Memorable moments: Gentle reassurance

When I was young, I flirted rather heavily with hypochondria. My imagination was prone to running riot, seizing upon the most minor physical anomaly and instantly spinning it into a medical crisis.

The peak of this adolescent anxiety arrived when I was thirteen.

One day, I made what felt like an apocalyptic discovery: several tiny, distinct lumps on my testicles. For weeks, I carried the secret in sheer, silent terror. My frantic brain cycled through every catastrophic scenario imaginable. Was it a rare, disfiguring skin disease? Was it terminal cancer? Each day the dread grew heavier, until the need for certainty finally overpowered the intense embarrassment of being an adolescent boy.

Desperate, I approached my dad and asked if he would take a look.

We stepped out into the yard and walked into his workshop—that familiar backyard sanctuary surrounded by his model trains, metal lathes, and tools. Standing amidst the machinery, I dropped my drawers.

Dad leaned in, took a calm, clinical glance, and looked right back up at me.

"No need to worry, son," he said softly. "Those are just hair follicles."

It was a moment of extraordinary, quiet grace. He could so easily have rolled his eyes, condescended to my ignorance, or made a cheeky joke at my expense. But there was not a trace of mockery in his voice—only steady, matter-of-fact reassurance that dissolved weeks of fear in a single breath.

Standing in the sawdust and grease of his workshop, pulling up my trousers with a profound sense of relief, I felt a deep surge of love for him. In a world full of big anxieties, Dad's gentle, steady way was the safest place to be.

Memorable moments: The sooty shins

When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.

At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.

However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.

Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.

My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.

For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.

Memorable moments: The crown jewel crisis

Back in 2014, I joined a Meetup hike in Berowra—a rugged stretch of bushland just north of Sydney that looks peaceful until it isn’t.

In a moment of questionable judgment, I wore open shoes.

About halfway up a steep climb, I suddenly felt a hot, searing stab in the side of my foot—as if someone had driven a red-hot needle straight into it. I looked down and found the culprit: an enormous bull ant, radiating menace and what I can only assume was quiet satisfaction.

The pain was so intense that I briefly began planning my medical future.

Thinking practically (or so I believed), I killed the ant, wrapped it in a hanky, and put it in my pocket—just in case I needed to show a doctor what had nearly ended me.

Fifteen minutes later, now descending the hill and feeling rather pleased with my resilience, I experienced a second, even more alarming sensation.

A hot. Sharp. Stabbing pain.

This time… uncomfortably close to my groin.

There is a very particular kind of panic reserved for moments like this.

It turns out the bull ant had not, in fact, been as deceased as I had confidently assumed.

I learned two very important lessons about Australian bush survival that day.

Firstly, in a land of giant bull ants, open shoes are not so much footwear as an invitation.

Secondly—and this is critical—if you put a bull ant in your pocket near your crown jewels, you must be absolutely certain it is dead.

Memorable moments: Taking a turn for the nurse

I’ve always had a bit of a "thing" for nurses. It started in my late teens when a varicocele sent me to the hospital for surgery. I was attended to by a nurse so strikingly pretty that I promptly "took a turn for the nurse"—a condition far more pleasant than the one that had brought me to the ward in the first place.

Years later, after my divorce from Ally, the universe seemed to be leaning into my preferences once again. I met Lizzy at the local park, brought together by the chaotic introduction of her Schnauzer and my Mack. She was lovely, and when I discovered she was a nurse, I was particularly smitten.

As we dated, I eventually confessed my long-standing admiration for the profession. Lizzy, ever the mischievous soul, gave me a wink. "Ooh," she said, "I’ll wear my nurse’s outfit to bed for you tonight."

I spent the evening in a state of high-altitude anticipation. I had a very specific cinematic image in my head—something involving a crisp white cap and a short skirt—the classic "Florence Nightingale" aesthetic.

I lay in bed, heart racing, as Lizzy slipped into the bathroom to change. The door finally creaked open, and she stepped into the light.

There she was. In her blue scrubs.

There was no white skirt, no stockings, no vintage charm. Instead, she was swathed in several yards of baggy, sterile, utilitarian nylon overalls—the kind of outfit designed to withstand a twelve-hour shift in a trauma ward, not a romantic evening. She looked ready to perform a difficult gallbladder removal, not a private masquerade.

She was so clearly keen to please that I didn't have the heart to tell her. I summoned my best "impressed" face and pretended to be thrilled, but inside, I was feeling a profound sense of "ward-room disappointment."

It turns out that in the world of modern medicine, romance and practicality are rarely on the same shift. I realized that night that if I wanted a vintage fantasy, I should have dated someone from a 1950s period drama; Lizzy was a woman of the 21st century, and in the 21st century, the path to a man's heart is apparently paved with baggy, anti-microbial polyester.

Memorable moments: My Himalayan organ

In my final year at university, reality hit me in the form of a searing, localized agony at two in the morning. I managed to get into my car to drive to my parents' house, but the journey was a stop-start nightmare; at every red light, I had to abandon the steering wheel and curl myself into a fetal ball until the light turned green.

My parents took one look at my translucent complexion and rushed me to the emergency room. I was whisked into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

My first memory of waking up was the surgeon standing over my bed, looking less like a clinical professional and more like a proud fisherman.

"My God, Mr. Myburgh!" he exclaimed. "You have the hugest appendix I have ever seen! It’s truly impressive—look, here it is in a bottle." He held up the jar with a flourish. "Getting this sucker out of you was a genuine challenge. Do you mind if we keep it? It honestly belongs in a museum."

Droggy and recovering, I looked at the "sucker" in the jar and felt a strange, misplaced sense of pride. I remember thinking, Wow, I only wish certain other of my organs were built to the same magnificent proportions.

With my parents heading off on a trip, I went to stay with my beloved grandparents to convalesce. It was during this recovery period that I discovered a side of my grandfather I had never suspected.

One morning, unable to sleep, I crept into the kitchen at dawn for a glass of milk. There sat Gramps at the kitchen table, intensely focused on the morning crossword. He was entirely, unapologetically nude.

"Gramps," I whispered, clutching my surgical stitches, "you’re... you're nude."

He didn't even look up from the clues. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "For some reason, it makes me more inspired at thinking up words."

I considered this in silence.

Between his approach to crosswords and my record-breaking appendix, it was becoming increasingly clear that subtlety was not a dominant trait in our family.

Memorable moments: The bottle of justice

When I was seven, an operation left both my legs in heavy plaster casts. For six long weeks, I was confined to a wheelchair, which created a logistical problem: I couldn't make it to the school toilets. The solution was a medical bottle kept discretely by my side in class.

However, my teacher quickly found a secondary use for my recovery.

The moment that bottle hit the floor, she would scan the room like a hawk looking for prey. "Patrick, you haven’t done your homework," she’d bark. Or, "Nicky, stop talking!"

Then came the sentence: "Go to the toilet and empty the bottle!"

I would sit there in my casts as the "guilty" student trudged over, shot me a look of pure resentment, and marched my personal business down the hallway. I wasn't just a classmate anymore; I was a living, breathing punishment.

I went into that surgery hoping for a quick recovery; I left as the most effective deterrent in the history of primary education.