My grandfather was a GP in country NSW in the 1930s and ’40s, back when a GP was the Swiss Army knife of doctors: the one who could do it all.

He was constantly on call — delivering babies, tending to sick children, taking out burst appendixes — doggedly looking after the entire population of his country town, 24/7.

He had hypertension at a time when the only available treatment was sympathectomy — a procedure that was unreliable, unpleasant and not something he wanted to consider.

The combination of high blood pressure and 24/7 medicine meant that he basically died of overwork, succumbing to a stroke at the same age I am now and over 15 years before I was born.