By Paul Henry Collier
Epilogue by Erna Cooper
The rites of passage from childhood to adulthood are a momentous and exhilarating stage in every person’s life. The summers of 1981 and 1982 were, for me, a period of adventure and exuberance, a thrilling helter-skelter of travel, parties and girls – and even a good war too. Nobody had heard of the Falklands, but for a budding fighter pilot it was a jolly good show, and the excitement was invigorating. This is what life was all about, I thought, and I anticipated many years of great times.
Since the age of ten I had known that all I wanted was to fly. I had surprised everyone, including myself, with stunning results at school and was ready to join the Royal Air Force. Southeast London in the 1970’s was a dreary place, however, and my family had applied to emigrate to Australia, drawn by tales of sun and luxury from family already living there.
The Australian government, in its wisdom, welcomed us and my adventurous spirit leaped at the chance to explore the great brown land Downunder. Before long I was working in Alice Springs, in the dead centre of Australia, with 1,500 miles of desert separating me from the closest set of traffic lights. My twenty-first birthday heralded an intrepid drive home through the vast outback in my new four-wheel drive utility truck, or Aussie ‘Ute’. Three days later, however, under the gaze of nobody but a few stray kangaroos, my world ended in a flash, with a rollover and a broken neck.
Twelve hours and an evacuation by the world-famous Royal Flying Doctor Service later, I was in Adelaide hospital’s spinal unit, starting the first day of my new life – as a quadriplegic. Despite spending my birthday under the influence of a far more potent mix of drugs than I had ever imagined, there was no mistaking I was in big trouble. Totally unable to move, fourteen pounds of traction screwed into my skull, a tube up my penis and complete strangers shoving something up my arse to make me shit. This was a frightening world — worse than any nightmare I had ever imagined. Very quickly, I realised that all my hopes and dreams were down the drain. And just as quickly, I started praying – every minute alone, desperately hoping to die, so I could escape this living hell. But the first lesson I learned is that there is no God.
After three months staring at one spot on a ceiling, I was sent to the rehabilitation centre, which made German wartime prison camps look like holiday centres. The austere place was made worse soon after I arrived when the Director – the one doctor who both knew and cared about me – suddenly died from a heart attack. The dark clouds became even darker as the fiefdoms of nurses, orderlies and therapists turned on each other, and patients were left to themselves – to fight their own internal struggles in recognising and accepting their new existence.
My fate hung in the balance. Fighting the physical ravages of infection, operations and the trauma of a body out of control, I lay in my bed, in the depths of despair and depression, longing for suicide. Ironically, of course, even that was now beyond my physical ability.
It was clear that I was going to have to live with a spinal injury and, if not accept it, at least learn to cope with it. And, moreover, it was a struggle that I knew would last for a long, long time, if not forever, and a struggle that I was going to have to fight myself. But I was lucky, very lucky.
I had learned that relying on God or the professionals would get me nowhere. It was a struggle that I would have to fight for myself, and to make the best of this dire situation I would have to stand up and be counted, physically and emotionally. Paralysed and confined to bed – that was impossible, but from the beginning, my family had stood strong beside me, trying, in every way they could, to encourage me and shield me from the horrors.
I remember the first day I sat in a wheelchair as if it were yesterday. The mixed emotions were extremely powerful and overwhelming, wringing searing tears of joy and despair. The blunt realisation that I really was never going to walk again, and that this monstrous contraption was my future, but that it was also going to give me my first taste of freedom in almost six months.
Slowly, I regained my strength, and with it, my confidence. The days were long and boring, with disorganised physiotherapy and physical rehabilitation little more than a complete waste of time. But I was learning to live with my body, with my physical limitations, and learning to understand the new sensations and feelings that I was having. Motivation was what I needed, by the bucket load. Two steps forward were inevitably followed by one step backward. Humour was a rare commodity amidst the depressing corridors, but with the invaluable support of my family, who never tired from trying to keep my spirits up, I could see the first chink of light in the darkness.
I was facing a long, hard journey with an unknown destination, but I had already come a long way. I had survived. Now I knew that I must start to rebuild a new life. For the first time, I started looking forward. There could be no looking back; my past life and everything I knew was gone.
My first goal was to get out of the rehabilitation centre. I tried to make use of every opportunity to learn all I could about the world of paralysis and wheelchairs. I had to work out what my strengths were and how I was going to cut it in the real world. Paralysed in all four limbs, I had no strength and no movement. The super-crips posed in the gym and on the basketball court, but I knew that a powered wheelchair would be the only way I would have any independence or freedom. They were ugly, uncomfortable and dehumanising, but I decided to put my energies into the one part of my body that still worked a hundred percent: my brain.
I had realised early on that simply being in a wheelchair meant I would be treated as if I were a vegetable by a society that craved the image of the body beautiful. Perhaps it was the defiant streak of my character, but I was determined that I would not be treated or accepted as a cripple. The so-called professionals of the rehabilitation centre had already tarnished me as troublesome for speaking my mind, but the struggle to survive had moved on to a different front – the psychological battle. I was coming to terms with my physical situation, but now I could sense the new challenge, between my wheelchair and the independence of my personality and character.
I left the rehabilitation centre almost unnoticed, a year after my accident. I had lost my job and my home and moved back to the family home with my parents. It was not an ideal situation, but there was no alternative. If I was to have a “full and meaningful life” – a euphemism so favoured by the professionals – then I had to return to the workforce. I was, officially, still an employee of the Federal Government, and luckily a couple of people were pushing the management of my department to allow me to return to a job in the central office. Taxation was not my choice of employment, but I had to be part of mainstream society, and the working conditions were very supportive.
It was a nervous beginning. For the first time, I was away from the immediate support of people who knew me and the complications of a spinal injury. It was a huge step, and I had no idea how I was going to be accepted by my former workmates. They were as wary as I was, but fortunately I had no problems and quickly returned to full-time work. My life then settled down into a secure, if monotonous, daily routine of work and home, and not much else.
Socially, I was still not ready to mix with able-bodied people, and my antipathy toward anything involved with disabled social organisations was as strong as ever. I was like a fish-out-of-water, not knowing where or how to fit in. Even today, some eighteen years and a lifetime of experiences since those early, nervous days, I still feel the same. My body is paralysed by quadriplegia, but my mind never was. I didn’t learn to think like a quadriplegic, and I don’t think that I ever will.
I had no sense of time, as the weeks and months simply blurred into a Groundhog Day, and I had no concept of where my life was going. During a casual conversation, however, the colleague that enabled me to return to work suggested that I should resume some studies, to improve the non-existent work skills or experience that I possessed. Computers were spreading rapidly through the workplace, and the idea filled me with inspiration. This was one way I could gain an edge and make myself invaluable. I also needed something in my life. Perhaps, I thought, studying would be the answer. A simple, innocuous event can only be seen in hindsight as the precursor of greater achievements, but that coffee break gave direction and meaning to my life.
With the support of my family, I began part-time evening classes at college. Another tentative step forward, but all seemed to go well. Three years later I graduated with a certificate and an enormous sense of achievement. The skills were also helpful in a modernising workforce, and I started to feel that I was really contributing something as an equal and not just the token cripple.
Graduate study at university had never occurred to me while still at school. I craved action and adventure, and the thought of sitting in a classroom was just too dull. Now, of course, it all made sense. But this was serious stuff, not a local community college, and I really feared whether I could keep up with other students, both physically and academically. It was a challenge on both fronts, but I was determined that I would at least try. I enrolled part-time, utilising the generous study allowance benefits of government employment, continuing with computer science, but also a history course. This I knew was a personal favourite, but it would also enable me to judge myself.
It was a novel experience, equally for the academics and the university authorities. Very few students with my degree of severe disability had attended university, but my lecturers seemed genuinely interested, and I even joined some social groups. All seemed to go well. When the end of year results were posted, however, I was not prepared for the shock: a distinction.
Encouraged enough to continue computer science the following year, I had no choice but to enrol in mathematics. By chance, it was also the final year of teaching for the lecturer who taught the course on the Second World War, my favourite subject, and so I enrolled. It was a year of contrasting fortunes. I had not studied any mathematics since my junior years at school, eleven years earlier, and it was a tough, hard slog. Military history, however, was immensely enjoyable and a breeze. My personality, after everything, was still the same. The difference in fortune was reflected in my grades, and the writing was on the wall. I was no computer scientist, but my professor encouraged me to go further with history. Now fully confident in my abilities, both academically and in coping with the physical rigours of the university environment, I enrolled full-time in a history/politics degree.
It was now some five years since I had left the rehabilitation centre, but I was still living with my parents. Tensions were beginning to develop, but opportunities and support services for living independently were almost non-existent. My spare time was taken up almost entirely with my study, a stress that was compounded by my parents moving home. My family’s relationships were good, but they could take only so much strain. I had been burying myself in my work and studies, deliberately to avoid facing up to what I saw as an otherwise empty life, but in doing so, I had also been ignoring those who were the closest to me. I had to face the demons that bedevilled me still. I had never stopped running away from reality – from my situation.
By luck, the local council had initiated a plan to construct an adapted house, and I was selected as the ‘occupant’. Living alone was another challenge, but it gave me, as well as my family, the space that we all needed. I was nervous but hadn’t expected the experience to be quite so scary. Organising care and support, in particular, was tricky, ensuring that even my basic needs of security and meals would be met. But I was now a different person from when I first had my accident. With much greater confidence, I now looked upon a challenge as an opportunity to use my lateral thinking to come up with innovative solutions. Extra hurdles because of my disability were a fact of life, and I was still very self-conscious, but success breeds success.
My studies had progressed well, and I had become part of the university community, making new friends and expanding my social network. This was by the far the experience I found the most difficult to overcome. Physical trauma can be repaired with good medical care, but confidence and self-belief take much more time and determination to restore. Having my own home had forced me to be more independent, but with a growing confidence it also enabled me to develop more intimate relationships. Sexuality had never been discussed during all my months in rehabilitation and, absurdly, is still a taboo topic in mainstream disability forums. For the first time, though, I felt secure and confident enough to be comfortable in the company of the opposite sex.
Some nine years after my accident, although I felt self-assured, I remained unfulfilled. I had successfully graduated with an Arts degree and was completing an Honours degree, but I was looking for a new challenge. Academia hadn’t been a deliberate career choice, but I was encouraged to consider doing a PhD. It was a role I enjoyed, I was relatively good at, and one that my disability did not prejudice. To conduct serious research in my subject of military history would require moving to the UK, but to work with the right person I would have to aim for the highest standard – Oxford University.
My confidence was at its height; nevertheless, I was determined not to repeat the mistake of my youth. I had not applied to become an Air Force pilot, but I did not want to die also wondering if I could have completed a doctorate at the University of Oxford. If I failed, at least I would fail knowing that I had given my best effort.
I flew to the UK for a holiday and to do some research on the university, and to my great surprise, I was accepted to commence a DPhil in 1995. I was equally successful in being awarded two prestigious scholarships, including the British equivalent to a Rhodes scholarship, and ten years after my injury I left Australia for an entirely new and totally unknown experience.
I arrived in a different world. Oxford represented rarefied cultural and academic heights, of which I had no knowledge or preconditioning, and a historically rich environment that was built long before wheelchair access was ever considered. It came as little surprise to learn that no student with my level of disability had previously studied at Oxford. My personal care was disorganised; the university did not have even an equal opportunities office, and my college lacked an accessible bathroom. I had taken on the mother of all challenges.
My first year was extremely difficult. Fortunately, it is human nature not to remember unpleasant events as well as happy ones, and my memories of this time have dulled the extreme problems I faced. Perseverance, determination and the support of my fellow students were critical, but I had resolved to immerse myself, to form as many relations as possible and become as widely involved as I possibly could. The longer I stayed, therefore, the more widely known I became, and the more at home I felt. Instead of being segregated, I was a welcome member of the community.
Graduating for my Masters degree was a great honour and an exciting achievement. In front of my family, I felt real pride. I had also proven to myself that I could cope and had overcome the extreme pressures I had faced.
Oxford is a very special place, and the social life is as extensive and intensive as the academic life. I had decided to take up the opportunity for the ‘Oxford experience’ as much as the academic prospects, and I was determined to make as much of my time there as I possibly could. Formal dinners, partying and revelry are widespread, supported by the copious consumption of alcohol, thanks to subsidised bars in each college. The vitality, energy and spirit of the youthful atmosphere were invigorating, although somewhat surreal and removed from the real world, and carried me along in a heady wave of fun. As students live together within the confines of college, strong bonds develop quickly and naturally; relationships are common. I was accepted very much as an equal and participated fully in every aspect of the college and university communities, forming many friendships and intimate relationships. In some way, I think I was living out the time of my life that I had been denied by my accident, and it is a period I shall always recall with very happy memories.
As my research progressed, my academic success was increasingly recognised by my contemporaries, as I attended formal seminars across the world, in my own right, and extended my network of professional relationships. My hard work culminated in success during the summer of 2001. In two short months, my thesis was accepted at my viva, a prestigious publisher awarded me a contract, I was invited to a reception at Buckingham Palace with Queen Elizabeth II, and in a grand finale to my years in Oxford, I graduated with a Doctor of Philosophy. My family came from Australia to share in my achievements, and my chest swelled with pride for the whole summer. In front of my family, friends and colleagues, I felt immense satisfaction that I had overcome my own doubts about my ability, and that I had produced a world-class quality piece of work that my peers acknowledged as a valuable contribution to the history of my field. But, most of all, I was intensely proud that I had vindicated my family’s dedication and support during the dark weeks and months after my accident, and in the years following. It had been a long and often difficult journey, but I honestly felt that I had overcome my spinal injury by reaching a pinnacle that nobody could deny or take from me. I may have been disabled but I wasn’t a cripple.
Epilogue
Paul went on to much greater heights than he’d imagined after leaving Oxford, where I met him my first day of graduate studies at Wadham College. Paul returned to his hometown of Adelaide, Australia, in 2001 and held advisory roles at the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, the Arts Access Australia Council, the National Disability Advisory Council, and also advised the Federal Minister for Disability. He also became a Fellow at the Governor’s Leadership Foundation and ran for office as a representative for a political party he founded – the Dignity for Disability Party (or D4D). Tragically and unexpectedly, Paul died at the age of 46 from a brain haemorrhage, in March of 2010 – a profound loss for so many who knew and loved him, who were inspired and educated by his magnificent brain, his healthy outlook on life, and his tenacity. Who else could understand the challenges of transporting petroleum across North Africa during WII, but someone who managed to negotiate daily with local authorities who did not want to deal with adapting seventeenth-century architecture to the needs of a student in a wheelchair, particularly when there were no laws to protect the disabled? No challenge put him off. There was no way to discourage him, and a lift for the second-story MCR (common room), where graduate students congregated for social gatherings, was installed by the time we left Oxford.
Paul managed not only to change the college climate and medieval restrictions at the university regarding handicap access to historical buildings, but changed my world in ways nobody had ever done or tried. For I had never been invited as a guest to the House of Lords (or any government engagement) before knowing Paul. It was a special moment in time, and we attended a fundraiser there for the Spinal Injuries Association that he worked tirelessly to support.
I know of no one, personally, who has accomplished more than Paul in a lifetime – both academically and in terms of contributions to public service, scholarship, social awareness, and improving the rights and needs of those living with serious disabilities.
Paul Collier was a magnificent man, a loyal and trusted friend, human being, and role model. Although he’s been gone now for over a decade, it seems as if it were yesterday that we were having a drink at the Mitre, watching Arsenal football, and talking about the war in Iraq. When problems arise, today, the first thing I ask myself is, “What would Paul do or say in this situation?” And, in February 2022, I wondered what Paul would have said about the Russian invasion of Ukraine. And, now in 2025, I wonder how he’d feel about Donald Trump in a second term and US isolationism. Of course, he had often said that he wondered what Russia would do now that the Cold War was over. I guess we know the answer to that now.
At the end of every day, no matter what that day was like, I am eternally grateful that – at a critical time in my own life – Paul suddenly appeared and taught me lessons about the human condition no one else could. And these memories will guide and console me through the rest of my life.
I know Paul confessed he didn’t believe in God, and I’m not sure if I do, but if the Hindus are right and we come back to this world in another lifetime, I am certain Paul will return as a Statesman and take up from where he left off in healing hearts, finding solutions, and inspiring minds.
- Erna Cooper
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
Marguerite Duras once said, at times we write because we find ourselves in a hole, to discover that writing, alone, will save you ("[s]e trouver dans un trou ... et découvrir que seule l'écriture vous sauvera)." I happen to agree. I think, as a child I was intuitively drawn to the arts - be it music, the visual arts, dance, or writing - to express myself, but also to find out who I was, deep inside, when the outer world didn't show me. It was to further explore dreams only partially finished, when I woke up in the morning, but also to reflect on friendships and loved ones, as well as memories of those who have left this world, and to make their memory eternal. Some say that we write to give voice to those who could not speak for themselves. For me, this project fell in my lap, when my dear friend, Paul Collier's mother reached out to me, shortly after he died, to tell me she found an unfinished manuscript -- just one chapter of his autobiography, asking if I could do something with it. Well, now I have. And in sharing Pauls' voice, his story with the world, I hope it touches and inspires those living with disabilities and others who want to continue to dream and thrive after trauma.
What was the inspiration for your creative work?
My inspiration... was Paul.
Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
I love the changes of season and living in a part of the world where there are four distinct seasons. What moves me most about it is witnessing the smallest leaf emerging through a rock wall; it gives me hope, because so many of us are these little leaves fighting the odds against our blossoming.
My thoughts for the next generation: I worry about what sort of environment they'll grow up in -- whether they'll have enough fresh water, clean air, and an ability to love simple things in nature, despite the addiction to cell phones and social media. I hope they have a chance to go into the woods -- into the depths of the unknown -- and come out changed and revitalized, for that's what I think the creative process is all about.
