In 2018, I was invited to talk at Stanford Medicine X in California. I told Mum I’d do it virtually, but she insisted I go and tell my story in person. Over three amazing days in San Francisco, we met so many interesting people, including the medical researcher and author Jeremy Howick, who encouraged me to write a book, which will be published this year.

“Mum’s a lioness: strong, resilient and persevering, yet patient and gentle. She has been through a lot, but always manages a smile.”

I’ve been dating a Scottish doctor who works with me in the Gold Coast University Hospital emergency department (where I’m a registrar) for about nine months. She says if we move in together, we’ll make space for Mum. Without me saying anything, she realises just how important Mum is to me. Mum’s a lioness: strong, resilient and persevering, yet patient and gentle. She has been through a lot, but always manages a smile.

Chithrani: Dinesh was born in Kandy. It was a breech birth and, at just 22, I didn’t know the potential complications. I joke about it now, telling him, “You were too busy doing other things and forgot to turn.”

We used to drive past this town where there had been uprisings against the government. One day, we passed some smouldering stacks of tyres. Inside, human bodies had been burnt and later beheaded, their heads placed on stakes along the road. Dinesh was only four and recently he asked me about it: “Mum,” he said. “Was that real – or a dream?”

We left Sri Lanka in 1994 on Dinesh’s 10th birthday. I studied accounting and worked two jobs. We needed the money because we’d left everything behind and the rupee was low against the Australian dollar.

When Dinesh wasn’t sure what to do with himself, I suggested law, but he experienced depression in his second and third years. Once, when he was overcome with anxiety and unable to sit a law exam, I drove him home. His father was furious; he didn’t understand Dinesh. His depression was never formally diagnosed, but I knew he was going through something.

When Dinesh was accepted into medical school, he was the happiest I’d ever seen him, but then came the accident. About 45 minutes after he’d left our home, we received the phone call. They didn’t say it was serious, but we sat in the ER for hours. When I eventually saw him, he said, “Don’t worry, Mum; I’ll be all right.”

A social worker gave us the worst-case scenario: that Dinesh would never walk again and need a lifetime of care. His dad cried. I just hung onto Dinesh’s words: he was going to be okay.

“It’s 12 years since the accident and I’ve not had a break, but that’s what mothers do. I always give him space because I can walk away: he can’t.”

I accessed my long-service leave to visit him every day. Two weeks later, my mum, Sheela, flew in from Sri Lanka. At the hospital, she cried, and Dinesh cried, too. After leaving the hospital, when I started crying, Mum asked, “Why the tears? If you fall apart, who’ll be there for your son? You must be strong for him.”

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After the accident, I promised Dinesh I’d be there as long as he needed me, and I’ll never break that promise. It’s 12 years since the accident and I’ve not had a break, but that’s what mothers do. I always give him space because I can walk away: he can’t.

He inspires me: the way he faces challenges with a beautiful smile, never giving up on his dreams. I’m so proud that he is the first quadriplegic doctor in Queensland – and only the second in Australia – to qualify. His girlfriend is an emergency doctor, too. With her, I know he’s in good hands.

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