arrive at Mackay airport and Angie notices my lace is loose. I bend down to tie it and cannot get back up because my legs are not strong enough to push my body back up from a kneeling position …. but we're getting used to this.

My rehab for the first two weeks is spent lying on the couch watching DVD's, with Angie and sister running after me and constantly feeding me. Angie has decided that we will return home when I'm fit to fly and the house goes on the market along with the car. People start visiting to view the house and I'm secretly praying that nobody wants it but after all Angie has been through, I don’t think I have any right to ask her to stay. People come and go but there isn’t a firm offer on the house when Angie asks me what I want to do. After initially saying, “whatever you want”, I then tell her “I don’t want to go home”. So if we do decide to stay that brings us onto our next problem … cash. The cost of living in Townsville has decimated our savings.

I'm not allowed to drive, go shopping, etc, as I cannot have the seat belt over my chest in case of sudden jerks and my stitches bursting. After eating everything in the house, watching every DVD sent over from Scotland and basically getting progressively more bored the stronger I got, a bus is arranged to take me to the hospital to start my rehab. We discuss our options and timescales. I shout in a few financial favours and that coupled with the rehab and stuffing my fat face I feel that I am physically getting stronger. I'm putting on so much weight, I'm nearly skinny and the concentration camp victim is no longer here.

The docs told me I couldn't drive for 6 months and wouldn't give me the ok, so I defied them and after 3 months drove anyway. This was dodgy, as I would have been snookered in a crash, because the car insurance wouldn't have covered me. On one occasion, the physio asked me how I got to the hospital as the bus never turned up. I told her my chauffeur drove me and she said, "Oh that’s ok then".

After 4 months, I tell the doctor I want to go back to work. Initially he laughs but as they place great emphasis on depression, I decide to play them at their own game. "I'm going to get depressed sitting at home doctor" says I with sad eyes, trying to look like a nearly depressed person. So the doctor tells me that he will only allow that if I pass certain tests.  I sit a stress test and let me tell you, they are not easy. I step on a treadmill and have all these suckers attached to me and get told to start running. As I get better, they speed up and when I get even better they speed up again….help they must think I'm Linford Christie. They even put raise the incline so you’re running uphill….HELP ME…and after what seems like a lifetime they slow the machine and the doctor tells me I pass.  Round 1 to me. Bring it on. Then they do an angiogram where they look at your heart on the monitor. I pass that too so the doctor tells me I can go back to work but I mustn’t overdo it. Round 2 and 3 to me. I am pleased with myself but Angie thinks it’s too soon. I still look like skeletor but I'm getting there and anyway, I'm fed up being a sick person and return to work I go.

After a few minor mishaps and a few months down the line, I'm beginning to get into the swing of things when on 15th Feb 2008, (etched on my brain forever), Mackay got hit with the tail end of a monsoon, much of the town got flooded and four feet of water came running into my house …… To be continued