Chapter Nine
LEAVING QANTAS
While passengering back to Sydney
from Honolulu, I think I knew deep down that this was the end of my flying
career. It seemed obvious that the pain I was getting all through my body would
never go away while I was flying a Boeing 747. The picture of the start levers
was welded behind my eyes as a constant reminder of my mission. That was now what the obsession
had changed to. Not just an extended thought of an emergency procedure, but a
desire to carry out a compulsive act that probably would have resulted in one
of the world's worst air disasters.
Qantas
referred me to a doctor whose name conjured up the image of a Chinese herbal
doctor in my mind. I was asked to bring my wife along to the first consultation
and it was like a quiz with all the questions being asked. When answering one
question, my wife mentioned that I didn't like going into our swimming pool.
The doctor became very excited and took on the roll of a criminal detective,
probing for clues as to why.
When
my children were small I got the compulsion that they should have a swimming pool, but we really could
not afford one. No problem for have-a-go-at- anything me, and I set about
building a pool myself. At that stage I was only flying a couple of days a
month, so time was no problem. I had an engineer design the pool, which was to
be made of concrete blocks. The first project of course was the hole, and
equipped with shovel and wheelbarrow I foolishly got under way. Eventually the
great day for pouring the floor came and neighbours suddenly appeared on the
scene to help, for now this messy hole had the possibility of being a place for
them to swim.
I
used Lego blocks to work out my plan for lying the heavy concrete blocks, and slowly, layer
by layer, the walls rose until I had to use scaffolding to reach those in the
deep end, which was seven feet high. No way were my kids going to hit their
heads on the bottom when they dived off the house roof! I always had to plan
for the worst scenario, as when I was away on a trip my boys would run wild,
and jumping off the roof into the pool was sure to top their list of crazy
stunts; the truth of which, twenty years later when they knew that they were
past reprimand, was proudly conveyed to me.
While
surveying my work I noticed a lone nail that I had left in at a high point on
the wall. Stretching up on my toes, I grasped the nail with my hammer and gave
a swift pull, but unfortunately the hammer slipped off, and with a mind of its
own hit me on the forehead with all the force that I had applied. Down I went
with some sort of cry, which brought my wife running to where she found me
lying on the swimming pool floor. No stitches were required, but for the next
few months I had the most horrible headaches.
Headaches
we all get from time to time, but mine seemed to be aggravated by flying. The
pain I suffered was far worse than any hangover I had flown with, and
eventually I had to seek medical help.
The end result of the consultation was that I was to have a brain scan, and
I duly fronted up for this test, which was to be in two stages. The first test
was to scan without dye, and then later, with the dye passing through my brain, a second series of tests
were to be carried out. For the first test I was on my back, and sandbags were
placed around my head so that it wouldn't move. I had to stay put in this
position for a minute or two and I wasn't particularly bothered by it. However,
after the dye was injected it was a different story. Not just one scan had to
be performed as before, but also front, back and side scans. This time, two
seconds after the large flat device was lowered so that it just touched my
nose, my body uncontrollably went berserk, and I screamed to be let out. My head was completely fixed and it
must have been the fear of my childhood headlocks that started a chain
reaction. The scanner was quickly lifted and I was given time to calm down. In
order to finish off the tests, the technician made it possible for me to see
the control panel with the countdown visible so that I could watch the progress
of the scan and visualise when the end was in sight.
The
scan proved negative and the doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me, so it
was back to work, headaches and all. On a return flight from London, I mentioned
my plight to the chief steward, who suggested that I see a chiropractor, which
I did. In those days, as far as most doctors were concerned, chiropractors were
a hoax.
My
consultation was to prove them wrong, for after some probing here and there the
chiropractor used a heat detector to examine my spine and neck, and found some
large discrepancies. It was then that I went through my first frightening experience of having my neck manipulated.
Crack! Had he broken it? No, he had instantly given me my first relief from
those debilitating headaches. My problem was that I had suffered whiplash from
the blow of the hammer, and the headaches were caused by the misalignment of my
neck. With glee I went back to see the specialist to tell him of my cure, and I
will always remember his words when I told him that it was a chiropractor who
had cured me, 'Yes, we all need one in the back room.'
From the explanation of the pool incident the doctor was convinced that I had Traumatic Affective Illness, which was not a neurotic state or a neurosis, and that the clearing of my headaches was achieved by the convincing persuasiveness of a chiropractor. He also stated that in two months I would be one hundred per cent physically and mentally fit, off all medication, and that there was no reason to suppose that the illness would recur. He stated that the illness was totally and permanently curable with treatment of an adequate dose of tricyclic drugs. Unbeknown to me, the two drugs, Tryptanol and Parnate, when taken together in the large doses that he gave me, can evidently cause cardiac arrest. No psychiatrist that has seen me has agreed with this treatment, and C.A.S.A. in their wisdom referred me to other psychiatrists for their opinions. That was when they found out that Qantas had failed to disclose to them the crucial results from the first two psychiatrists that I had seen. Two years after I had left Qantas C.A.S.A. had to ask Qantas for these reports.
During
the period of taking this very high and dangerous concoction of drugs, my mind
was in a state of stupor and my home life suffered irrevocable damage. The
smallest and trivial situation would send me into a raging temper and, during
what was a minor situation with my wife, in a rage that I will never forgive myself
for, I took our dog and went to live on my yacht Tic Tac. In this case a dog was really a man's best friend as he
didn't argue or know of my new aggressive attitude. As long as he was fed it
was okay. Most sunny days we would sail to a nudist beach and anchor. I would
swim ashore, and when I had established that the sunworshippers were dog lovers
I would give a whistle. I could see those large German shepherd ears prick up,
and from the lowest deck, which was four feet above the water, he would do a running
bellyflop and be on his way to the beach. On this secluded beach we both made
new friends and we were reasonably happy until the time I was to come off the
drugs.
I
had, over the last two years, developed new fears which really affected my
life. One fear I experienced was at the hairdresser when the cloth was put
around my neck and tightened. The psychiatrist passed that off as 'barber's pole
disease'. At the time I
believed him, for who was I to doubt a man with all those qualifications?
The
second fear I experienced was at the dentist's surgery when the bib was put
around my neck. When the chair reclined
and my weight transferred from my bottom to my back I felt like a cast sheep,
helpless and with no control over my body.
When they manoeuvred the work tray over my chest I began to panic, because I couldn't
escape. The final straw
was when the dentist and his nurse bent over me like vultures trying to get
into my mouth. These two masked faceless people had now blocked any chance I
had of an escape, and several times at this stage of a visit I would
embarrassingly ask for the session to be stopped. I always needed to be able to
move when I wanted to, so without taking Valium the dentist was only visited
when the pain of toothache was severe.
During
my regular visits to the psychiatrist, the subject of yachts was always a
topic. When I told him that my wife wanted me to sell Tic Tac he would say, 'Don't sell it - but if you do, sell it to
me.' Another of his misguided quotes was that I would never be cured until I
had left my wife!
The
psychiatrist, knowing of my fear of the dentist, arranged for me to see a
dentist colleague of his to see how I would cope with the situation now. He decided
that I was cured after that visit, as during it I was left alone for
considerable periods of time, flat on my back in the chair with very annoying
clamps attached to my teeth and a mouth full of cotton balls, making it
impossible to call out even if I had wanted to. Everything on this visit was
taken to the extreme to test my reactions, and the psychiatrist took great
pleasure in telling me, 'You're cured, you're cured'. Of course I was cured, I
was taking so much medication that I could have survived anything! But it was a
different story after the medication had been discontinued.
Contrary
to the principles of modern psychiatric treatment, the good doctor took me off this large dose of medication
after only two months, and to make matters
worse the weaning-off time was less than two weeks. This resulted in my
going 'cold turkey'. This feeling is
difficult to explain - as is any mental illness - but the experience was unbearable and frightening. I
now know why drug addicts will go to any lengths to acquire a substance to take
that debilitating feeling away. Not one psychiatrist I have seen has agreed
with the short and abrupt treatment that I was given. Never let a doctor take
you off antidepressants abruptly, otherwise you will pay the penalty too. Times
have changed; my present medication bears the warning, 'never stop the
medication abruptly'.
After
the testing of my reactions at the dentist I was cleared fit to fly by the
psychiatrist and, still bewildered, I went to the Qantas doctor for his
clearance. He instead however referred me to flight operations, and it was then
I was given a very difficult decision to make.
Qantas
had at last taken a good look at my situation, and decided that it would be
better that I left. If only I had been asked to do this two years earlier! I'm
sure that their decision was influenced by the crash of a Japan Airlines Boeing
707 into Tokyo Bay, piloted by a captain with a mental disorder similar to
mine. There were no suggestions of my going to another section such as the
training or safety sections where my qualifications and experience would have
been most useful.
No,
it was a choice of resigning and collecting my superannuation, or returning to
flying but be failed in the simulator, otherwise I would be given thirty days notice with no benefits.
There
was only one way out, so I resigned with no mention of any illness, for if
there had been I could have claimed my loss of licence insurance, which had a
provision for mental illness. I
resigned on 16 May 1982, and it was not until 27 May 1982 that the certificate
of service was issued by Qantas. The reason for termination was quoted as 'ill
health', instead of being cited as just a simple resignation. With doctors originally telling me I was
okay, and then in the next breath Qantas stating that I resigned because of ill
health, I was left in a confused state and was not really aware of my
rights. Qantas based my retired travel
allowance on their assumption that within five years I would be flying for
another airline - but how could I apply for a job with 'ill health' being
quoted as the reason for my resignation?
What was your illness, Mr Griffin?
Hmm, don't call us, we'll call you!