A holiday accident led to surgery, but recovery inspired mindful eating, self-care and Pilates, transforming health and wellbeing.
A midwinter break on an island in the Whitsundays was just what I needed. I worked hard in my business, and holidays were few and far between. But major abdominal surgery and two weeks in a hospital interstate were not supposed to be on the agenda.
White clouds drifted by the window of our small plane while endless turquoise water merged with a blue horizon below. After a bumpy landing, my husband grabbed our bags and broad grins filled our faces as we boarded the water taxi to our island home. After check-in, we decided to catch the sunset over the ocean. A short walk behind our villa led to the top of the island, giving us idyllic views of a tropical paradise.
As darkness settled, we headed back down the slope. The path was slippery with fallen leaves, and I stumbled, falling heavily onto one knee and twisting my ankle. I groaned in pain as I tried to stand, unable to put weight on either leg. My husband struggled to get me safely back to our room and, as we were both remedial therapists, we knew the routine for injuries: rest, ice and elevation. We settled in for a quiet first night.
Around midnight, waves of nausea woke me. With one knee badly swollen and my sprained ankle strapped, I crawled to the bathroom just in time. I vomited violently throughout the night, presuming the shock of the fall was the cause. However, the purging continued throughout the next day, so relentlessly that I stopped going back to bed and curled up with a blanket in the bathroom.
By the end of the second day, my stomach was bloated and sore to the touch. I was deliriously weak and dehydrated, even regurgitating water. By day three, there was no change. Sick bag in hand, we made the trek to the nearest town with an outpatient facility, where I was admitted for overnight observation. My husband went back to the island, planning to collect me in the morning.
Around midnight, my temperature spiked; my stomach had become more distended and painful. I was rushed to the nearest major hospital, two hours away, where scans revealed a ruptured bowel. Doctors performed emergency surgery, removing 30cm of my small intestine and effectively saving my life. I woke slowly, surrounded by white walls and ceilings and the beeping of medical machines. Instinctively, my hands went to my stomach, and I could feel a large bandage covering most of my abdomen. I no longer felt nauseous, so I allowed myself to drift in and out of sleep. It had been nearly four days since I had last slept properly.
It was another 10 days before I was allowed food; my stomach had to gurgle or my bowels pass wind before it was deemed safe to eat again. “It’s inexplicable,” said the surgeon on that first day. “Perhaps the fall set off a chain reaction.” M