Abe and Iggy
Content Warning: These stories are about violence, abuse, neglect and exploitation and may include references to suicide or self-harming behaviours. They may contain graphic descriptions and strong language and may be distressing. Some narratives may be about First Nations people who have passed away. If you need support, please see Contact & support.
‘Right from the start we had to fight intensely for him to be adequately accommodated. There was just very few beds in the entire state that were appropriate for somebody with a severe acquired brain injury under 65.’
About 25 years ago Abe, then in his mid-40s, had a heart attack.
‘Once he woke up it was really obvious, pretty much straight away … that he was severely damaged,’ his daughter Iggy told the Royal Commission.
Abe had acquired a brain injury and had almost no short-term memory. Not knowing where he was made him highly distressed.
‘He was so violent … so out of touch with reality.’
Abe moved to an isolated short-term rehabilitation ward with a nurse and 24/7 security. But the hospital couldn’t handle him and tried to make his family take him home. Abe’s wife refused.
‘His wife and [teenage] daughter were going to be able to manage the violence and agitation when a hospital full of staff could not manage it? I’m not quite sure how they thought that would work.’
The first time Abe punched Iggy, staff didn’t seem to care. But later that day he punched a nurse and they strapped him to a chair.
‘They left him in the chair all day, every day … Mum was begging them to untie him and they wouldn’t do it. Mum tried everything … including going and talking to our local member of parliament.’
Staff told her the only way to untie him was to take him home.
‘He learnt to bounce the chair around the room to try and move a little bit … He wanted to get into a different position to see something else.’
After a while Abe moved to a brain injury unit.
‘[They were] three of the worst years,’ Iggy said. ‘[They] used a lot of chemicals.’
Staff also used physical restraints, locking Abe in a room for long periods of time. He had no access to the outdoors and no engagement with staff, who preferred to play games on their computers.
Abe loved his football team and watched a recording of them winning a game over and over again.
‘It was pretty much the only activity he ended up getting,’ Iggy said. ‘It doesn’t help people who are intensely brain damaged to not have poor behaviour when they’re so intensely bored all the time.’
At one stage, Abe’s wife noticed he was in pain and realised it might be his teeth. She discovered no-one had brushed his teeth for two years. The dentist was disgusted Abe had been left in pain and discomfort for so long. Ultimately, he couldn’t save many of Abe’s teeth and he had to get dentures.
Despite the dentist writing to the hospital, staff continued to neglect Abe’s teeth. They kept misplacing his dentures, which meant he couldn’t chew his food properly.
Staff would also lose his reading glasses. ‘He couldn’t even do something like sit there and watch TV or read a newspaper because he couldn’t see properly.’
Staff refused to leave a water jug in his room and he ‘had very limited access to water’.
Eventually Abe moved to another medical facility where he stayed for many years. ‘It was the best place he could have been, but that didn’t mean it was … okay,’ Iggy said.
‘He actually knew where things were, he was orientated, he could find his way to his room … He had his own room with an ensuite, so he could at least go into his room and shut the door and be by himself.’
Despite promising Abe a bed for life, in his early 60s the hospital transferred him to an aged care facility.
‘I think moving to the aged care facility basically killed him because he didn’t know where he was.’
After a few months, Abe had a heart attack from the ‘constant stress of being disoriented’ and died.
Disclaimer: This is the story of a person who shared their personal experience with the Royal Commission into Violence, Abuse, Neglect and Exploitation of People with Disability through a submission or private session. The names in this story are pseudonyms. The person who shared this experience was not a witness and their account is not evidence. They did not take an oath or affirmation before providing the story. Nothing in this story constitutes a finding of the Royal Commission. Any views expressed are those of the person who shared their experience, not of the Royal Commission.