Six weeks in hospital has a way of stripping life back to its bare essentials.
I had never been admitted to hospital before – apart from a few standard day procedures. Just before Australia Day, serious illness suddenly entered my life. I was really looking forward to a trip to Melbourne for the Australian Open tennis. One day I was functioning as normal; the next, my body no longer obeyed me. Independence, strength, certainty — all taken away in a matter of days. Needless to say, I didn’t get to the tennis.
Lying in bed for a number of weeks in a busy neurology ward, surrounded by the relentless rhythm of observations and treatments, a question kept coming into my mind - what really matters? The answer surfaced with clarity.
What matters is not productivity and successes, though at times value is measured that way. As a patient in hospital there are no to do lists, no meetings, no deadlines - and yet life is no less meaningful. If anything, it is more precious. Each small step forward becomes a gift rather than an expectation. What really matters is presence and relationships.
I experienced this presence most powerfully through my family, friends and the Marist community. Messages arrived steadily — prayers promised, Masses offered, notes of encouragement, quiet assurances that I was held in the thoughts of others. Some people visited, others sent text messages or emails, but I always knew they were there. That knowledge carried me through long nights when sleep was sometimes a challenge.
Our Marist charism speaks of presence and family spirit, of walking alongside one another, especially when the road is difficult. In my recovery, this ceased to be a noble idea and became a lived reality. I was not alone. I was accompanied.
“Many of us are comfortable giving support; fewer of us are practised at accepting it. Allowing others to practically and prayerfully carry you is an acknowledgment that life is not meant to be navigated alone.”
Guillain Barré Syndrome is a humbling teacher. It demands patience and trust. It and other serious illnesses reveal how deeply dependent we truly are - on medical professionals, on family and carers, on those who pray when we are too sick or tired to find the words ourselves. When we are unwell, we also need to learn to accept the help of others. Many of us are comfortable giving support; fewer of us are practised at accepting it. Yet being cared for is not weakness. It is, in its own way, an act of faith and trust. Allowing others to practically and prayerfully carry you is an acknowledgment that life is not meant to be navigated alone.
Hospitalisation also refines personal prayer. It moves from words and formulas to something simpler, more honest. Sometimes prayer was nothing more than a grateful acknowledgment at the end of a better day. At other times it was sustained by the prayers of others, offered when my own energy was scarce. I became acutely aware that we pray not only for one another, but often on behalf of one another. I had never before been the recipient of the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick - it was a deeply moving and profound spiritual experience.
Having now emerged slowly into recovery, I carry with me a renewed sense of what matters most: people, relationships, compassion and faithfulness. As a Marist, this experience reaffirmed something fundamental. Our mission is not abstract. It is lived most authentically in moments of vulnerability - showing up, being present, staying connected, holding one another in prayer, and creating spaces of belonging when life feels fragile.
What really matters is love made visible - in prayer, presence, and shared hope. For the care and support I received during my illness I am profoundly grateful.
Richard Quinn
Executive Director
Marist Association of Saint Marcellin Champagnat
