7 News Gold Coast presenter Amanda Abate spills on painful encounter with box jellyfish

We all have at least one epic story. One moment that may or may not change your world, but grinds it to a halt – and perhaps gives you a few more grey hairs, writes Amanda Abate.

Amanda Abate and her son Bobby. Picture: Brittany A Photography

We all have at least one epic story in our lifetime. One moment that may or may not change your world, but grinds it to a halt, and perhaps gives you a few grey hairs you didn’t need. You know it when you have it, and if you haven’t had it yet, standby. It’s coming. Probably when you least expect it.

Amanda Abate suffered a painful encounter with a jellyfish.

As I brace to give birth for a second-time, it got me thinking about my epic story – and it’s not what you think. This one actually played out before I became a mother; on our honeymoon.

Allow me to set the scene. It was the final day of a blissful stay in the Maldives. We’d just woken to a picture-perfect morning in a luxury waterfront villa. The ocean so inviting, I decided to go for a quick dip while my new husband Brent got himself ready.

I didn’t go far, just a gentle cruise around the villas. I was looking for a huge turtle I’d spotted the day before. I don’t remember if I ever found that turtle because all of a sudden my entire face started stinging. Instantly. It was like someone flicked a switch that activated pins and needles from my neck up, and I knew I was in trouble.

I was only metres from our villa, so got myself back inside, where Brent (who knows I can border on the dramatic-side) assured me he’d been stung by something the day before and not to worry. “Just run your face under water.” He’s usually full of good advice but this wasn’t his best.

A box jellyfish. File image.

As soon as I got under the shower my whole body started to cramp. It felt like poison was flooding every vein and suddenly I couldn’t stand up. That’s when the panic set in. Brent called the resort for help, as I kicked and thrashed in pain I never imagined possible.

It may have only been five minutes, but it felt like forever until help finally arrived. I don’t know what we were expecting, but what we got was a clueless (yet lovely) resort guide, on a push bike, and by the look of horror on his face, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to deal with this “situation”.

I can pinpoint that moment as the exact moment I thought I was going to die. Certain of it. I was hysterical. The pain was off the charts and the panic of being in a foreign, remote place had me struggling to breathe.

For once, we hadn’t skimped on accommodation so this island resort was thankfully manned by a doctor. Our clueless but lovely friend retrieved a golf buggy – CODE RED – and we were on our way. (As fast as you can be in a golf buggy on a sand path, weaving around fellow honeymooners who didn’t think they were dying.)

Brent was actually quite calm. Reminding me to focus on my breathing. In, and out. It was both irritating and helpful, and probably did save me from spiralling into a full-blown panic attack. He was, in fact, the only person who was calm. Once we made it to the medical room, we were met by three or four young men, all looking as terrified as me. One was the doctor and all were speaking very fast in Arabic. My life was now in their hands.

Amanda Abate with her son Bobby. Picture: Glenn Hampson

Also in their hands however, were iPhones. I remember Brent and I exchanging mortified looks, “are they googling what to do?” Yes. I think they were. But honestly, who cares, because suddenly I was injected with the biggest needle Brent says he’s ever seen (one I didn’t even feel) and the excruciating pain started to slightly improve.

Two more of those over half an hour, and I could tell I was on the mend. Whisked away on a boat to a bigger Island where I was taken to a hospital, given a drip and a fresh coconut, and discharged shortly after with no explanation but one hell of a story.

For a few days, I had three small tentacle-like scars on the side of my face, and speaking with doctors back home, it seems likely I was stung by a box jellyfish and may have had an allergic reaction. Invisible in the water, and it must have been small (phew). But my God, that jellyfish got me good.

The reason I wanted to share this story now is because I had always wondered if that pain was worse than giving birth. Surely it had to be. Well, a year-and-a-half ago, I got my answer. Look away first-time mummas-to-be … Labour was worse.

Not by a whole lot, and very different, but worse. I confirmed it with Brent in between screams as little Bobby was crowning. I should disclose that I’m talking “au naturel” though, there were no giant needles to the rescue. Still, if you ask me what I’d prefer to go through again, it definitely wouldn’t be a box jellyfish sting on a remote island.

Not. A. Chance.

Labour on the other-hand, I’m actually excited for. Once my son was safely in my arms, it erased most of the horror from my mind and I felt stronger than ever before. Am I ready for round two? No way! But I’m wise enough now to know you never really can be ready. Not for anything. You just have to hope when help does arrive, it’s not on a pushbike.

Amanda Abate is a news reader at 7 News Gold Coast