FEATURES The Dog that Saved ‘Us’


When Sandra Parton’s husband Allen was badly injured during the first Gulf War, he lost all memory of her and their two young children. It was the beginning of a six year battle. Here, Sandra tells her story...


T


he call I received was the one every Service wife dreads. It was 1991 and, at that time, my husband Allen had been


in the Gulf for three months and I was running the home and looking aſter our children, Liam, then six, and Zoë, five.


An officious voice said: ‘I’m calling to inform you that your husband was involved in a road traffic accident a week ago. He initially returned to duty but now he’s back in hospital’. It was explained that the severity of Allen’s head injuries had become apparent only a few days after the accident, when he’d begun to have problems walking and talking.


I felt numb – and then angry. Why had no one rung me sooner? They told me no more about his injuries and I was too shocked to ask. To be honest, all I cared about was that he was coming home.


The Service arranged for me to speak to Allen, who was at the military hospital in Dubai, but the voice at the end of the phone didn’t sound like him at all. It was flat and totally devoid of his usual exuberance. Our


conversation was awkward, but what scared me most was that he did not once mention the children. When I told him how much they were looking forward to seeing him, his silence filled me with fear. ‘You know,’ I persisted, ‘our children, Liam and Zoë?’ Still nothing. It was as if he didn’t have a clue who I was talking about.


Four days later, Allen was flown home and taken straight to the Military Hospital in Gosport. Sitting up in bed, he looked pale and drawn. I felt the urge to rush over and kiss him, but he seemed so confused and vulnerable that I had no idea how he’d react.


‘Your wife is here to take you home,’ said the matron. But, instead of the big smile I’d expected, Allen barked: ‘Wife? What wife?’ Convinced he was joking, I couldn’t help grinning. Such a joke would have been typical. But my husband didn’t laugh. He was deadly serious. It was clear to me that he didn’t have a clue who I was.


I’d first met Allen in 1982, when we were both 23. He was a naval officer and I was a nurse. I was out with friends in a nightclub and was instantly attracted to this tall, blond and blue-eyed man. When we met up again, he was wearing his uniform and looking every inch the smart naval officer. We had an immediate connection and we married within the year.


The birth of our son Liam in 1985 and Zoë a year later made our lives complete. Funny, caring and an amazing father, Allen was my rock. When I was diagnosed with post-natal depression he was wonderful — looking after the children, and doing all the shopping, cooking and cleaning.


Then, in 1991, when we were both 32 and the children were six and four, Allen was sent to the Gulf. It was to be the last time I saw the man I married.


After the accident, I agreed to care for Allen at home, but was given very little information about his head injury or how badly his


14 Envoy Spring 2012


memory had been affected. He’d been a passenger in a car that was involved in an accident was all that the Navy would tell me.


His head injury had caused delayed paralysis from the waist down, which meant he needed a wheelchair. His speech was affected, and he could no longer read or write. A lack of co-ordination and an inability to remember basic behaviour patterns meant he couldn’t complete everyday tasks, such as dressing himself.


Worst of all, though, he had absolutely no memory of anything before the accident, and was filled with anger. I clung to the hope that when he saw the children he’d suddenly remember everything. But when they approached him, eager to hug and kiss their father, he looked at them as if they were aliens and made it clear that he didn’t want them near him. The hurt on their little faces was more painful than I can describe.


Although we’d been friends, lovers and parents for nine years, we were suddenly two strangers trapped in a living nightmare. Not only did Allen not remember me, but he could hardly bear to look at me. And when he did, his stare was filled with fury, verging on hatred. This man was not my husband.


That night, Allen chose to sleep in the spare room. Lying alone in our bed, I felt resentment and despair. I was so angry with the System for sending him back to me now that he was no longer any use to them. How was I supposed to cope with this broken man when I had two small children to look after and no family close by to help?


Doctors couldn’t guarantee any degree of improvement. They simply said that he stood his best chance surrounded by the love and familiarity of his family. But Allen clearly didn’t want to be with us, and isolated himself from the outset. Every day he’d sit in the corner of the living room, neither looking at, nor speaking, to anyone. If I pointed out that he had his jumper on inside out, or had odd socks on, he’d fly into a rage.


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