“We don’t really know what is really wrong with you” was not great news to hear after a week in hospital, surrounded by confused doctors, as my body mysteriously raged against itself. It was February and I had just started a full-time course studying counselling, around which I was trying to squeeze swim coaching and time with my young family. It had been a stressful and busy week.
Sitting in my counselling lecture on the Monday of the second week, I had felt my stomach churn. I had had a bad vomiting bug at Christmas time, but had been feeling better and thought maybe lunch wasn’t sitting well that day. At home that night I mentioned to my husband that I felt a little funny and went to bed early to sleep it off. By 6am the next morning I knew something was seriously wrong. Breathing had become difficult and the pain in my stomach was increasing by the minute. My husband Tim bundled up our 18 month old daughter and slowly helped me from the bed and into the car. We live in a small country town an hour from the hospital, and after just five minutes in the car I knew I couldn’t make the drive to the hospital. The pain had moved up into my chest, I could hardly breathe and I was starting to panic. Tim pulled over and phoned 111 emergency line from our cell phone, but the operator couldn’t find our town on her map. Desperate for quick action he decided to hang up and drive me to the nearest doctor’s clinic in the next town. They phoned the ambulance from there and finally I was given some pain relief.
But then began my journey back from this serious illness.