Aloha! It transpires that my much-trumpeted retirement from column writing was premature, and I’m back in the saddle for a hot minute to find a positive spin on 2024 – a year that we can all agree needs to get in the bin.
Given the ongoing and despairing state of international affairs, an upside’s not obvious, and on the domestic front, my cat Harry shuffled off this mortal coil around April, closely followed by the unrelated carking-it of our favourite chicken, Duffy. Gah, 2024. Gah!
And yet I leave 2024 dispensing gratitude, like an Instagram influencer. I experienced a deadset health emergency in July, and as my beloved Greg observed when I was in a state to hear it – aka finally conscious – “If we lived in America I’d be choosing between you and the house right now.”
There’s nothing like having to engage in a trust exercise (catch me!), with our medical system to pony up some perspective. Let’s hear it for free health care! I have been through the system like a dose of salts, and the cost has been $0.00 (apart from a hospital invoice for take-home meds of $42). I am giddy with gratitude. I suspect, as a freelance artist lacking requisite health insurance, I would have been dead in America. As it is I received prompt, kind and expert medical care – they were up to their elbows inside my head – and I’m (spoiler alert) completely fine.
Really truly! I’m fine! And I know you’re hanging out for the hot tea so here goes. At the end of July, after a nice shower at the end of an evening out, I experienced a burst cerebral aneurysm, which is precisely as bad as it sounds. Greg summoned an ambulance (make sure you subscribe, kids), and I was whisked away. This is all hearsay as I remember nothing, but emergency brain surgery was involved, I was given a 75 per cent chance of dying in the first week, spent two months in hospital being lavished with frankly terrible food, and have had extensive follow-up care that includes cardio, occupational therapy and someone to chat to about, as my GP called it, “my visit from the mortality fairy”.
It’s possible to argue that my loved ones had more of a visit than I. I was mostly out of it for three weeks, delirious and restrained because when my hands were unstrapped I’d apparently try and rip out the tubes from my head and nose. In my defence, your honour, it’s no fun being fed nasally. The bleed didn’t damage my cognition or mobility (lucky, lucky me) – my recovery has firmly centred on headache management and energy – but my brain drainage channels took a hit, so the surgeons added a shunt to ensure I don’t get water on the brain. Solid choice. My new party trick is asking people if they’d like to “touch my shunt”. It is roughly the shape and size of a purple Quality Street sweet, and emerges from the back of my head like an ancient Aztec city revealing itself through desert sands, giving strong Blade Runner/steampunk energy.
I’ve emerged feeling very cared for. By Greg, my best friend Sonya, and other friends and colleagues who turned out in legions (all bearing chocolate that I couldn’t face; by the end of my stay I would have crawled over broken glass to get to a fresh salad). Also by my teaching gig, which has provided welcome sick pay. But I am surprised to feel genuinely cared for by the medical system, which, when I was thrown blindly backwards, caught me.
I’m pretty sure this is what universal health care is meant to feel like, and why it must be protected at all costs. Don’t get me wrong, though; 2024? Get in the bin.
by Fiona Scott-Norman @fscottnorman
Fiona Scott-Norman is a writer, director and teacher with a burst aneurysm, a positive attitude and a brimming wheelie bin.
Published in Ed#727