I was stabbed 31 times by a stranger ... and the man who attacked me is still out there My sisterhood today. This is me (in the middle) with sisters Annette (left) and Louise sharing a laugh in Castle Cove. I AM a victim of crime, stabbed more than 30 times in my family home, in the dark, by a complete stranger. It's not something I wear as a badge of honour, it's something I am almost ashamed of. Because before the attack I had always believed: "That sort of thing doesn't happen to people like me." Every year there are shocking stories of random attacks on ordinary people who are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We speculate on the circumstances: "The victim must have known their attacker ... there was provocation ... it happened in a known danger zone." READ THE INVESIGATING DETECTIVE'S STORY: "To this day I still can't believe that Liz survived the attack - it's a tribute to her strength of character and her will to live." If the culprit is caught we follow them through the courts until justice is done. If the case is unsolved it fades to a distant memory, stirred only occasionally by a new clue or an appeal in the press. But what of the victims? What happens when they're taken to hospital? The months of recuperation that follow? When their physical injuries have healed? And when the spotlight moves on to the next "terrible attack," how do they put their lives back together? For me, the shock that I could become a victim for no reason was the hardest thing to come to terms with. I wasn't ready to have my life scrutinised in the media - I just wanted my life back. This is my story. My name is Liz. I was stabbed 31 times in my family home more than a decade ago. My attacker is still out there. I was stabbed 31 times. It was a completely random attack. I wasn't in a dangerous area. I was asleep in my family home. My attacker has never been found. It was 2002, I had flown to Sydney for Easter from my home in Melbourne. I worked in the advertising industry, had a good social life and some great friends. I had spent a lovely couple of days with my family at our house in Penrith. It was the home we had lived in for more than 30 years. We had never been burgled, I didn't even know a neighbour that had been burgled. We are a tight-knit family and besides the heartbreak of Dad passing away five years earlier, nothing tragic had touched our lives. On the Saturday night it was only Mum and I sleeping at the house, the rest of the family had left that day. In the early hours of Sunday, March 31, I was woken by a noise. As I opened the bedroom door I had a fleeting thought it made quite a loud creak. In hindsight it was probably what alerted my attacker that he had woken someone. I remember walking down the hallway, I didn't turn a light on. It was a hallway I had known since childhood. I don't think I honestly expected to encounter anyone. I made it to the top of the hall where it meets the entry foyer when I realised someone was there. People have asked me what was the worst part of the attack? In some ways it was this moment. Realising there was someone there. It was so dark I couldn't see anything but a shadow, but I knew there was a stranger in my home. To this day I still do not know what brought on the frenzied attack. The front door was right there. I thought he would make a run for it. So the shock of that first blow was so confusing. I couldn't understand why he was punching me - well, I thought he was punching me. I didn't realise that the blows were actually him stabbing me. I have read since that this is quite common when the sympathetic nervous system kicks in. I did my best to defend myself. As the blows continued I tried to deflect them. I'm not sure if the darkness in some way helped. If I had known every time I was deflecting a blow that it was actually a knife, I think mentally I would have given up hope. Unbelievably, a thousand things were running through my mind. You would think you'd be 100 per cent focused on surviving. My mind was still reeling with the disbelief that I being so violently attacked. I know I was screaming but I was also thinking: "How is this happening? Is this a nightmare? When is it going to stop? And constantly thinking "Why? Why are you doing this to me? I know I tried to keep my torso and face protected. I kicked, I swung out. But it just didn't stop. I had met the child's nightmare, the bogeyman. At some point I must have crouched and he was over the top of me pulling my head back trying to get to my neck. It was then that my hand closed around the blade of a knife and I truly did not know what I could do. He was pushing the blade with my hand wrapped around it to my neck. I knew it was cutting through my fingers. My strength was going, he was going to win. It was then that my Mum, woken by my screams, arrived to a scene she never thought she would witness. Not in her home, not to one of her daughters. She had been sleeping in a new extension of the house, so she was some distance from where the attack was taking place. She said she thought I was having a nightmare, which she knew didn't make sense as sleepwalking or nightmares are not something I have ever done. Mum could only make out me crouching. It wasn't until she got closer that she realised there was a person over the top of me. I think I knew she had arrived, but it was all just arms and legs. During the attack I had worked my way back down the hall and was outside the bathroom. I can only believe that once a second person arrived the attacker ran. Police identified this knife in a press conference in 2002 as one similar to the knife used to attack me. Picture: Noel Kessel Source: News Limited Mum and I locked ourselves in the bathroom. I can't imagine what she went through, seeing her youngest daughter covered in blood from head to toe. What she did next makes her an absolute hero in my mind. I was in a pretty bad way. I said: "I think I might need an ambulance." Mum did not hesitate to leave the safety of the bathroom, not knowing if the attacker was still in the house. She returned with a phone and called 000. I had rolled myself into a foetal position in the corner. I saw a gaping gash down to the bone on my left forearm. I still didn't know the extent of my injuries. I really thought I had done a pretty good job protecting myself. I didn't see my reflection in the mirror. If I had I would have seen blood pouring out of the top of my head, stab wounds to my forehead, cheek and neck, both my arms slashed to pieces, blood pouring from my chest, groin, thigh and knees. I remember thinking a cold wind was sweeping through my body. I could hear Mum explaining to the operator the extent of my injuries and how urgent it was. They couldn't seem to grasp it. To this day I do not know why, if you need an ambulance for a stabbing, the police aren't notified at the same time? I still wonder if the police had arrived earlier (it was the paramedics who called them), they might have had a better chance of catching my attacker. It truly is surreal what goes through your head at a moment like this. The bathroom had only recently been redecorated and as I lay on the floor I could see my blood collecting in the new grouting, meeting at each tile crossroad, working its way to the drain. I thought: "This is all going to need to be regrouted." I thought about work, that it was unlikely I would be there on Tuesday and what needed to be done. I don't know if you do this to keep sane. I asked Mum: "How much longer do you think it will be before the ambulance arrives?" The cold wind I could feel was picking up in strength. Mum called 000 again, she was crying and trying to explain the situation. The operator must have told her to apply pressure to the wound because Mum responded hysterically: "She's bleeding everywhere, she won't let me touch her." And I wouldn't. I was holding myself in the tightest ball, the slightest movement let cold air in. In my mind I was keeping myself alive. The sisterhood: This photo of Louise, myself, Mum, Suzanne and Annette was taken in 1996. When the paramedics arrived I got the feeling they were a bit shocked. I said to one of them, "Do you think I'll lose my arm?" and he replied, "I don't know...?" - not the most comforting words. He asked me: "Who did this?" I was soon to find out trying to explain that it was a stranger who broke in and not a domestic dispute was going to be a continuing theme. The paramedics radioed for another team to assist and for police. The second paramedic team definitely had a better handle on the situation and were truly amazing. I remember one of them saying: "We are going to take the best care of you, don't worry, everything is going to be OK." True or not, those words meant everything to me. As I was stretchered out of my home, the police had put up crime scene tape. I saw a young officer averting his eyes as he lifted the tape for me to be rolled out. There were flashing lights everywhere and I thought to myself: "What in hell just happened?" I was taken to Nepean Hospital. I think I must have gone in and out of consciousness at this stage. I only remember just before arriving at Emergency, the paramedic saying: "Don't be alarmed, there's a team waiting for you here and there will be a lot of yelling." He was not wrong. They assembled a team to work on me. Never once did I think I was going to die. If anything, I felt like I was watching a documentary from afar. It was only the excruciating pain that kept me in the present. The next few hours I went in and out of consciousness, only intermittently catching frantic activity. They were trying to stabilise my condition before operating. I remember them saying they had given me something for the pain and me trying to tell them (probably in a very garbled manner) that whatever it was, it wasn't working. I remember a doctor sitting by my side explaining that both my lungs had been punctured and they needed to reinflate them. This was both shocking (I still seemed not to have it in my head the magnitude of my injuries) and also made sense, as every breath was becoming more laboured. When they actually did reinflate my lungs, it was truly excruciating. I remember getting quite pissed off with everything at this point. I wanted out. I wanted to go to sleep and I wanted the noise to stop. I remember them bandaging all my wounds and this finally keeping out the cold air, only for them to be unbandaged again to have more photos taken. And I remember feeling oddly modest when they were inserting a urinary catheter and getting very annoyed when a curtain was not drawn. Given the state I was in, I'm not sure exactly why this became so important. Against all this, as I went in and out of consciousness I felt like I had been the perfect, heroic, strong patient - I'm not sure how I came to this conclusion or why this was important to me. I can only put it down to the drugs. These are just some of the letters of support I received after the attack Source: News Limited During this time two police investigators arrived asking to speak to me and couldn't understand why they were not given access. They still had no idea of what had gone on. I was told later they thought I had refused to speak to them. I guess this kept with their theory that it was a domestic dispute. It was only when a doctor came out and explained "we're just trying to keep her alive at this stage, she won't be talking to anyone for a while" that they realised it was more serious. I understand it was only at this point they actually called one of the officers who attended the scene that they got a clearer picture of what had occurred. I'm not sure when my family turned up. It seemed like hours. My strength left as soon as I saw their faces. They were brought in to see me before I went to theatre. Seeing how distressed they were was my undoing - tears rolling down their faces, their looks of disbelief and horror. My sister Annette said "Oh Liz," nothing more. Those two heartfelt words penetrated me more than any stab wound - I think it was the first time I realised I was in a really bad way. The hospital staff allowed them to walk next to me while I was rolled to theatre. They operated on me for more than seven hours. In the end they just stapled my chest wounds together because my body temperature was too low to continue. Meanwhile, all your family can do is wait, a hideous agonising wait. The attention is always on the victim in these situations but what families go through is pure hell. They do not know if you're going to survive and if you do what your prognosis is going to be. They're trying to come to terms with a horrific senseless attack on their daughter and sister. All they can do is console each other and prepare for whatever news the doctors will bring. I woke in intensive care. My injuries were extensive but survivable. The next few days blended into a foggy moment in time. I recall trying to talk at one point when one of the doctors came in. He had a quizzical look on his face and asked me to say a few more words. He told my family a nerve had been cut in my jaw, which was paralysing the bottom quarter of my face and they would need to operate again. I remember when they tried to wash the blood from my hair they discovered another deep gash in my skull that had been missed and needed to be stitched. I didn't know it at the time, but this would come back to haunt me months later. Two detectives arrived to conduct some initial questioning. Seeing my frustration at not being able to give any strong details because it was so dark, they took a different tack and asked if I could remember his physique, the texture of his clothing, any words - things I could describe without necessarily having to have seen them. They asked if they could cut my finger nails for any skin fragments, which was painful and difficult because they were so heavily bandaged, and they also took a DNA sample. Lousie was emotional during the police press conference in 2002. As I stabilised over the next few days I was moved to a general ward. I have always wondered what someone does in these situations when they do not have a family to support them. My family completely closed ranks around me. They were impenetrable. They were taking shifts at the hospital 24 hours a day, I was never left alone. I am the youngest of four daughters. If you spoke to anyone who knew our family, there would always be a joke about the "sisterhood." We are each other's best friends and this was never truer than during this time. I do not know the secret to good parenting but whatever my Mum and Dad did to create such a strong bond between us, they did it very well. My sisters were truly wonderful during this time. I remember saying I didn't want to see my reflection - not because of my injuries, but for my sanity. I knew if I saw my eyes reflected back they would be scared and lost by what had happened. I needed to stay strong for what lay ahead. Every time I went to the bathroom, sure enough my sisters had the mirrors covered without me even asking. They didn't question the madness of all this, they just "got it." My sister Sue took the night shift, sitting in the visitor's chair night after night. If I started, she would be awake in a second, saying: "It's OK, it's OK." When I couldn't sleep, she would just chat the night away. They could make me laugh when I never thought I would again. My sisters Louise and Annette wheeled me around that hospital like I was Elizabeth Taylor in disguise. They smuggled in wine and cheese, pillows, rugs - you name it, they were the queens of contraband. They held my brother-in-law's birthday party in the hospital courtyard. They kept me sane, though I'm not sure the hospital knew what whirlwind had hit them. Given a few more weeks they would have reorganised the whole place. My Mum suffered the most. How does a mother witness such a brutal attack on a daughter without being severely traumatised? I don't think any of us realised the extent of the mental anguish she went through. Not only did she have to live with the memory of that night, she would also have her whole world that she had shared with my Dad uprooted. She never slept another night in our family home. None of us did. Our family home, with all its wonderful childhood memories, was sold. I don't think any of us have even driven past it since. What usually escapes the public gaze is a victim's recovery. This is the hard part. I didn't have any "awakening" from a near-death experience. I just wanted everything to go back to "normal." I left hospital not being able to walk without assistance, I could not feed myself, I could not bath myself, dress or even go to the toilet on my own. My Mum and sister's did it all. To say I wasn't the easiest patient was an understatement - to be honest I could be a total bitch. They put up with it all. I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from family, friends and work colleagues. The letters and cards I received during this time absolutely humbled me. The strength this gave me was indescribable. I truly felt I would let them down if I didn't try my hardest to get back on top. These are just some of the letters I received from family, friends and colleagues. They were an important part of my recovery. I met some incredible medical professionals. The first was plastic and reconstructive surgeon Dr Angelo Preketes, who saw me at my worst. He was about to leave for the Royal Easter Show with his son when he got the call to assist in my surgery. I am so pleased he took the call. He was meticulous. He kept my family's expectations in check. He had a reserved bluntness married with a sly sense of humour that was definitely needed at times. He was a realist. He sewed my face up with the most delicate of stitches, reattached nerves and tendons that had been cut and muscles that had been severed. I also met the best hand and arm physio I could have asked for, a woman with the rather appropriate name of Carolyn Finger. She was one tough task master. Exactly what I needed, although I didn't know it at the time. Walking into the physio department at Royal North Shore Hospital screamed pain to me and I didn't want her to touch a thing. I still had all my stitches in and as far as I was concerned nothing needed to be touched for a number of weeks. We were at a stalemate when she called my doctors at Nepean Hospital to prove she was authorised to start treatment. She was the first person who truly explained the extent of my injuries and how much work I needed to do if I was to get full use of my left arm and hand back again. She explained that besides the many sutured stab wounds over my body, my left bicep had been completely severed, the main tendons in my left forearm cut. All the fingers on my left hand had tendons cut and my little finger was almost severed. The ulnar nerve at my wrist was also badly damaged, which was paralysing the left side of my hand and fingers. She was punishing and scared the shit out of me but she got results. I was to run into Carolyn a couple of years later when I was in Sydney visiting. I was at a supermarket with my sister Annette when she saw a woman looking intently at me. Carolyn asked if that was me. She couldn't believe it was the same girl, tears welled up in her eyes. I felt so proud that she was impressed. This is a a letter I was sent from The White House wishing me a speedy recovery in 2002 Source: News Limited I returned to Melbourne almost four months to the day after the attack, a lot sooner than anyone anticipated. There was still a lot of recovering to do but I was ready to return to work. I couldn't wait in fact. My employers had been incredibly supportive. They kept me on full pay for the whole time I was away and kept up a continual flow of letters from colleagues to buoy my spirits. Annette returned with me to help get me resettled. My boss did everything imaginable to make things as easy and stress-free as possible. My return coincided with the "End of Financial Year" Party and he suggested that I attend with my sister so the first day back at work would not be as daunting. The welcome I received when I entered the room from my work colleagues still brings tears to my eyes. All the hard work to get back to this point was worth it. I was introduced to Dr Christopher Coombs, another reconstructive plastic surgeon, to continue my recovery. Over the next year I had numerous operations on scars, tendon repair and work on my severed bicep. It was during this time I started to experience almost paralysing pains in my head. It would literally stop me in my tracks. Dr Coombs thought it might be nerves that may have been severed that were growing back. I returned to Sydney to help police with radio interviews and a press conference in the hope of prompting someone to come forward with new information. Two boys had found what police believed were the knives used in the attack. One of them was missing its tip - about 2cm. I had the uneasy thought that maybe the knife tip had snapped off during the attack and had lodged itself in my skull and I mentioned this to Dr Coombs. Thankfully he didn't think I was crazy and during my next surgery he checked my skull. Sure enough, there it was, but could not be removed without an MRI scan to ensure it had not penetrated the inner layer. When Dr Coombs told me, it was the first time I really broke down and cried. I was so angry, it was like my attacker had left a calling card. It was the final insult. I just remember thinking God, who was this bastard? My sister Annette was emotional during the police press conference in 2002. To date, my attacker has never been found. My life has continued relatively unchanged physically. I never quite got the full use in my left hand back. My left arm will never be as strong but it's a lot better than the initial prognosis. My face recovered from its paralysis and with the removal of the knife tip the pains in my head subsided. Most of my scars have lost their angriness - they're still visible but time has definitely improved them. What did change? Still knowing exactly when someone has noticed the scars - their eyes just linger that second too long. Seeing if they'll ask what happened and wondering if I'll tell them the truth. To this day I usually lie and say it was a car crash - I always feel a bit disappointed in myself when I say this but it's just easier. People are too overwhelmed if you say you were attacked by a stranger and stabbed over 30 times. Having the tag of being a "victim of crime" can just be too big a burden in your everyday life. I will never be comfortable being in my house in the evening on my own. I always need to have someone in the house when I go to sleep at night. Never having the innocence of hearing an unexplained noise and not thinking the worst. Always having your senses on heightened alert. Always needing "to clock" everyone around you, to know exactly where everyone is. Always having to subdue my senses if someone surprises me. What saved me mentally? First, my family. They were better than any counsellor or therapist. Annette (left) and Louise (right) have been amazing in their support Source: News Limited They let me talk about it when I was ready and whenever I liked. It was never a taboo subject. Secondly - and ironically probably the reason my attacker was never caught - I had no mental picture of him to haunt me at night. I feel so much compassion for those victims who can never escape the image of the person who attacked them. I think this would have been my undoing. Today, what strikes me is how frequently I hear, or read about, stories of violent crime touching the lives of ordinary people from all walks of life. In a funny way, my attack almost seems commonplace when you consider the level of violence we now see reported on a weekly basis - especially in Sydney. People are always shocked when I tell my story but I wonder: have we, as a community, become too desensitised to the ever increasing violence in our society? Is there a level of acceptance that these crimes are now just part of life in the city? Shocking, violent crimes - just like my case - happen every day, to all kinds of people, and many are never solved. To me, that suggests there's a level of complacency and silence that is becoming pervasive. Surely, whenever a violent crime is committed, somebody knows something - or at least has a suspicion of who may have done it. No one does an attack like what happened to me without leaving some trail. But so often, the only public response is stunned silence. I'm sure this leaves many victims feeling isolated, bewildered, almost abandoned: does anyone care? If my story has any value, I'd like it to be this: next time you hear something about a violent crime, consider this: Victims are just that - victims. There should be no judgment. We deserve the help of a community that understands: this can happen to anyone. It can happen to you.