How I earned the name 'Nursey'

I never thought I did well under pressure. I cry easily when I get stressed, my heart races and I need work hard to fight back tears. Working in a stressful position as a Travel Agent for six years didn't build up immunity to the onslaught of emotions that being yelled at by clients, or having to work up the courage to call them about a price increase, would bring about.

I'd often look to my mother for inspiration. An Emergency Nurse of many years, she was always calm and collected in moments of high emotion, able to soothe and patch you up in the same breath, and famous for not taking anyone's shit. I had always hoped that I could emulate at least a smidge of her resolve. It wasn't until a fateful overseas trip when I realised she had rubbed off on me more than I expected.

It was the offer of a lifetime for me. I had just stepped up from a Domestic to an International agent when the offer was sent my way. Three weeks travelling across Chile and Colombia as part of an Educational. Three weeks travelling with a group of travel agents from across Australia, exploring beautiful South American countries and learning all there is to learn about their culture, food, wine, hotels, restaurants, cities, and tourist attractions.

As always when packing my bag, I try and pack as light as possible, taking only the essentials. Not expecting to use them, but unable to travel without them at the same time, I throw in antiseptic cream, band-aids, medical tape, and a handful of other first-aid necessities. After all my years of travelling the world, from South Africa to Thailand, Europe and the United Kingdom, America, Canada, Pacific Islands and New Zealand, this was the trip I would come to need them all.

Half-way through our trip saw us in the beautiful 'Coffee Triangle' in the heart of Colombia. We had our own private tour bus, with the friendliest driver, 'Little H' we'll call him. Our group consisted of eight female agents (myself included), the representative from Australia (J), and the local Colombian guide (G) - both males. We had been travelling by bus into the depths of the Colombian farmland where they grow and harvest their famous coffee beans. We were hundreds of kilometres from any real civilisation, with the nearest major city being about four hours away by bus.

The closest settlement to the Cocora Valley, where 'the incident' took place, was the little town of Salento (about 30 minutes down a windy, bumpy, dirt road). We were excited about our day trip to the valley, home of the worlds tallest palm trees, and all listened avidly to our local guide, G, as he explained the significance and history of the picturesque landscape.

As we got closer, G explained that there was two ways we could see the valley, on foot, or on horseback. Two of the ladies were avid horse-riders, having basically grown up on the back of a horse. So naturally, W and A were all for the horse tour. After much deliberation, I agreed to join them. I am not an experienced horse-rider. I have been on horses before (not to forget camels and elephants!), but with close supervision and plenty of safety equipment.

We got off the bus and stared in wonder at the scenery around us. Rolling green hills spread out into the distance. Towering palms reached for the clear, blue sky and little puffy white clouds floated like marshmallows. A perfect day for our adventure. Just past the bus were the rickety, hand made, timber stables. It should have been our first tip off that not all was as it seemed.

With G's help, A went to negotiate the price for the three of us to do the horse tour. It was clear straight away that the safety standards we have in Australia were not reflected here. Our host, J, was obviously unhappy and anxious as he watched the skittish horses get saddled up and led our way. No helmets were offered, and I honestly don't think they had any even if we did want them.

We mounted up, and after a quick photo op, we separated from the main group as they took off down the walking path. The three of us riders were escorted by a local Colombian, who only spoke Spanish. Being able to speak the language, A ensured he would stay with my horse and lead it the entire time. The soft, muddy path soon gave way to rocks and boulders as we passed from the open hills dotted with palms to a thick grove of trees. The horses were feisty, constantly nipping at each other and fighting the reins we held.

My horse in particular was the main trouble maker, it kept fighting the lead rope the guide held, tugging it constantly as if to test how good his grip was. On more than one occasion I felt my heart leap in my chest as it jolted unexpectedly beneath me when it attempted to escape. It especially didn't like being contained as the guide led us across a bubbling creek and through the boulders on the other side, up into a beautiful rainforest grotto.

All was going well. I managed to stay on the horse, though my muscles screamed as I had to fight it's every movement as it tried to shake me. I even mustered the courage to drop the reins and take some photos of the beautiful surrounds, and my new friends, as we went. A & W were naturals. Despite the difficult animals they rode, they kept them in check and stayed close to me, even with my slower pace. On the way back to the stables, once we'd re-crossed the stream and the rocks had faded around us, the other ladies agreed to let the horses run. It was clearly what they wanted, and it was still early enough in the day that there was hardly any foot-traffic on the straight, dirt path we were on.

Telling this to the guide, with emphasis he not let my horse bolt on me, they were off. I quickly lost sight of them as they crested the first hill and vanished down the other side. Once we got to the top of the rise my stomach fell. A group of locals hovered around a body on the ground. A had come off her horse. W, still astride her own, made sure she was ok before taking off after the runaway steed who had taken advantage of its unexpected freedom.

Covered in mud, A stood on shaky legs. The saddle lay in the mud beside her, the torn chest strap betraying itself as the culprit. With a few quick words, the guide picked up the damaged saddle, and continued us forward with A limping along beside me. Over the next rise and the road opened up with paddocks on either side and a hard-packed dirt road. W had managed to catch the flighty horse, and waited with them both tied to opposite fenceposts so they wouldn't spook each other. In the sun, I tried to cast my eyes over A from where I sat (truth be told, I knew if I got off the horse there that I wouldn't be able to get back on it). With the mud coating her entire right side I couldn't see any blood or obvious injury, plus she was young and fit and seemed to have bounced back fine.

From the moment I had met A at the Sydney airport, I had liked and admired her. She was beautiful and friendly, quick to offer a kind word and smile. But what she did next is something I will never forget, and will always respect her for. She turned to the guide and told him to re-saddle the horse. She was going to ride it back to the stables despite having just come off it. It wasn't far, less than five minutes, but she was determined to do it.

When we eventually got back to the stables without further incident and dismounted, I tried to check her over properly. She could move her hands and arms fine, and nothing appeared to be broken. High on the rush of adrenaline, she brushed us off with a laugh. Our driver, Little H, took one look and came running over to see what happened. He had very little English and so spoke rapidly with A in Spanish, making sure she was ok. At that point, G came back, having peeled off from the main group early to head back to the bus to ensure we'd come back safely.

I was worried as I watched A stumble to sit on the grass beside the bus, and enlisted Little H to help me get some water and an umbrella as she was exposed to the full midday sun. In typical A style, she refused the water, instead asking G to get her a beer from the small local shop. I think she was hoping the sugars it contained would help the shaking in her hands, or that the alcohol would numb the pain that I knew must have been making itself known by now. There wasn't much I could do for her at this stage. There were no bathrooms I could take her to to clean her up, not even a tap. What little water we did have was for drinking and I couldn't get a good look at what injuries I assumed she had underneath all the mud that coated her like a second skin.

My anxiety only increased when she insisted she needed to lay down. I knew it could have just been the adrenaline crash, but the possibility of a concussion was still there. Once the main group returned, J was frantic. "I knew I shouldn't have let you on those horses!" he raged. As host, he was expected to keep us safe, not to mention the company could be held liable should something terrible happen. Flippantly, A told him she was fine, and it was just some mud, brushing off his anxious hovering with a laugh and a smile.

J quickly organised Little H and G to get us a room at a motel we had passed on our way to the valley. We still had an afternoon of hotel inspections and sight-seeing to do, and could hardly show up with A covered in muck from head to toe. Not to mention we were leaving her open to infection if we didn't get the wounds cleaned immediately. Once we got A upright once more, we all piled into the bus. The atmosphere was thick with anxiety as we bounced along, no music played and the silence was deafening. J had A on the front bench next to him so that he could keep an eye on her, meanwhile I had taken up residence at my normal spot near the back.

Not even five minutes down the bumpy, windy road, I heard J call my name, "Hey Rach, you said your mum was a nurse, right?" Oh boy, here we go. "Yeah?" I replied, trepidation had filled me. "Can you come up here please?"

Oh dear. Before I'd even stood, I knew that wasn't good. Carefully I made my way to the front of the bus, perching on the little bench behind the drivers seat, facing J & A. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. I knew what those symptoms meant. Concussion. My earlier fear was correct.

When we tried talking to her, her responses were slurred, and I could tell she couldn't get her eyes focus when I asked her to look at me. Luckily, G had managed to call ahead to the tiny B&B and warn them we were on our way. When we arrived, J & I helped A out of the bus as G ran up the stairs to the maids that had come to see what was going on. His rapid Spanish and flailing arms snapped them into action, they came rushing down the stairs and tried to lead us back up them to the room they had ready for us. I don't know where it came from, or how I managed to stay so calm as I firmly told them, "No, she can't walk up stairs, there has to be another way." The sternness I had projected was new to me, but I didn't have time to dwell on it, my only concern was for A.

Once they lead us up the path around the back of the small hotel and into a room they were in the middle of cleaning. Little H brought me his small first aid kit, plus A's bag so we could get her fresh clothes. With W as my helper, I suddenly kicked into Nurse Mode. Ordering everyone out, we shut the doors in their worried faces and helped A out of her filthy activewear.

Lowering her onto a patio chair one of the men had put in the shower, I turned the taps on, letting the water run over her naked, shaking body. W had left the room to get more towels and wash cloths, and as I turned to wash my hands I jumped as a scream tore through the small room. A had put her mangled arm directly under the powerful stream of water. My heart stuttered as I saw the tears roll down her cheeks and heard her pain filled sobs.

Instinct took over. I had rushed to her, pulling her arm out of the way while trying not to hurt her more. Gently chastising her, I took the clean wash cloths W offered and set about the painstaking job of cleaning her up. Whispering words of encouragement as I rubbed the coarse material over her shredded forearm, I tried my best to soothe her as she bit back her cries of pain. Some of the rocks were deeply imbedded in her tender flesh and I had to fish them out one by one only adding to her agony.

Once I was satisfied that every trace of dirt had been removed from her wounds, I grabbed a new cloth to clean the mud from the rest of her. Luckily the main injury was to her arm, though bruises were appearing down her hip and thigh, and little grazes were on her knees. I don't like uncomfortable or sad situations, and so always try and make a joke to lighten the mood. Knowing A needed a distraction, but also wanting her consent to clean more intimate areas, I looked her in the eye and said "Ok, time to clean your TaTa's now."

Not once in my life had I referred to breasts as 'TaTa's", but this moment called for it, and my intention worked as she gave a pain-filled hiccup of laughter. Once I had her clean and the wounds were leaking healthy, red blood, we dried her off and laid her on the bed. Putting a blanket over her naked body, and a towel under her injured arm, I had turned to where W was opening the first aid kit.

It didn't matter that I was half her age, or that she was a mother and I was not. She instantly deferred to me, asking what we needed to do. Without hesitation I pulled out the iodine ointment, we had to disinfect it. Who knew what germs had already infiltrated the wounds from that nasty mud it had been marinating in. Setting her to work on the smaller wounds on A's legs, I took in the mess that was her forearm.

"This is going to sting," I warned her. The first press of Betadine to the raw flesh had her screaming. I could only imagine how tender it must have been after I had just scrubbed it. Flinching, I worked as quickly as I could while she screamed and cried, and sobbed. W was getting frazzled, her movements faltered with every scream A made. A fog had descended upon me, and allowed me to block out the heart-wrenching noises she made as I worked my way down A's arm, using the sterilised tweezers to pluck still more stones from the wound.

Once I got to her hand, I paused. A deep chunk had been taken from the heel of her palm and a flap of skin the size of a fingernail hung from it. As I tried to figure out the best way to go about it, J knocked on the door during the lull in screams. W raced over to answer it and his anxious voice filtered through asking what was going on. Being friends for over ten years, A asked that he be let in. Well more like she begged for him to be let in.

Through her sobs, I heard the desperation in her voice as she told me he was a good friend, and that she wanted him there. She was in an unfamiliar country, hurt and scared, with unfamiliar faces hovering over her, if our roles were reversed I would want a friendly face there too. He hovered over her head once he was let in, keeping eye contact and squeezing her uninjured hand as I pulled the scissors from the kit. "I think I need to cut this off. It's going to hurt," I told her as I prepped the scissors with rubbing alcohol and carefully lifted the flap.

She flinched as I cut it off, and her screams echoed through the room once more. After another splash of disinfectant and one final inspection of everything, it was time to cover it. Luckily, mum had taught me how to wrap a bandage (though she had intended it to be regarding a snake bite, it still came in handy for injured arms), and so after spreading some gauze over the exposed wounds, I went about wrapping her up.

Once sufficiently mummified, we ushered J out of the room and got her to drink some local fizzy, sugary drink we found in the mini-bar. After that, we helped her dress while she stood on unsteady feet. I threw out the bloody and used items from the first-aid kit, washed my hands again, and packed it all up. Giving her some chocolate we also nabbed from the mini-bar, we made sure she was settled and feeling better before joining the others. The concussion was just minor and she was talking and walking normally once more, much to everyone's relief.

The harrowed faces of the rest of the group, not to mention the horrified looks from the hotel staff, made me realise just how bad that must have sounded to them. "Where's the baby?" One of them joked, "It sounded like you were giving birth in there!"

I barely remember the screams. I know she was screaming and I remember her sobs, but when I think back to that moment, that wasn't on my mind. It was as though in the heat of the moment, when I had my hands covered in blood and stained orange with Betadine, my mind had blocked out the distraction of her screams. I remember talking to her the whole way through, trying to soothe her as best as I could, but my hands had remained steady and sure as I did was I needed to.

The others in the group had looked more stressed than I felt. I wasn't on the verge of tears, my stomach was not tied up in knots. I felt calm and confident that I had patched her up to the best of my ability. Every night after that, I would go to her room and re-dress the wound, using the few supplies I had brought, as well as more she had bought from a local pharmacy.

Not once did it get infected. Not once was I worried about my ability in dressing her wounds. Now three years later, she doesn't have a single scar marring her arm, and, on the verge of sounding pretentious, I am very proud of how I handled the situation. I am proud of the way I kept my cool, and I hope that I was able to embody my mother just enough to justify my lasting nickname within our group: Nursey.