My first near death experience was when I was 13 years old. I was on my way to school, racing downhill to catch my brother, on a dragster pushbike I’d never ridden before. It got the speed wobbles –  all I remember is that the long handlebars were shaking violently. I woke up in intensive care. I could hear my nanna saying to my mum, ‘She shouldn’t shave her eyebrows’. (At the time, I thought that shaving them was a more sensible idea than painful plucking!)

I found out later that a lady at a nearby building site had seen my accident. She’d rushed over and given me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation – my heart had stopped beating! I have never expressed my gratitude until now: thank you ever so much, caring stranger. 

My English teacher came to visit me in hospital. She gave me a box of chocolates. They were mini replicas of bottles of alcohol with gooey alcohol-tasting centres. Alas, they weren’t to my young taste buds’ fancy. The closest thing I’d had to alcohol then was when my nanna or pardi (grandpa) made me a shandy (lemonade with a dash of beer!) Thank you nonetheless, Mrs Khan – it’s the thought that counts after all.

The ambulance men had cut my school uniform off me. After my hospital stay, I stitched the uniform back up and wore it to school. Being the eldest of five children, I had to be inventive. No-one told me to do it. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have had a uniform to wear. There was no blame on my part, we simply got on and did what we had to do. My mum was a fine seamstress and went on to win sewing competitions. She would create special occasion dresses for my sister and I. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit her sewing skills; my talents were directed at stitching up torn horse rugs (on Mum’s sewing machine if I could get away with it!)

I was horse mad. It’s in my blood. My dad knew this and got me my first horse, Missy. She was unbroken, and I had no saddle for a long time. That didn’t matter to me. I was over the moon to have my very own pony. Again, you just got on with it and made the best of the situation. Ten days after my bike accident, I was still in hospital and complained of a sore arm. It turned out that I had a greenstick fracture. The doctors had been so worried that I had head injuries that they’d overlooked anything else being wrong. I got to have a lovely plaster cast. I used to really enjoy riding my horse to go to Pony Club, quite some kilometres away (we never owned a horse float). I’d carry a bucket, horse food and grooming gear. A rally was coming up and I didn’t want to miss it, so I asked my dad to help me take off my plaster-cast, which he did without hesitation. Looking back, I don’t know that it was such a good idea. But at the time it was right. Over the years I was to have many falls off horses. I always got straight back on. Nowadays we call it resilience, or grit. It’s just about not giving up on whatever it is that you set your mind to do. Thank you to my parents for giving me a carefree childhood. It was the kind of childhood that all kids should get. I’m convinced that these years were formative in making me the kind of resourceful person I am today.

My second brush with death was more recently. We lost our house when Cyclone Larry hit north Queensland in 2006. I suspected that I acquired a hernia from carrying the sizable logs that my husband, Nick, chain-sawed from the hundred fallen pine trees on our property. I had a little bulge in my groin area, though it never seemed to bother me – until I had a coughing fit in 2020! I was in Hong Kong, in the time of COVID-19. I dialled 999. I was on a video-call to Nick while waiting for the ambulance. He told me later that it looked like I was dying. My body had gone into protection mode. I was in excruciating pain and didn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha (this is some weird kind of Australian saying). All I could do was bang my arm on the trolley in the first clinic I was taken to and say ‘cold’, ‘cold’. I could barely lay still for my x-rays. I was extremely grateful for the injected painkiller I was given when I was taken to one hospital and then another (all on the same night). I was diagnosed with a strangulated femoral hernia (which is a life-threatening condition) and surgery was performed to repair it. Thanks to the network of carers, and an amazing young surgeon, I’m almost as good as new! While hospitals in many countries are stretched because of the global pandemic, I feel truly blessed to have received such attention.

By the way, in the urgency, I didn’t have any of my soap for my hospital stay (nor toothsoap, nor a toothbrush for that matter). I decided I’d just wait until I was back in my apartment. Oh how I missed those items! No visitors were allowed (COVID-19 restrictions) and I didn’t want to use any other brands. Stubborn me! I must say that I certainly enjoyed my soaps later though, even though I had to give myself bucket baths because I couldn’t get my wound wet!

As I write this, we are in the time of COVID-19 and most countries are in crisis. Many people have died and continue to. It forces us to realise what is important. Before this time of lockdown, I’d visited my daughter in Hobart to give a bit of help after our second grandchild was born. When I emerged from the first grandchild’s bedroom my daughter asked, ‘How did you get him to sleep? That’s amazing!’ I replied, ‘I just gave him some love.’ I’d sung a lullaby to him, held and rocked him and stroked his head.

Now, being reduced to web-cam get-togethers is the best we can do. While the technology is a blessing, of course it’s not the same as being able to touch and have that physicality. I treasured the chance to bathe my new granddaughter with soap that I had made, just like I had bathed my grandson when he was born. It’s such a special time when they are so small and vulnerable. 

This reminds me of when my mum was in an aged care facility. I popped in for a visit one day and found her in her birthday suit in the shower cubicle! She was waiting for an assistant to finish bathing her. I found it quite confronting to see my elderly mum naked. Yet, this is a life reality. When most of us get old we will be like babies again – requiring others to give us unconditional love and take care of us. 

When I developed my baby soap, I set out with the intention that it wasn’t just for babies, but for the elderly as well. In fact, it is designed for skin of all ages and “baby” here is meant as a verb: ‘to pamper’. After all, everyone deserves to be pampered.

GENERAL DISCLAIMER

The contents of this sharing are for informational purposes only. It is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment . . . Read More →