In last week's column, I speculated that I would be dead if I hadn't followed my mother's advice. Some might think I seem overly focused on death at the moment.
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True, but it's not been a morbid exercise. It's been joyful.
I've been thinking about one of my favourite professions: nursing.
I would have kicked the bucket many years ago if it wasn't for a nurse.
Two nurses actually.
Thirty years ago I boarded a return flight after my first trip to London. I had been a bit crook before getting on the plane, but a doctor in the UK said I was OK to fly.
When I landed in Sydney I couldn't walk.
My family took me to a hospital near my home. The doctor there was confused by my symptoms. I was having trouble focusing, but I was aware he was talking to a nurse who was in the group trying to work out what was going on.
I heard her say it looked like bacterial meningitis. The doctor agreed, but said it was highly unusual as I had been fighting it for a few days. (i.e. It should have taken me out by now).
They talked a bit more and the doctor ordered a lumbar puncture and put me on antibiotics just in case I had the fast-moving disease.
I did.
Thanks to the combined experience and skills of that nurse and doctor, they made the right decision when time was critical.
Time: it's all we have.
The next thing I remember I was in the Mater Hospital. My limbs were paralysed, but, more worryingly, I had a high temperature that wouldn't break.
As those first few critical days rolled into a big blur of fear, my one source of comfort was a nurse. Her name was Lyn.
Every time she entered my room she looked at me. Like, really looked at me. Then, as she worked around me, she told me a story, just something that had happened during the day.
I loved hearing her tales. It gave me something to think about, besides kicking the bucket.
Every time Lyn took my temperature she never once let on that it was not looking good. She made me laugh, made sure all was in order, then went on to her next patient.
When the doctor did his rounds she'd take notes and answer questions. My parents would arrive, Lyn would update them outside, then they'd sit with me all day trying not to freak out. The same thing happened for a few days. It was like Groundhog Day, but with fewer laughs.
Then, one day, Lyn came in the door.
She looked at me. She saw something.
She quickly took my temperature.
It had broken.
She reacted as if she had just won the lottery.
Like a scene from a Hollywood tear-jerker, I heard my parents' footsteps in the corridor. Lyn met them at the door with the good news. Mum and Dad got all emotional, Lyn just beamed at me like I was the cleverest person in the world.
"Really, it was nothing," I said.
It was the happiest of days. I stayed there for a few more weeks. But it was OK, I had turned the corner. The doctors and "my nurse" had made sure of that.
As I got better, I started to notice what was going on around my temporary home.
While I was being wheeled somewhere I'd pass rooms and see and hear people battling all sorts of things. Some were crying in pain, some had limbs amputated, some had incurable conditions.
Each one of these people was being cared for by a team of nurses.
If they were lucky they'd get someone like Lyn - a person possessing a mix of compassion, insight, emotional intelligence, astounding skill and professionalism.
Something tells me that there are a lot of these special humans in nursing.
I can't imagine any woman or man truly succeeding or surviving in the profession without having most of these qualities.
Time rolls on.
A few years ago I was sitting by my nephew's humidicrib in John Hunter Hospital's NICU. He was born 12 weeks premature. I watched in awe as the nurses, some of whom looked no older than 25, cared for their legion of little battlers.
My nephew came out the other side, and is now a lively six-year-old.
International Nurses Day and COVID-19 has again highlighted the work of our medical marvels.
I not only thank them, I implore them to take care. To take care of themselves, as there is never going to be a time when we don't need them.