August 2006.
I am in my final year of my nursing degree, and on my final clinical placement with HITH. I have learned to cannulate, take blood, give intravenous antibiotics and blood transfusions. I am learning a lot about infections, wounds and dressings.
I am looking forward to graduating.
I have just found out that I have a full time place in the new graduate program for 2007. I am hoping to work in oncology – my dream job.
I am completing my final assignment, checking my references, counting the words.
The phone rings, my husband answers it.
I sense, rather than hear, that this is not good news.
He is too quiet.
Listening.
He hangs up, and turns to me.
I see the look in his eyes, and my heart feels like it has been grabbed in a vice.
Dad, he says. In hospital.
We’ve been down this path before.
Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
Diagnosed after many months of night sweats, cough, and weight loss – after returning from Kosovo, where he had been helping to rebuild after the war.
Precious engineering skills, generous heart.
Depleted uranium.
A botched biopsy resulted in a damaged diaphragm and collapsed lung, with a stint in intensive care. The surgeon did not instill hope.
We watched and waited, holding our breath.
Expected the worst.
He recovered. Eventually.
Chemotherapy. Months and months.
Beardless for the first time in his adult life.
Another intensive care scare, and a call to come quickly. He is struggling.
Cardiomyopathy.
Again, we watch and wait.
He pulls through.
Finally, a reprieve.
Remission.
Boxing Day 2004.
Tsunami.
Sri Lanka is dvastated.
His pull towards his country of birth is great.
He answers Word Vision’s call for volunteer engineers.
Goes to assess the damage.
Is too traumatised to tell us the whole truth of what he has witnessed.
He comes home, and starts fundraising.
Operation Hope.
Raises enough money to rebuild a village, and goes back to teach the locals how to build their own houses.
Fast forward to 2016.
The project is drawing to a close.
25 families have new homes, a chance to start again.
He has not told anyone, but the night sweats have started again.
The cough has returned.
Time is running out.
He finishes the last house, says goodbye to the locals, and flies to Switzerland. He wants to see his daughter and grandchildren before returning home to Canberra.
Perhaps he knows.
Two days later, and he is in hospital in Geneva.
DVT, they think.
Something is not right. He is struggling. The doctors are worried.
Heart failure.
The chemotherapy that extended his life so he could do good work has damaged his heart so badly.
He wants to come home.
Our phone rings.
Our world stops.
The french doctors have stabilised him.
A window of opportunity.
A chance to come home.
Pre-existing condition, the insurance company says.
It will cost more than $20,000 for a medical evacuation to Australia.
All of a sudden the flights are booked and I am at the airport.
I have never travelled alone.
I am terrified.
The weight of the world is on my shoulders.
I make it to Geneva.
Rush to the hospital.
He is so sick.
Take me home, he says.
I need to see my family.
Clinique Grangettes, Geneva.
Doctors and nurses in white scrub.
Beautiful. Sterile.
Terrifying.
The french doctors brief me.
They give me cannulas, fluids, instructions.
Wait, I say.
I am only a student nurse.
I can’t do this.
Yes you can, they say.
The airline has cleared him for flight, but we need to leave immediately.
No time to waste.
I call his haematologist in Canberra. He tells me to come straight from the airport to ED. He will accept care.
Good luck, he says.
Business class.
I am too frightened to notice it.
I spend the entire flight watching, waiting, monitoring.
Blood pressure.
Temperature.
Resps.
Scared that I will have to cnanulate and give fluids mid-air.
The air hostesses are kind. They can see the fear in my eyes.
He struggles.
We land at the airport.
My family are waiting.
He wants to go home to his house one last time, but there is no time to lose.
I can see him deteriorating by the minute.
Straight to hospital.
Fast-track through ED.
The haematologist is waiting.
He is kind.
We watch, and we wait.
I am exhausted.
A family meeting in Intensive Care.
I have watched this man that I love as a father suffer.
His family are suffering.
No more, he whispers.
Enough.
We gather round his bed.
Hand and foot massages, words of love.
A brief moment alone, just the two of us.
You have to do this, he says.
What?
Look after the dying. This is your calling.
I know in my heart he is right.
I have so much to learn, so many plans.
This man has taught me so much.
He has given me direction.
I know that one day, when I am ready, and have learned enough…
I will be a palliative care nurse.