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Birth
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I was born in the hospital of a small city of 50,000 in regional NSW, at the time of my birth my parents were living on a farm about 80km from the hospital. I was born on a stormy night, my dad drove my mum to the hospital through flood waters, It was a precarious situation, but in the end my first breaths would be taken in the hospital that became a big part of my life, beyond my birth although I would return until after high-school.
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During my final years of high school (2005/2006) I started showing signs of mental illness. I would later be diagnosed with depression, then the diagnoses changed to schizophrenia before having mental health professionals settle on bi-polar. This information is key to the story of my relationship with this block of land, the buildings and the people inside.
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Some of my interactions with the hospital were short and uneventful but are still part of the rich tapestry of my ongoing story with the place, like the one where I auditioned for australian idol which emphased my delusions of grandeur and impulsive behaviour at the time, which is typical of someone untreated with a diagnoses like mine.
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Australian Idol (add this was my shot, my dreams were about to unfold)
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By 2007 I was still not properly diagnosed and making a mockery of myself. I decided it would be a good idea to enter the Australian Idol’s travelling auditions. You might be forgiven for thinking this wasn’t such a bad idea, but it was. I brought to the audition held at the local RSL my acoustic guitar, which I’d had no formal training and little practice, and I also brought my voice, which was just as untrained and underdeveloped. While I didn’t find fame or progress to the next round, I did end up on the front page of the local newspaper.
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While impatiently waiting for my number to be called out by the judges, I volunteered to sing on stage in front of the other hovering wannabes. The incentive was not only a practice on a stage, but also some other token gifts including a $30 Telstra phone credit. I barrelled up to the stage. I gave my rendition of one of Missy Higgins popular songs, yet I gave it a tweek with some of my own lyrics that I had made up on the spot. To end the act, I had the bright idea to slide down the banister. As I mounted the top of the rail, I had neglected to think about how my flamboyant costume. The big bow at the back snagged the railing and before anyone could give any warning, I as the newspapers put it “had a heavy fall”. The bow indeed had looped around the banister and I hurtled down on my head. I remember hearing a lot of instructions yelled at me to not move. Soon enough there were paramedics placing a brace around my neck, put me in an ambulance back to my place of birth for the first time since. My stay was short, once the morphine had worn off, I hitched a ride with my friend’s mother who was a nurse, back to the RSL. There I performed my audition. The polite feedback was that my voice was quiet and pitchy..
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WORK EXPERIENCE
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Mental Health ward
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I had been in and out of the involuntary unit for some years.
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It was 2006 I had just had my first stay as an in-patient at the high dependency mental health ward of the hospital I was born. A year after high-school. I would end up back there as an in-patient four or five times, all for longer than a month at a time. I would later learn I had been named a “frequent flyer”. I was extraordinarily manic with a side of delusions and grandiose ideas. By the time 2012 rolled around I was heavily medicated on drugs that took their toll such as Lithium and high doses of Olanzapine. I would once again be admitted to the mental health ward at the hospital, this time I would be there for a total of a quarter of a year.
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It was at this time, stuck in the (special ward), I would meet my future husband and partner for life, in the same set of buildings I took my first breath. He was also a patient, the day we met was the day after what he describes as the darkest night of his life, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was 22, now 35, he had had a full psychotic break and this was his first time in a mental health facility.
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He thought I was some sort of angel, he says he fell in love with me the moment he laid eyes on me, and I thought the man admitted to the unit that day was there to rescue me, someone I had met on a dating site months earlier that was in disguise. Of course he was not. He was there for his own issues and demons, and I wasn’t an angel, although he still treats me like one. Yet, not surprisingly we both fell in love quicker than it took our medication to reach full effect. He recovered quickly and was gone a week after he arrived. We developed a close bond during that week, to the point where we had to be seperated. I recall at one point I yelled out from the high dependency unit to the general side, “I’m going to marry him!” And that I did, also in our local hospital.
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Wedding
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As fate would have it, the day before our wedding, driving home from the rehearsal, my then fiance (the same guy I met in the psych ward) had a car accident. He broke his tibia and fibula. His son in the passenger seat broke his collarbone. I was driving in my car and was the first to come across the scene of the crash. Soon enough the ambulance brought them to safety at our local hospital, the same hospital I was born in and met the guy I was supposed to be marrying only he’s just crashed his car and broke his leg. Crouching beside him by the bedside I told my fiance that we would still marry.
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The next day (the day of the wedding) he had surgery, I stood at the church and told the hundred and fifty or so guests that Ricky had had a car crash and him and his son were injured but OK and that the ceremony would be taking place at the hospital, and the reception would not be attended by the groom. Then I walked down the makeshift aisle (hospital corridor) in my white wedding gown with my wedding attendants, close family and minister. He stayed in bed for the whole ceremony and I stood right beside him and the bed. The rundown surgical ward was the backdrop to our wedding photos, also of him in bed and me crouching over the side. Luckily the hospital room was large enough to house a select number of guests as well another patient with their privacy screen open just enough to discreetly view. This was a sombre yet magical celebration.
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Neami
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JOB AT THE HOSPITAL
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Next stop in this unbelievable list is my place of occupation also being my local hospital. There are many places a social worker can hang their hat and I happen to hang mine at...the hospital. I hustle around the corridors of the wards, nervously walking to my next patient referral, with phone at the ready for any higher priority. Speaking of, there is a greater priority to skip along to the juicy story. One of romance.
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BEFORE GRACE
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GRACE BIRTH
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Which finally brings me to my last of my lengthy but true list of different reasons I’ve been to my local hospital. Just as I was born in this hospital, I gave birth to my beautiful and bubbly baby girl. Given my track record for luck, you would guess that I required an emergency cesarean, amongst other complications. At the time she was born there was also full capacity in the maternity ward which brought its own adventures. But the result was one crinkled, forcep marked, bruised bubba, who would blossom and bounce soon enough.
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DEATH
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WRAP UP
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There have been other events and times that I have needed to go to this same local hospital. I may have concealed the name of the hospital, but I have not concealed any of the truth in these stories. These stories have been fundamental in who I have become to this day. Although I have lived this, I still find it staggering that the myriad of strange situations all revolved around the same grounds of the hospital. It is with even greater disbelief that none of my stories revolve around a broken bone or a case requiring a general ward.
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I’ll be the first to admit that my last life story may even take place in the same walls. If those walls could talk...But they can’t. But I can. And until my last life story takes place, I hope to have the honour of telling my grandchildren the stories. I won’t need to repeat my stories incessantly, as there are more than enough to go around. Yet hopefully my daughter’s children will sing out for every detail.
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I can imagine them asking more about their great grandmother delivering me on that rainy day. I can imagine them seeking clarification on the timing of my career and when I stopped the profession. I can imagine them requesting to hear how soon their grandfather held my hand in the psych ward. I can imagine them begging to see photos where our wedding photos show a NSW Health pillow behind my husband’s head as his hospital bed sits him upright for the ceremony. I can imagine them hoping to catch me singing along to that Missy Higgins song. I can imagine their interest peaking as they wish to hear the details of their mother’s birth, where our two generations intertwine.
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While I have a healthy picture of this future, I need not bring any imagination into the past. The stories are strangely true. Like some others, I have stayed in the same area allowing me to utilise the same hospital for my every need. But unlike some others, my needs have been varied and rich. With my every key milestone revolving around me being a revolving door guest there of some description, indeed fact is stranger than fiction.
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I suspect that no one in Australia has utilised their local hospital in such diverse ways in which I have had the privilege. We are all born somewhere and a hospital is quite likely. However the same hospital that I was born in, I currently work in as a social worker. This too is not uncommon for the local who sticks around their area. Yet, I met my husband in this same hospital when we were both patients in the same ward. Furthermore I entered the institution of marriage in the very same institution, my local hospital. Shall I give more examples, like the time when I ended up on morphine at the same hospital after a television audition? But with all my varied and colourful experiences which led me through the doors of my local hospital, the pinnacle of these was giving birth to my daughter in one of the more recent experiences there. I endeavour to extrapolate on these stories, but there is no need for me to exaggerate. These stories within my story tell themselves.
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There’s no need to dwell on the story of my entry into the world, as this is a common story for all. Quite frankly, not being able to recall any events of this time myself limits my ability of explanation. Only to say that my mother was amazing and I cherish the memories she told me before she passed away. I could go on for days talking about her. So I will hold this close to my heart on this occasion.