Paige Wolf

Survivor

Many of my friends who were under 45 have had cancer. Having an incapacitating illness is my greatest fear. I have a one-woman business and should I become ill, what would happen? And then I found out.

Monday, May 16:

Although it’s 67 degrees out, I feel uncontrollable chills and just can not get warm. I had back pain from something I’d done at the gym, so I go to bed early. A few hours later I wake up vomiting and continue vomiting the rest of the night.

Tuesday, May 17:

I am in a feverish haze all day, delirious and not sure if I am saying things out loud or in my head.

Wednesday, May 18:

I think I feel improvement, I’m feeling a little better. I stay in bed but imagine I am on the uptick from a stomach flu.

Thursday, May 19:

I was wrong. I’m not better. My fevers aren’t breaking. I go to the ER at where they give me two liters of fluids and some Tylenol and discharge me, despite my begging that they admit me. I tell them I feel very sick and I don’t feel safe. I implore them to keep me overnight to be monitored. They refuse. I await a bill from them for at least $350 – with insurance.
Friday, May 20:

My fever stays high at or above 103 all day despite taking Tylenol and ibuprofen. My sister-in-law is a nurse and she offers to bring me to the hospital where she works so I will be properly seen to. Just before she arrives I projectile vomit across the room like Linda Blair. I tell my husband to forgo all eco values and go get some Clorox Bleach stat.

What follows is blurry:

I arrive at the hospital and I don’t think I can walk to the triage. I am promptly ensconced by at least a half dozen nurses who inform me that my blood pressure is scary low and I am in septic shock. I know of two people who have had sepsis – an old friend with AIDS who died shortly after and Tony Soprano after a gunshot wound.

An IV is inserted in my groin to try to stabilize my blood pressure and I get IVs of fluid, every antibiotic known to man, and a catheter which apparently, while under morphine, I told the nurses I was psyched about. I think I was too shocked to feel scared. I didn’t see Jesus or a white light or Prince standing in the purple rain. I just felt sure that I would not, could not die on this table. (OK apparently I misremembered this as my sister-in-law told me I asked the doctor at least 100 times if I was going to die).

Saturday, May 21:

I must have passed out. The next thing I remember is that it’s morning and my sister-in-law is standing over me telling me that I’m being ambulanced to Jefferson because I need special care. I still don’t really grasp that I’ve almost died. Nurses, though, confess to me later that they were not sure I was going to make it.

I spend three days in the ICU. This is a place where there are no bathrooms because it’s just presumed you will be performing all bodily functions through a tube. I am in pain and my stomach distends more by the day. I look nine months pregnant. All bacterial cultures come back negative, and the MRI they did of my colon doesn’t say much more. The doctors really don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, let alone how it happened. I’m on isolation. Everyone has to wear blue plastic hazmat suits and gloves to enter the room because they don’t know the degree of my contagion. It’s like a scene from Outbreak.

Monday, May 23 (I think):

I am transferred out of the ICU and into a normal room. I am desperate to shower but, of course, I can barely walk and I shower while sitting in a chair. After a week, I’m able to finally eat a bit but only very small portions. It’s like I’ve had a gastric bypass but gained 20 pounds.

What has happened to my body?
I spend another three days in various levels of pain, discomfort, and fear that there are no straight answers. I walk 30 feet and it’s a triumph. I haven’t seen my kids in 10 days, but I am comforted by the amazing outreach of support – friends and family helping with the children so Mike could be at the hospital. People were sending flowers and meals, and just generally showing true compassion and concern.

As I approach discharge day I ask the case manager how I could go about having a nurse check on me for a few days when I go home. This would be just to check my vitals as I am terrified of a relapse. The nurse explains that this care would not be covered by my insurance. When I said I would pay for it, she told me that you can only pay for nurses in 8-hour-shifts and even then she isn’t sure if I’d qualify. I order a blood pressure cuff on Amazon.

Thursday, May 26:

I am thrilled to finally go home and wash the scent of hospital soap off me. I feel that hospital smell seeped into my pores and it’s like I can’t scrub it out. My son is thrilled to see me. My three-year-old daughter couldn’t care less and just wants to play with my phone. I’m still massively bloated and in some pain, but I’m able to eat a bit and finally get a good night’s sleep without being prodded with needles and beeping IVs all night long.

Now I try to walk a little more each day, though this distended belly and extra 15 pounds of (what, exactly?) does nothing for my vanity. I try to eat. I try to stretch. I try to stay awake for decent intervals of time and get back to writing and answering emails (by the way I found it weirdly hard to start typing again – I still don’t have the keys mindlessly mastered the way I used to and I’m beyond the help of spellcheck).

I am terrified of a relapse. Since we don’t know what caused this, I’m scared of getting reinfected. What if it was some cheese I ate and I eat that cheese again? I know I have some type of PTSD from all this, and I’m just trying to cope and recover. (Sepsis and PTSD)

I go back and forth between gratefulness and optimism and depression. I waited all bloody winter for these beautiful summer days, trained for races I’ll be canceling, not wearing that bikini to the beach. But I am alive and healing and home with my family. And I know how to gradually rebuild my strength – this will be harder than coming back from pregnancy because even three days postpartum I could push a stroller, but I can do this.

Brightside?

Apart from surviving with likely no permanent damage, of course.

I’m not a religious person, but I believe that this happened to teach me two very important lessons – lessons I needed to learn the hard way.

Right before this happened I was obsessed with the idea of coolsculpting, basically a newer less invasive form of liposuction (that still sounded pretty invasive). As hard as I work out and as well as I eat, I’m continually frustrated by my belly fat and often looking pregnant if I eat too much or lose awareness of my posture (which is always). And then God laughed and said, “I shall show you what a big belly looks like and make you thankful for your rockin’ post-baby bod. You aren’t modeling for Playboy anytime soon so you better just learn to love your body for the strong machine it is.” Point taken.

Even with a wonderful partner and children, it’s easy to feel alone in the world. I’m not embarrassed to admit being prone to feelings of loneliness and isolation. Sometimes I feel like that girl with 2000 Facebook friends who no one is inviting to lunch. I have deep-seeded insecurities and sensitivities – if I don’t get invited to a party I will be absolutely sure that everyone hates me. It’s just in my nature. But what I learned from this was enough to assuage so many fears and insecurities and make me feel whole in a way I’ve never experienced. The outreach from friends around the world was simply amazing. The meals delivered, the flowers, the gift cards, the offers of help with our children – just a genuine outpouring of love and concern. Despite how scared I was, I felt safe in a way I never truly had before. Of course, not everyone came through in a crisis. But I learned that the family I have built over my 37 years on earth far exceeds what I was born into. From my childhood friends to my college crew to work associates and newer parent friends, my safety net was strong and sturdy and unbreakable. I was never alone. I was more loved than I imagined.

I expect my recovery to be slow but steady and set small goals for myself each day. Today I walked four blocks – but then had to sleep two hours to recover. I WILL get strong again – mentally, physically, and emotionally. I will count my blessings and try to be a better friend and caregiver to people who might seem strong but are silently struggling. I will find some way to make this up to my amazing husband who has been everything.

“We can rebuild her. We have the technology. We can make her better than she was. Better, stronger, faster.”

 

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