Building a relationship with Jenny didn’t simply change my life, it added a whole extra dimension to my story. No longer is it just about a bloke suffering an injury and getting his life back on track. Now it is also a tale of romance and, as my very public marriage proposal proved, scratch anyone’s skin and underneath you’ll find a romantic.
It was that extra dimension that helped open a new gateway and led me down an unexpected path. The gate began opening after a great friend and freelance journalist, Amanda Ducker, approached us about writing up our story for a magazine. We agreed and the article was published in August 1999, in the Australian Women’s Weekly. A few months later the phone rang.
‘This is Caitlin Shea, a producer with Australian Story …’
She wanted to do my story? It was like having a national selector ringing to say I’d been chosen to play cricket or rugby for Australia — unbelievable. Caitlin made the call at the suggestion of Deb Fleming, the program’s executive producer. Deb said, ‘At that stage we had a two-or three-story format, very different from now … we had a slot for a shorter piece … I was glancing through the women’s magazines, as you do, and came across Sam’s story. I thought, “That sounds really charming and it’s a rural setting … that could make a nice piece.”’
That was what had prompted the call. But it wasn’t an easy decision for me. Jenny and I were avid fans of Australian Story, which broadcast weekly on ABC television. We thought the stories were well put together and inspiring. But I was reluctant to say yes because I didn’t think my story was good enough. It was Jenny who finally talked me into it.
A few weeks later the crew arrived from Brisbane. It included Caitlin as the producer, cameraman Anthony Sines and sound recordist Marc Smith. We were lucky they arrived at all after an eventful trip down. They managed to get lost at one stage, ran over a feral pig and nearly had a head-on with a truck. Anthony said, ‘We were yakking away like we always do and suddenly we came around a corner and there was a road train coming towards us on the wrong side of the road.’ Thankfully they eventually made it to Pine Hills, no doubt wondering what they were going to find at the end of our long and winding entrance road.
Initially the plan was for Caitlin to stay with us, while Anthony and Marc would find accommodation in Warialda ‘because they like to get away from the story at night’, Caitlin told us. But they took one look, fell in love with the place and decided to stay as well.
Most of our filming took place in the early morning and late afternoon light. From the word ‘go’ it was different to any interviews I’d ever done before. Caitlin didn’t want to know only about my accident, she wanted to know how I felt. She got right under my skin, like an itch that I just had to scratch. It brought out a lot of emotion. In a way she was rewinding the clock, making me reveal more than I ever had before. That was daunting, especially when I was in front of a camera for the first time. But the comforting thing was knowing I’d seen other Australian Stories and they’d been done very well.
While it was confronting, it was also fascinating filming the program. For the first time I realised how long it took to shoot such a small amount of air time. We’d shoot a scene but the wind would be blowing my hair the wrong way, so we’d shoot it again. Then the dog would bark at exactly the wrong time. We’d do it again. It was also interesting to see how they use lights and coloured paper on the windows in the background and things like that to create the mood and atmosphere.
In between filming, we ate, drank, talked, laughed a lot and had a great time. By the time the ABC team departed, we’d made some new friends, but we were left wondering how in the world they were going to jam all that footage into a story of only eight minutes.
The answer wasn’t what we expected. After the editor, Roger Carter, saw the footage and interviews, he decided the story deserved a longer piece. The fact that we had footage of my marriage proposal to Jenny live on ABC radio was extra incentive. But they needed to shoot some more. Deb and Roger insisted on some footage of me flying an ultralight — they thought it was vital to the story. But my aircraft was well and truly out of action by then; it hadn’t been up in the air for years.
So we tracked down a suitable ultralight at Boonah in Queensland and filmed the flying there. I’ll never forget the lengths Anthony went to to get a good shot. He strapped the camera — a huge, broadcast-quality camera worth more than $100,000 — onto one of the wing struts. ‘It was insane,’ he admits now. ‘You wouldn’t normally risk a camera like that; the ABC’s pretty particular about that sort of thing.’ And Deb added, ‘… let alone if it had dropped on someone’s head.’ But he got some stunning shots and within a couple of months, ‘Something in the Air’ was ready for broadcast.
It was pretty scary sitting down to watch the piece for the first time in February 2000. We didn’t know what it would be like. But our apprehension quickly turned to relief and then delight. We were amazed at how beautifully it was put together, how well they told the story.
For me it was also strange. It was like seeing my photo in a newspaper for the first time, finding myself surprised that I’d done something to deserve a mention. And there was the feeling of curiosity, wondering how I looked when I transferred onto my bike or when I was riding it. It was certainly an eye-opener for me. I saw my whole life from a completely different perspective.
It looked a lot easier than it felt. I knew how hard I had to concentrate — to maintain my balance, think through the whole process every time I got on the bike — making sure that house of cards didn’t fall. But when I watched it on television, it looked like I sidled casually up in my chair and climbed on, with hardly a conscious thought.
Our story lasted fifteen minutes and the moment it finished, the phone rang and rang and rang. In the end we had to take the handpiece off the hook so we could take part in the internet forum after the program, as we’d agreed to do.
The web response was overwhelming too. People I hadn’t seen in years got in touch — a bloke I’d played footy with fifteen years earlier, schoolmates I hadn’t had contact with since leaving TAS, friends from the Northern Territory, even Bruce McMullen, who’d taught me to fly. There were also dozens of others who were complete strangers, some who were wheelies but most who weren’t. People who were moved enough by my story to want to comment or ask questions.
Then when the forum was over, we put the phone back on the hook and it began ringing again. Over the next few days some of the calls or emails were from people wanting me to speak at various functions. I’d stumbled upon a new and unexpected calling — as a public speaker. Not that my rise to the lectern surprised my family. I come from a long line of natural orators. My mother’s father, Don McGregor, had been the local stock agent, auctioneer and the most sought-after master of ceremonies in Warialda and district. On my father’s side, most of Dad’s five brothers loved nothing more than to get up and tell a yarn or two. And so speaking, for me, came naturally.
At first I spoke at functions for Rotary and schools and at local fundraisers, that sort of thing. Either the organisers contacted me via Australian Story or they knew me or of me through someone else. It started simply but with time snowballed. And I have Australian Story to thank because I suspect it might not have happened otherwise. It provided the launching pad.
A couple of nights after Australian Story went to air a woman rang from Serpentine, south of Perth in Western Australia. She introduced herself as Judy Hambley and said she was calling because a great friend of hers had recently suffered a spinal injury in a horse riding accident and was in the Perth spinal unit doing it tough. Would I write to her?
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Give me her phone number and I’ll ring her.’
And so began a friendship with Maria Archer, her family and friends. Over the next few months I kept in touch, sharing my experiences in the spinal unit and trying to convince Maria that not all was lost. She could still reach for the stars, even from a wheelchair.
Finally the time came for her to go home and I knew, from personal experience, that it was going to be the toughest time of all. Judy must have sensed the same. She decided to organise a surprise for Maria. She and her friends asked if they could fly Jenny and me over to meet Maria, and speak at a fundraiser to help pay for modifications to her home. I couldn’t get over there fast enough.
I’ll never forget wheeling into Maria’s friend’s house. ‘Gee, it’s a bloody long way over here, Maria,’ I said. She nearly fell out of her chair. Finally, we met face to face.
Experiences like these made me realise I could help others by telling my story. Perhaps I could impart some enthusiasm and the feeling that all was not lost, and in doing so, I was lifting myself as well. I also discovered helping someone is one of the greatest things in the world you can do. The rewards are priceless. And it’s particularly special when they’re on a similar journey to one you’ve experienced. Just like one truck driver likes swapping yarns with another truckie, or a doctor with another doctor, a teacher with other teachers. Just as birds of a feather flock together, people with similar life experiences like to compare notes.
In January 2003 I crossed paths with one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet — Christopher Reeve. It was a pure stroke of luck. A friend of mine knew Gabbi Cusack, a former nanny to Dana and Christopher’s son, Will, and one of the organisers of ‘Still Flying High’, a dinner held at Fox Studios to raise money for spinal research at which Christopher was the speaker and main attraction. He was also invited to be the keynote speaker at the then NSW Premier, Bob Carr’s spinal cord conference, ‘Making Connections’.
Thanks to Gabbi, I was invited to participate in a panel during the conference and a couple of days later got to spend twenty very precious minutes talking to Christopher. I remember wheeling down to our meeting place thinking, ‘Shit, what am I going to say. He’s Superman and I’m just a farmer from Croppa Creek. What could he possibly find interesting or inspiring about me after what he’s done?’ I thought about what I’d read in the book he wrote, about his incredible attitude towards his injury, his starring roles in the Superman movies, how he was a huge Hollywood star and mates with other big names like Robin Williams. The list of his accomplishments went on and on. There were moments when I nearly could have turned around but I decided, ‘You’re on your way now, too late.’
He was already at the restaurant when we arrived, with his wife, Dana — who is one incredible lady — and son, Will. Gabbi organised a space for me right beside him. The first thing that I couldn’t get over was how big he was, how powerful. Not only was Christopher Reeve naturally very tall, he’d also used electrical stimulation to retain his muscle tone, so he looked like this big athletic bloke sitting in a motorised wheelchair. Anyone with spinal cord injury can maintain their muscle tone like that, but it requires an enormous amount of time and effort and daily dedication. I’ve never bothered so my muscles have faded away to virtually nothing. They’re all still there but because they don’t work, they’ve shrunk.
Christopher had maintained his body in tiptop condition partly to ensure that if there was ever a breakthrough in medical research into repairing a spinal cord injury, he’d be ready to get back on his feet as soon as possible. He’d also been able to demonstrate that the body could recover extra function more than two years after the injury. He regained some movement in his fingers, wrists and certain other joints, and some sense of feeling throughout the rest of his body up to five years after falling from a horse and suffering a C2 spinal cord injury in 1995. What he also proved was that even movie stars, known across the world, could suffer a life-changing disability. Christopher inspired everyone with his amazing attitude. He was going to walk — full stop.
So there I was, meeting Christopher Reeve, nervous and overwhelmed as all hell. But within moments, he’d broken down the barrier. Immediately he was interested in my story, how I’d become a quadriplegic and what I did on the farm, about the bike and hoist and ultralight. He wanted to know how long I was staying in Sydney and when we were going home. He was so easy to talk to.
He told me how much he loved Australia and how he wanted to come back and next time see more of the countryside as well. I chatted on in a bubble of euphoria, oblivious to all else — this man beside me like a magnet, pulling me towards him with his power and aura. The memory of his attitude and energy will always be with me, as will an appreciation of the passion with which he fought for what he believed in and his dedication to fundraising for spinal cord research.
I met him again at Government House during a civic reception. He was in the line up of formal guests. Straightaway he recognised me.
‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Gidday, Christopher.’
‘I’ve been thinking about some of the things that you do and I think it’s just incredible.’
I couldn’t believe he remembered me after all the people he’d met in Australia. He mentioned the ultralight and the farm. He’d remembered it all. When he left I thought, ‘We could easily strike up a long-term friendship.’
But that wasn’t to be. In October 2004 Christopher Reeve died. He was only fifty-two. I was devastated. So were a lot of people around the world. His death took away a powerful symbol of hope and inspiration for everybody, not just the disabled people of the world but the able-bodied too. It was like experiencing a campfire going out on a cold night in the outback then feeling the chill close in around you. Such a sense of loss, as the light disappears and your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. But if you look up, you can always see the stars. In the same way the stars remain, my time with Christopher will never leave me.
I love public speaking. It’s not only because it’s rewarding to tell my story in the hope it might help others. It has also allowed me to meet lots of great people. I’ve met celebrities, like Christopher Reeve, who I thought were on another level until I got to know them and realised they were just a father or a mother, a son or daughter, like everyone else. They all have thrills and spills in their lives too. But then there’s the ordinary, everyday people I meet who are doing extraordinary things, like restoring farmland damaged by salinity, running outstanding nursing homes, developing leading stockfeed businesses, or dealing with illnesses or injuries of their own. They’re not looking for rewards or accolades. They don’t want gold medals. They’re simply getting on with chasing their dreams.
When you get out and about, there are so many people in this country doing the most amazing things. Some are doing it under enormously difficult circumstances, but they don’t mention it because that’s just the way it is.
In an almost eerie coincidence, a few of the people I’ve met or known have also appeared on Australian Story. One was Dr Charlie Teo. I shook his hand for the first time literally in front of Christopher Reeve. Four months later he appeared on Australian Story in a program called ‘The Trouble with Charlie’. Here was this down-to-earth, motorbike-riding bloke who turned out to be one of the country’s top neurosurgeons, someone with an enormous talent.
Another was Matt Laffan, who appeared on Australian Story in April 2001 in a story called ‘A Sense of Destiny’. He’s a Sydney lawyer with diastrophic dysplasia. Within moments of meeting Matt, you forget about his electric chair or that his limbs haven’t grown properly. You don’t see his disability, you just see this wonderful bloke who immediately captivates people. His story inspired me so much I rang him. Straightaway we hit it off. We got onto rugby. His dad had coached NSW, mine had played for the Wallabies and Matt was on the rugby judiciary. We found an instant connection and have kept in touch. Finally we met when we spoke together at the spinal cord conference in 2003. It’s amazing how paths crisscross your life.
I saw Victoria Friend’s Australian Story ‘On the Mountain’ in May 2003 — I’d known her during our school days — and Gayle Shann’s story ‘With this Ring’ in April the same year. Believe it or not, her husband’s grandmother lived on the property next door to Dick and Wapp at Longreach, where I worked the year after I left school. Both their stories blew me away and I rang each of these women to congratulate them on finding the courage to tell them. It was an incredibly difficult task for Victoria, as she had to deal with the heart-wrenching loss of the man she loved as she recovered from massive injuries suffered in the plane crash that killed him. The good news is that in 2005 she and Dermott Shannon, who also featured in her story, married and earlier this year they were expecting their first child.
Gayle also coped with horrific injuries. Her right arm was ripped off and her other paralysed in an accident with a posthole digger. She’d only been married three years. I was so gripped by her story and the dedication of her husband. What a fantastic bloke. If anyone saw that story and walked away without being moved, they must have been made of steel.
Then the Australian Story crew got wind of the fact a few of us were chatting behind their backs and decided they’d better do a story to expose it. ‘Small World’ went to air in June 2004. Again there was a terrific response.
It was followed by the Australian Story Roadshow in Brisbane during August of that year. It was an evening where the public could meet some of the people who’d featured on the program, and find out what had happened in their lives since their stories were broadcast. Again we met other people who had been on Australian Story, including the Victorian bootmaker-turned-opera-singer, Peter Brocklehurst; former national representative swimmer, Tracy Wickham; the police trying to solve the case of the disappearance of Sunshine Coast teenager Daniel Morcombe; and Dr Michael Holt, the Brisbane orthopaedic surgeon hit by a car, suffering head and face injuries. I returned home wanting to fly to the moon. If I’d come back and built a rocket to the moon every time I was inspired to do so, I wouldn’t have a shed big enough to put all my rockets in. That’s what Australian Story and the speaking has given me.
The other thing about friendships is the way they sometimes lead you in new, exciting directions. In September 2004 I was speaking in northeast Victoria and the organiser of my trip just happened to be great mates with Tom O’Toole. He organised for us to meet. Tom is one of the nation’s most successful motivational presenters and owner of the Beechworth Bakery, which turns over millions of dollars worth of food annually. He wrote his story in a book called Breadwinner. I found Tom was totally down-to-earth and a bit rough around the edges, like me. He was also incredibly inspiring. He encouraged me to seriously consider pursuing public speaking as a profession.
A couple of months later fate stepped in again. I received an email from Zoe Vaughan from Claxton Speakers International in Sydney. She wrote, ‘Having read your story, I was wondering if you have considered public speaking. It is not for everyone (some fear public speaking more than death) and I appreciate that you have a farm to run … if you alone or yourself and Jenny together are interested, we would welcome the opportunity to speak with you in more detail about the industry.’ Immediately I looked up Claxton’s web page on the internet and there were all these superstars. I read their stories and what they’d done and thought, ‘Jesus Christ … why would they want me?’
In January 2005 Jenny and I met Zoe and the owner, Deb Claxton. We liked them instantly. Later we met Deb’s husband, Phil, who was also a partner in the business and had grown up in Tamworth. We felt at home with him straightaway as well. We agreed to join Claxtons.
I’m very much a one-on-one kind of person. I’d rather pick up the phone than write an email. That might have something to do with the fact I’m a particularly slow one-finger typist. But it’s also the way I like to do things. I prefer to speak to people and get to know them. In a sense Claxton Speakers International suits Jenny and me because it isn’t the biggest speaking bureau in Australia — although it’s growing rapidly — and the staff have made us feel welcome to what is still very much a new industry for us. So it’s terrific to make that connection and we’re now doing more speaking. We’re still on the bottom rung of the ladder, but I can see a future ahead.
But what about the farm? Did I want to shut that gate? At this stage, the answer to that is no. I still love nothing more than to jump on the bike and chase a few cattle and feel the wind on my face. I like to think it’s possible to have the best of both worlds. Time will tell.
The more speaking I’ve done, the more people who have told me I should write down my story. And with a wife who’s a journalist, it seemed a natural progression. In fact, Jenny has been keen to write my book from the time we married. The Women’s Weekly article, published the year of our wedding, mentioned that. In response, we had a note from a book agent called Selwa Anthony. We’d never heard of her, but she wrote us a great note saying if we ever decided to write a book she’d be interested in hearing from us. We filed it away and got busy doing other things.
In fact, during 2003 we put most of our efforts into trying to have a baby. Obviously it wasn’t going to happen naturally, so we decided to try IVF. While everything appeared to go smoothly, it was an emotional battlefield as we waited to see if each step in the process would be successful. You don’t realise how lucky you are if you can have children naturally, because a lot of things have to fall into place for it to happen and you’re totally unaware of all that when nature takes its course.
Unfortunately for us, it wasn’t successful. We then had to choose whether to keep trying or give up on that rainbow and go chase another one. It was a tough decision. We felt like we were letting down our parents, who would have loved to see us have children, and there also seemed to be a lot of social pressure to have kids. We agonised over the decision for months. But in the end we knew if we didn’t have children it would give us the freedom to pursue other things, like the speaking and the book.
Once again, the book idea gained momentum. We finally decided to do something about it. So I rang Selwa. ‘Sam Bailey, where have you been?’ was her reaction. ‘Why haven’t you contacted me?’ I might have needed persuading that the book was a goer, but she certainly didn’t. She told us to write a synopsis and couple of chapters and send it to her as soon as we could. Again the time slipped away.
Then in 2004, Jenny noticed Selwa was speaking at the NSW Writers’ Centre’s Popular Fiction Festival — and we went down to Sydney to hear her speak. It was then that we realised how popular Selwa was. She is one of Australia’s most sought-after book agents — particularly for aspiring popular fiction writers — and has launched the careers of many of the country’s top authors. I realised at that festival there were heaps of people wanting to write books. Getting them published was a whole different ball game. Anyone can sit down and write a story, but it’s pretty tough out there in the publishing world. Selwa mentioned she’d take questions after her talk and I found myself sitting in that crowded room — more than a hundred people attended the session — thinking, ‘What am I going to do to win her over?’
While we’d already had contact with Selwa, I sensed I needed to cement that commitment. So she finished speaking and took some questions. I waited until the very last minute, then put up my hand.
‘We’ve decided to write our story and I’m looking for a book agent. And I think you’re really, really good-looking, so will you represent me?’ Everyone cracked up.
Selwa jumped down from the stage and gave me a hug and kiss and said, ‘Sam, send me something, please!’
So many people came up to me afterwards and said, ‘Wish we’d thought of that.’
Eventually, with quite a lot of persuasion from Selwa and Australian Story presenter and author Caroline Jones, ABC Books agreed to give us a contract. It’s a tremendous privilege. I know some people try forever to get a publisher and many eventually self-publish, while others throw their manuscripts in the bin in despair. I guess all I can say is never give up and don’t be afraid to be different. It’s always worked for me.