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(or badly busted, due to my months of non-attention, long away from home in hospital with my Extreme TBI), because many readers arrive on a certain page here, for their first time,
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Pip Wilson, your very fortunate almanackist. November 26, 2011. Carpe diem!

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reetings from Bellingen, Australia.

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It's no big deal.

 

ROYAL COMMISSION INTO THE ROYAL

About my experiences at the Royal Rehabilitation Centre at Ryde, Sydney

By Pip Wilson

          

As I approach my millennium ... I mean August 6, 2011, the first anniversary, of having been assaulted at about 11 pm the previous night, pursued from my home by "at least two carloads" (a witness told me) of persons unknown, and left to die at 0°C until 6 am, I intend to write, bit by bit, my recollections of Ryde's Royal Rehab, to where I was unfortunately admitted on September 7. They will be made honestly, as I have no reason to lie, and I don't much care what happens to me if I'm founrd to be wrong nor defamatory. I intend to also keep records at the About Pip page about my dealings with police. Again, in a caring but honest manner. I've said on the Almanac that honesty is valuable, to me and everybody, and that I don't claim always to tell the truth, but that I'm not a liar. I can think of no good that would come to me, the police, the government, nor the Royal, if I were to lie. I feel that if any violation of propriety comes from anyone, it's those who made my life very difficult to suffer: the system which allows the police to act as they do, and the doctors, when they seem to rely on our compliance in their phony reputations. I am not a libellist, and I won't mention doctors names, but if I say 'head doctor', I mean 'head doctor' ('HD'). However, I am disinclined to remove any of the following page, nor About Pip, nor Assault, for anyone else's reasons. I've stated this before but have had problems with computer hardware and software, and with my eyesight and memory, and have lost stuff. I want to move on. I'll talk about the latter two, my eyesight and memory, here, rather than at About Pip, because they are integral to the way I was treated at the Royal. The date I commence this newest version is July 5, 2011. I intend to continue writing below, without dating at the end of any paragraph. That info is always approximately available at Recently Uploaded Pages, cached up to four days by Freefind's server - not great, but it's free and a good service for me. So, I sign off, and commence tomorrow. I intend to leave this preamble here in perpetuity, unless otherwise earnestly and honestly persuaded, and start writing tomorrow. It might take weeks or months for the full tale of my experiences and suffering at the Royal to unfold. Such is any memory.  I do recall that the place was so stupid, I had to fet out of doing kataoke. If they knew anything about Pip Wilson, or had even surfed the Almy, or used Search, they would have found Kroakin’ Rosie.  Putting anyone though such as experience while they’re in recovery from Extreme Traumatic Brain Injury (ETBI)  is absolute incompetence, if not mental cruelty. There should be a Royal Commission into that concentration camp, the Royal Rehabilitation Centre.

My best roommate - and I had a succession of roommates, who stole from me, or tickled me as I tried to walk with bad eyesight (one wanted me to watch the football, and would tickle my feet while I was in bed, or try to trip me over as I walked, half blind, even with the physotherapist, or tickle my feet on the treadmill machine) was Paul from Tasmania. He'd been beaten up in Macksville on the Pacific Highway. He wanted to murder his assailants, but I tried to talk him out of it. I'd love to see him again. Sorry, I've forgotten his surname. Tom was great. I used to make him a cup of coffee once or twice a day, and he always called me 'Trev'. I liked the joke, and I'd like to see Tom again. When my father visited, sometimes he'd make him a cup of coffee. He had a bad injury to his leg, and used to howl a lot at night, like many of the other patients. But he never stole stuff. Like the Koreans, especially. One Korean woman used to howl by day and night, and she stole milk and food from the place we ate. Her mother would steal a couple of bags of food and milk. I went hungry for four days, so it irked me, as it irked others. I was also irked by wearing American clothes and being publicly mocked by HD for wearing them, I'd obtained from the bin.

I didn't know for some months, but I had a 'supervisor'. No one had told me, but I discovered a large hospital notice on the wal near the nurses' station. All I know is that she was a pregnant young woman who gave 'clients' ('patient') (like Centrelink, State Rail, and most large bureaucracies, now one is a , 'customer', not a passenger, and so on) homework on weekends, which I think is ridiculous and cruel. I had to race back from gym, having attended that favourite (indeed, the only enjoyable) experience at the Ryde. This woman saw me hurrying back at about 8:30 am to see if they'd remembered to give me some breakfast, and she didn't seem the least bit interested in me. In a way, I completely don't blame her, because she was pregnant. But the hospital itself, or the health department should have in their Supervisor classes some training for supervisors to show some interest in the people they supervise. I'm sure she didn't know about Wilson's Almanac, or that I even used a computer. I was stuck without one for months, and hated it. My repeated attempts with doctors, nurses and other staff were fruitless. You would expect that if I'd been a confectioner or baby and child care expet, something like that, she'd be interested to talk to me about myself and my life, not treatet me day after day, weeks after week, month after month, like a piece of dogshit.

One of many examples is that this woman wanted me to join a karaoke class she had something to do with in the Royal. If she'd read the Almanac and got to know me even just a bit, she'd probably have seen my article, Kroakin' Rosie, and know how I feel about karaoke. It was hard to get out of, with this woman half my age. I was stuck there with an electronic anklet. No esape. No likelihood of help. Being stolen from by strangers or room mates who were never introduced to me by anyone, just there in the bed next to mine when I come back from a class, or the toilet. And also at risk of being murdered by almost anyone in that place, so unsupervised at night, with so many brain-injured people around me. Many of them dishonest, and some plotting to murder the people who gave them their brain injury in the first place.

I now write on January 23, 2012, and after a year, memories might be hard for anyone to recall. The best I can say, in this final paragraph, is just to say that the Ryde Royal was hellishly appalling - I could not escape, and it should be thoroughly investigated, and closed down, I hope. </>

 

 

 

 

 

This is for you, head doctor. And I intend it to remain. So sue me. You cruel, arsehole idiot.