‘It all started here, in Queenstown’ my husband chimes in.
Which rather took my breath away.
It had indeed.
Just over five years ago, in late summer, I lay curled in the foetal position on the bathroom floor of a Queenstown hotel, in between bouts of vomiting from the sudden pain. Absolutely unwilling to miss my 40th birthday present, trekking the Milford Track with hubbie, my parents looking after our children, I somehow struggled onto the transfer boat and along the 4-day hike. Each time the pain took over, every ten minutes or so, I’d assume the foetal position, initially on the dry track, later in the mud, trying to focus on the rain on my face, rather than the wave of agony rising, and thankfully also falling, in my groin.
