IN OCTOBER 2018 I found myself in St Vincent’s Private Hospital. Located in Darlinghurst in inner-city Sydney, it was undergoing renovations and the grinding of jackhammers and loud banging punctuated my stay. Nevertheless, it was a fascinating fortnight: I shared my ward with some extraordinary roommates, including two former professors, a former wharfie and militant unionist, and an Italian orchardist, potato and rice farmer. Such fellow patients made for a stimulating stay, as did my ‘day pass’ allowing me out for lunch (and even a glass of wine) at a nearby café run by two charming Italian boys whose menu was based on their Nonna’s old-time recipes.

This is the story of how I came to be there. It’s an account of nine years of chronic, excruciating pain – especially in my legs while sleeping; of not having a good night’s sleep for six years, waking in pain every hour. It’s also the story of eight doctors: of misdiagnoses, misleading and partial diagnoses. It’s the story of twelve drugs, multiple MRIs, CT scans and X-rays, two physiotherapists, three chiropractors and a shiatsu masseur.