Wanderlust and Misadventures: A memoir about a moment in one woman's life when the world changed forever.

By Janine L Phillips

At forty-nine, Janine-aka 'Miss Meaningful'-faces a future filled with question marks.

She had a blank canvas yet doesn't know how to paint her new life.

She dreams of more purpose, passion and meaning in her life.

One day, she had an epiphany. Wanderlust call

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janine L Phillips
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645552515

Janine L Phillips

Janine L Phillips, aka Miss Meaningful, lives in Melbourne with her puppy Foxy. She spends her time walking the Botanic Gardens, visiting the local markets and drinking chai at her local cafe. Janine is a learning designer, consulting through her business JLP Learning Designer. She is also a blogger, philanthropist and traveller. She's loves sharing stories about meaningful news around the world.

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Prologue

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This mystical, intricate design is often referred to as the ancient Sanskrit symbol for breathe. It is a reminder how powerful the simple, natural, life affirming, divine action of a deep breath can be.

LAPLAND, FINLAND

13 MARCH 2020

I woke from a restless sleep, my eyes slowly adjusting to a soft light filtering into the room. Above me, two drops of condensation slid gracefully down the curved glass ceiling. It looked like two Olympic skiers, fighting it out on the slopes.

My heart was beating so fast I could hear it. Boom. Boom. Boom. I could barely focus; everything looked blurry. I rubbed my eyes. Was I dreaming? Insomnia-induced fogginess and too many nights in different places left me disoriented.

And then I remembered where I was. I was alone in a glass-roofed igloo in the Arctic Circle.

I looked through the transparent dome and saw fluffy clouds rolling around the sunless sky; little flurries of snow twirled in the wind. It was my first time in the Arctic, and I wasn’t sure if it was still night as, while there was no sun, it wasn’t completely dark either. I had hoped for clear skies so I could see the stars, and, more importantly, the northern lights—the reason I was here.

Turning my head, I looked at the clock resting on the table beside me: it flashed 5:00 am. I tried to roll over but every part of my body ached. I was hot too. My clammy hands started shivering, so I pulled the doona closer to my chin. I lifted my head off the pillow and it started to pound along with my heartbeat. Tears slowly slid down my cheeks as my predicament became clear—I was sick. Really sick.

I needed the toilet urgently, but as I stood up, stars danced in front of my eyes like I was a character in a cartoon. Walking slowly to prevent falling over, I made my way to the bathroom, feeling waves of cramps that literally took my breath away, thinking I may just pass out on the cold hard floor. As I washed my hands, nausea continued to overwhelm me. I splashed water on my face and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My normally bright-blue eyes looked dull and grey, blending in with my pale skin and silver hair. Fighting the overwhelming vertigo and nausea, I made my way back to bed and curled up into the foetal position. Why me? Why now? This delirious roller-coaster ride of hot flushes, sweating and shivering had my mind playing tennis in a state of fever and fear. Don’t do anything, just wait and see how you feel later today. Don’t be silly, you have to do something now!

My body ached as I tossed and turned in bed. When I was in London, the news that COVID was making its way around the world didn’t yet clarify what to do if you think you had it. My gut was screaming that I needed to get help as I wasn’t well, but my mind was racing.

It might just be a normal flu, and I certainly didn’t want to make a fuss over a normal flu. But then again, it might not be. I was the most terrified I’d ever felt in my life. I’d already been through so much on my trip. Was this really happening to me?

What do I do, what do I do, what do I do?

So, I did what any independent, intelligent, mature woman would do. Using WhatsApp, I called my dad.

Tears stung my eyes and threatened to escape. Hi, Dad. Dad … I’m sick. Really sick. I’m scared. What do I do if it’s the coronavirus?

The tears bubbled over as I tried to talk through snotty sobs. It was early afternoon in Melbourne, and Dad put me on speaker so Mum could listen in. There was concern in their voices. Dad was the rational one; great in a crisis, always thinking logically and strategically. Janine, you need to get help, honey. Just phone the village receptionist now. I’m sure they can help you.

I didn’t know much about the coronavirus, except it spread like bushfire and killed older people. I’d been in a hotel, on planes and in airports. Bile rose in my throat. Dad, what if I have it and I’ve given it to all those people? My whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

Babe, you don’t need to worry about anyone else right now. You need to get some help as soon as possible. Then call us back so we can work out what to do next.

If only it were that easy. The gorgeous glass-roofed cabin styled in minimalist Scandinavian decor had a modern communication system that didn’t work. I struggled to figure out a way to get in touch with the receptionist. Seriously, how had I ended up with the dead iPad? The instructions said I could use it to phone them, but how to do that escaped me in my fevered delirium. I also discovered, much to my frustration, that my mobile didn’t work in Finland, even though I had global roaming set. But I did have wi-fi access, so I looked up the email address for the village manager and sent them a detailed SOS: Hi, I’m Janine Phillips in Aurora Cabin 3. I have woken up feeling really unwell. I arrived last night from England. I think I need to be tested in case this is the coronavirus. Can someone please help me?

I kept hitting refresh on my phone to see if a reply email had come in. Eventually, a noise issued from the iPad. Hello? Hello? It was the faintest whisper. Hello, Ms Phillips? You have a cold?

I started yelling to be heard. It feels different to a normal cold, more serious. I’ve just travelled from England.

We have medicine for a cold. The receptionist wasn’t getting it, and I was struggling to hear her.

I think I may have something worse than a cold. What if I have the coronavirus? Can you please have your manager contact me? I really can’t hear you well. My voice rose several octaves as panic set in. After moments lost in translation with the reception team, the manager finally emailed me to let me know that an ambulance was on the way.

Minutes stretched into hours as I lay on the bed fighting nausea. I went through my medicines. I know my body and I know what I need when I travel. This felt different to any cold or flu I’d had in the past. In my personalised medicine bag, filled with natural remedies and over-the-counter drugs, I had vitamin C and D, as well as Panadol and Nurofen. I guzzled down a mix of coloured pills and vitamins in the hope they would stop the pounding in my head. Oh, how I wished I had some chicken soup and Mum to care for me. In my delusional state, I could smell the scent of chicken broth and never craved it more than I did at that moment.

Looking up at the sky, snow fell softly onto the glass, instantly melting as the heated roof warmed the room. It was silent, ethereal, magical, but in my body, all I could hear was my heart raging against this invasion. I needed a distraction. My stress default was to be organised, so I dragged myself to a standing position and hobbled around the room, carefully folding items into my suitcase.

The crunch of tyres on the snow-packed road broke the silence. I was suddenly nervous, and I flapped about, not sure what to do. Picking up my handbag, hat, coat and gloves, I walked the few metres to the front door. I pushed hard but it wouldn’t open. Then I heard a voice: One moment, I have to shovel the snow away to open the door.

Finally outside, I took a deep, shocked breath. The two paramedics were dressed head-to-toe in protective clothing, including face masks and shields. The ambulance side door was open and inside was covered completely in plastic. Time stood still. I don’t think I breathed deeply as it was bloody freezing and I was terrified. I had stepped through the twilight zone and landed in a quarantine scene with people in white hazmat suits from the movie E.T.

I just want to go home too E.T.

I stood there frozen, figuratively and literally. It felt like I was watching events unfold in a movie … not that it was happening to me. I was handed a face mask and helped into the ambulance. For a moment all I could think about was that I’d never even been in an ambulance before. My stomach fluttered, a momentary flash of excitement despite the nerves and shock. Or perhaps because of it. Ever the intrepid blogger, I took out my phone and captured a selfie. The paramedics must’ve thought me mad but, even through the near-delirium, I knew this was a moment I would want immortalised. I stared at my face on the screen; the ruby-coloured beanie covering my hair, and round green glasses sitting snugly over the medical mask, did nothing to hide the shock etched into my features.

The cold air seeping through the ambulance door and my fever were a bizarre combination, making me shiver like a Melbourne Iceberger (those people who brave the Bay in winter). I couldn’t hold still. Thoughts swirled around my mind like the snow outside in my fevered delirium. This will all be a mistake for sure. Just one of those stories you share with your friends at the bar with a few cheeky embellishments.

As we drove out of the Northern Lights Village and onto the highway, I allowed myself to feel relief—phew! I finally had some help. Fifteen minutes into the drive, the ambulance pulled over to the side of the road. Confused, I looked around. Should I try to find an escape route? Was this it for me, was I about to be murdered? I could see the headlines: Australian missing in Lapland because she thought she had COVID but she just wasted everyone’s time!

Maybe I’d just listened to too many true crime podcasts.

One of the paramedics opened the side door and sat down in front of me (well, at a distance of one-and-a-half metres). She spoke in perfect English. Ms Phillips, I have to ask a few questions before taking you further. Do you have a sore throat or a cough?

I shook my head. No. I don’t have either of those.

They are the main symptoms of coronavirus. If you don’t have them, you probably have influenza.

I let that sink in for a moment. I wanted to be reassured by this, but it just didn’t seem … right. I have fever, aches and pains all over. I feel really off. It doesn’t feel like a normal head cold or flu. It feels different. My voice wobbled as panic crept back in.

We want to make sure we are clear on your symptoms before we take you to the hospital, she said. We don’t have facilities to handle the virus here.

I shrugged—what was I meant to do with that? I knew how I felt. I just shrugged again, too tired to speak. She returned to the front of the cabin and made some calls. They were all speaking in Finnish, so I had no idea what was happening. I closed my eyes again and tried to settle my breathing.

Finally, the ambulance started up and returned to the freeway. No matter what, I was in the hands of the health authorities, and that was the best place to be. A (miniscule) part of me hoped it was the virus, otherwise I would be mortified to have created all this fuss for nothing.

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Within thirty minutes, we arrived at the Ivalo Health Care Centre—their version of a hospital in the small town of Ivalo, population three thousand. The ambulance stopped next to the side of the building, and I was ushered through a door and into a small room. I scanned the stark treatment room. There was a desk and chair on one side, and a beige treatment table on the other. A picture hung on the back wall, a black-and-white photograph of a river crashing on rocks, surrounded by rugged mountains topped with snow. It was depressing. There were no windows, and the only source of light was a bright naked globe hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Near the door, various documents in Finnish were haphazardly taped to the wall. And close by, a portable trolley housed some medical supplies, gloves, masks and hand sanitiser. The hospital-grade disinfectant made my nostril hairs stand to attention. I was relieved to feel warm, but I was certainly not cosy, as another wave of nausea took over. I sat heavily on the only chair in the room.

I looked at the paramedic. May I have some water, please?

She smiled. Of course! Please don’t leave the room. I will be right back. She left and closed the door. Oh my god, were they locking me in here? How long would I have to wait? I couldn’t deal with my inner voice making so much noise, trying to convince me I had ended up in a Scandinavian horror film, so I lay down on the treatment table, using my jacket as a pillow.

I messaged Dad and Mum. I’m in the hospital. In safe hands. I’ll keep you posted! An exclamation mark to sound light so as not to worry them. Practising my yoga breaths, I shut my eyes and tried to stave off a fresh wave of tears. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be in a foreign country. I didn’t want to be sick. I had a history of chest infections … what did that mean for my chances with this virus? I didn’t know enough about this thing! Did anyone? Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Twenty minutes later, a nurse dressed in full personal protective equipment walked through the door. She was covered in a blue apron from her neck to her shiny white shoes, and her hair was covered by a dark-blue net. I thought she smiled, but it was hard to tell under her surgical mask and face shield. Her blue gloves held a package in one hand and a water bottle in the other. She handed me the water and said in broken English, Hello. I am your nurse. I’ll test you for influenza first. She pulled out a large swab, tilted my head back and softly placed the swab up each nostril. She was surprisingly gentle. The smell of hand sanitiser oozed from her gloved hands. Placing the swab into a container, she left the room without a word.

I opened the water bottle and drank. The cold water felt so good on my throat. Checking my phone, time dragged; minutes turned into an hour. Pacing the room in an attempt to expel some nervous energy, a new nurse came in dressed in the same protective uniform, but she was much smaller than the last one. No evidence of a smile either as she looked at me over a white face mask. Ms Phillips, the influenza test was clear, so now I will have to do the COVID-19 test. Her English was excellent. She pointed to the treatment table. Please sit down and stay still. She pulled out another long swab and roughly pushed my head back, pulled down my mask, and shoved the swab up my right nostril, further than I’d ever felt before. I think it actually stabbed my brain. I cried in pain; there was blood on the end of the swab. She ignored me and procured another swab. Up it went into my other nostril. Fuck! It was somehow more painful than the first one. I was now crying as the intensity was palpable. The nurse was unfazed. She grabbed another swab and scraped my throat, which made me gag and cough. She turned on her heel and disappeared out the door.

I felt slightly violated. Questions flew around my head.