Sea Of Hands

I want to work in a hospital. Standing at Queen Elizabeth Hospital today, I could picture myself in the staff T-shirt—delivering meals, greeting patients, or providing customer service in some way. I’d thrive at the enquiries desk: answering calmly, giving clear directions to wards, bathrooms, the café, anywhere people need to go. I’d be just as comfortable helping staff who need quick, accurate information.

The role that calls to me most is switchboard. I think of it as the hospital’s nervous system—connecting people through a web of technology where every call matters. It might be a doctor phoning in urgent instructions, or a final conversation between family members. That responsibility doesn’t scare me; it motivates me. I’m steady under pressure, I listen carefully, and I speak clearly.

Below you can see the main entrance as well as the signs for Urgent Care Hub and the ambulance entrance. 

I was at the hospital today because my mum’s sister is very sick. She’s 86. On 15 August she fell outside her unit. No one was around, but her Apple Watch detected the fall, alerted five emergency contacts including Mum, and called an ambulance. That still blows my mind. A simple piece of technology probably saved her life, at least for a while. I’m buying Mum an Apple Watch for Christmas. It will make me feel better knowing she has that extra layer of protection.

Seeing my aunt in her room was really sad. She looked like she was at death’s door—sitting up, barely able to speak, fragile in a way I’ve never seen. Mum tried to stay steady, but I could tell she was struggling.

My aunt has had a sad life. Years ago, when I was driving her somewhere, she said, “You never know how life is going to turn out.” What she was getting at was that Mum’s life has been charmed in many ways, while hers hasn’t. Her husband developed Parkinson’s in his fifties and she cared for him for years. She had money troubles. Her two daughters were draining, financially and otherwise. She is Mum’s half-sister, but they consider themselves full sisters, and Mum has been incredibly generous, especially with money.

Once, when I was temping at Service SA, my boss mentioned he had worked with my auntie when she lectured at TAFE. He said she was grumpy, always angry, and not well liked. First, I couldn’t believe he told me that about my own relative. Second, it made me sad. Because I know she's a beautiful person underneath all that. Maybe she had come to believe life hadn’t been kind to her, so why bother.

Sitting in my auntie’s room today—I kept thinking about how close everything in a hospital feels to the edge: life, death, love, duty—and how a tiny watch on a wrist can tip the balance.

I am actually not that close with my auntie or my cousins; I might see them once a year. I don't really like my two cousins; one of them is really rude, and they both seem to give unwanted advice. They are both incredible know-it-alls. I love my auntie, but I just haven't spent much time with her in the last twenty years or so. We didn't stay long today; mum made up a reason why we had to leave, and I could tell that she didn't want to be there.

But as we got up to leave, I went over to my auntie, and I gave her a kiss on her forehead, and I told her to look after herself. The kiss was actually a little disproportionate to our relationship; I don't know her like that. But it felt like it would be the last time I would see her, and it was my way of saying goodbye. As I was giving her a kiss, her daughter, my rude cousin, was fussing about as if I was stepping on my auntie, but I sort of pushed through.

It was a sad occasion, and Mum said she couldn't bear to go back and see her again. But in all the sadness and confusion, I discovered some treasures around the hospital. The ward my auntie was in is South 2; below you can see the sign out the front.

In the ward, they had a wall with pictures of comedy movies and sitcoms, which, it says, are starring the S2 staff. I am not really sure what that was all about, but I love that kind of stuff, and it makes me miss working.

There was a real presence and respect for Aboriginal culture in and amongst the hospital. On the ground floor, there was a huge sign on the wall called "Our Reconciliation Journey." It was prominent, and it stood out. I thought it was appropriately placed and positions the hospital as a forward thinker in Reconciliation and Aboriginal affairs.

I also spotted a beautiful painting by two Indigenous artists on the wall in one of the corridors. As I read it, it is a combined work titled: "Mother Earth-Father Sky and Mother of Us and Father of Us" by David Thorpe and Jacinta Dixon. You can see it below.

In the same corridor, there were some drawings of hands stuck up on the windows. They are called the “Sea of Hands.” It is an iconic symbol of reconciliation and a way for communities all around Australia to engage with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander issues and events.

The "Sea of Hands" also made its way to the CALHN Spiritual Care pinboard close to the exit.

Also on the way out, I bumped into Regina. It’s a bad photo because of all the reflections on the glass, but nevertheless there she is, in all her youthful full glory. It is a proclamation by the hospital’s namesake. I was born in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, but to me it’s all just a reminder of the British Empire.

As we drove away from the hospital this afternoon, I couldn't help but think it seems like all the key characters in my life are dying. First my Dad, then Nanny, now my auntie—it’s almost surreal. My auntie is my only auntie, and whilst we're not close, it just seems my tiny little circle keeps getting smaller and smaller.

It seems it is the season for hospitals and infirmity. My darling friend Maiki from Tanzania was involved in a bus accident last night. When he called me this morning, he sounded really bad, and I asked him what was wrong. He told me that he was on a bus from Dar es Salaam to Arusha, which is around an 8-hour bus ride. When they were close to their destination, two children ran in front of the bus, and the bus driver swerved and the bus crashed. I was really worried that he had been seriously injured. He told me he had broken his hand. That's an awful thing, but thank goodness it was nothing worse. 

I think the thing with the healthcare system in Tanzania is, it is simply not good enough. I asked Maiki what painkillers they have given him and he told me Panadol. I said that's not good enough; you need something stronger, and he said that Panadol works for him. But that's probably because he doesn't realise there are better painkillers out there. The healthcare system isn't good enough, but it's not a complete write-off.

I just remember the last time I was there, in 2018/2019, I got sick. Really, really sick. I can't explain my symptoms; I was just completely overtaken by some mystery, exotic illness. The first night I started to feel unwell, I went to a doctor who is considered to be a reputable doctor. He started the testing process, but it was so scary. I had to go to the toilet and provide specimens, and someone gave me a torch and told me to go outside. I was in this dirty toilet with no light, urine everywhere, and I had to pee into a cup. I was with Maiki, but I felt completely alone at this point.

I got sicker and sicker. I was recommended one doctor, and when I got to his surgery I looked up on the wall and I saw a picture of the Ayatollah, and I thought, “Great, the illness wants me dead and now the doctor is going to feel the same way.” They tested me for everything they could possibly think of, and no one could tell me what was wrong. In the end I forced myself to go to Dar es Salaam, which is like the commercial capital equivalent of Sydney. I had around $2000 US dollars in my bank account and I thought, if I'm going to die here, I want to die some place nice. I checked into the Hyatt Regency with the most spectacular views and just lay there. Then my Mum convinced me to get up and get on a plane to come home. I was surprisingly good at acting like there was nothing wrong on the plane, and I made it home. The doctors here couldn't diagnose me with anything either, so all of that remains a mystery.

But I will say I would live in a country like Tanzania, and the only reason I wouldn't is because of their healthcare system. If you wake up in the middle of the night with severe pains in your abdomen, and you've got pancreatic cancer or something sinister, you want to be somewhere they can diagnose it and treat it immediately. I know, in Tanzania or some of those other African countries, that simply just wouldn't be an option.