Isabel Epstein
The chills came on a Sunday evening when I was doing homework in my dorm at Colgate University and it wasn’t supposed to be chilly. They were intense, sweaty, and seismic, so I threw on long sleeves, turned the thermostat up to 80, covered myself with three blankets, and downed my fourth cup of tea.
It was weird. Random chills are never a good sign, but I found the timing to be less than satisfactory. Only six days beforehand, I had returned to campus after a full recovery from a very bad case of mono and wasn’t supposed to have strange medical conditions.
The extent of my being startled was limited to putting on an extra pair of socks and seeing if I could position myself underneath my tiny desk with my back to the radiator (a.k.a. worst idea ever). I had two papers and a transfer application due the next morning, so I didn’t have time to care about suddenly having a bad sore throat and being the human equivalent of a popsicle. It’s whatever, I’ll go to health services after class tomorrow, I thought, and I continued my homework.
Clad in additional layers of blankets/clothing/goose bumps, I tried going to sleep at 9. The girls in the room next to mine were literally howling non-stop, so I decided to be That Jerk and knock on their door at 10 (I hadn’t even met them yet because I had just moved in two days beforehand…awkward) to ask them to quiet down. Ten o’clock turned into 11 o’clock and nothing improved, so on a whim of intuition, I decided to put my rational judgment aside and call campus safety to take me to Student Health.
Campo heard a few of my symptoms and instead took me to the ER. By this point I didn’t want to admit that I felt literally disgusting, but I was starting to have odd abdominal pains and explained everything to what seemed like the only nurse on duty. She tested me for strep (negative), flu (negative), mono (negative), and a fever, which turned out to be over a 104. At this point I was starting to become a little delirious, so she said what seemed at the time to be, “Here! Take this fistful of drugs! Then wake up at an unearthly hour and continue your consumption of these drugs!” I sluggishly signed some forms, gulped down a few anonymous white tablets, and was discharged after a few hours with loose directions to consume more drugs and possibly go to class/have more drugs tomorrow.
Back at my room, the pain began. It was specifically located in a sort of thick band beneath my upper ribcage and was nowhere near my stomach, but let’s call it abdominal pain. It was searing, knifelike, unforgiving abdominal pain, and I was sick and tired of taking ER meds so I decided to curl up in a pathetic little heap and groan myself into a drug-induced stupor. Never happened. I vomited seven times, briefly passed out on my way back from the bathroom, and considered a decision to denounce my atheism. After pulling a trash can next to my bed, I was somehow successful in taking my 4 a.m. dose and going to sleep.
I woke up an hour later puking up blood and a blackness that is probably Satan in liquid form. The pain and chills had gotten even worse. I couldn’t keep anything in my stomach, including water, and I discovered over the next five hours that I couldn’t even keep my stomach in my stomach. My self-comforting skills were to the effect of, shut up and relax Bella, you’re not dying. Ironically enough, I was, but I hadn’t realized it yet.
Hours later, the doctor paled a little when she walked into the room. As a non-hospital doctor, when you expect a sick patient, I don’t think you typically expect finding someone shaking in the fetal position on your exam table while puking a coal-colored bile into a Price Chopper bag. I had abandoned all efforts to not look like a pathetic piece of crap, so I tried to explain in gentle terms that it felt as if someone were repeatedly stabbing my spleen with a bread knife. The doctor whispered three words, “oh my god,” and returned in 30 seconds with six blankets, three nurses, and a wheelchair. I was put into the wheelchair and the blankets were wrapped around me in such a way that I resembled an albino Jabba the Hutt. It was cool and rainy in the parking lot as they sprinted with me to the ER, and I wondered if I’d be able to get to my class on time. At least my 11:20, if I missed the 10:20. The sky and pavement were gray and very calm, and though the pain was far from subsiding, I felt calm too. Very gray and very calm.
The next thing I remember, I was hooked to a series of tall monitors and was having some strange procedures done to me as I stared at the fluorescent ceiling and the doctors in full-body neon suits. We can’t give you morphine, they kept saying, your blood pressure is too low. They took a reading of 65/35, which I didn’t even know existed as far as low blood pressure goes, and I don’t remember the pain, but I can certainly remember groaning about it. And inside I was screaming, but I wanted to appear brave and noble, so I guess I decided that making zombie noises was the most honorable way to express myself at that point. “Honey, we really wish we could give you morphine for this, but your blood pressure is too low. You’re in solitary confinement right now, but there’s nothing we can do. We’re gonna have to send you to Syracuse so they can take good care of you, okay? These nice ladies right here are gonna take you to Syracuse. Can you hear me? Isabel, can you hear me?” And I realized that I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me, was I dying? Am I dying? Someone was holding onto my hand and pleading with me to stay alive, saying “Isabel it’s me, it’s me, can you hear me? Please hold on.” And I still don’t remember the pain but I remember the colors and shapes I saw in my head from it, and I remember the running once again like the wheelchair, only this time I was in a brightly colored stretcher and nothing seemed very calm anymore.
I woke up three days later in the intensive care unit of Golisano Children’s Hospital in Syracuse. The body that I saw stretched out before me was hardly my own. My nose, mouth, chest, abdomen, arms, wrists, hands, ankles, feet, and fingers were all connected to machines that breathed and bled and watched me like a mechanical hawk. They did not fight for me though, that was my job. In the fog that was the first two days, I can remember only one thing: the searing knowledge that I was going to die. It didn’t come to me verbally, it was just an understanding, and I can’t describe in words the hollow neutral truth that death felt like. But with the same wordless resonance, I responded screaming FIGHT inside something deeper than my mind. It wasn’t necessarily conscious, it was animalistic. I didn’t want to give up, so I fought. And I won.
There are a lot of things that are hard to remember, but mostly it was just a lot of tests, a lot of pain, and a lot of intravenous medication. I was on a double dose of fentanyl (a superdrug 10x more powerful than morphine) but the pain was still insane. They still didn’t know what was wrong with me, so they ran tests—CT scans, MRIs, blood cultures, EKGs, and x-rays every 12 hours. It was an odd feeling being totally helpless—with mono, it was tough to get up and walk, but I could do it if I had to. With whatever this thing was, I actually couldn’t move. Putting modesty aside, I had to get used to being a two-year-old and having people do literally everything for me. I’ve always been afraid of needles to the point that I’ve never even gotten my ears pierced, but that fear soon subsided once I tried to get used to being poked 10 times per day. Sometimes almost all of my accessible veins would collapse and I would dread the times they’d have to get a lesser vein near bone: near my hip, my foot, my ankle, but it was all for the better and I always had a hand to hold. My mom was there the entire stay, my grandparents came by, my professor came by the first day (which I unfortunately don’t remember), and the wall was covered with a growing collection of flowers, cards, and stuffed animals.
The doctors and nurses were incredible. I was and am so blown away by their kindness as well as their professionalism. There was a big group assigned to me: four surgeons, two infectious disease specialists, two respiratory specialists, one discharge and recovery agent, six doctors, and ten nurses. They even had a nice lady named Reverend Louise visit who later gave my name to be prayed for at 10 local churches. It’s hard for me to describe how amazing they were (are) as people, but I do know that when I felt like a pit of doom, they literally brightened up my day. Even when they didn’t have to do tests, they would come to my room just to spend time with me. In four days, I went from fighting for my life to being able to sit up in bed. I found it ironic that my nurses would remark how atypically and extraordinarily fast this initial recovery was, because my speedy recuperation was of no cause but their own.
A handful of days later, although I was still seriously physically ill, I was mentally getting back to my normal self again, a.k.a. non-stop cracking jokes and constantly smiling. Dr. Bennett dryly asked me if they had given me too many narcotics, so I asked him if they had put laxatives in his coffee again. If you have ever seen a roomful of surgeons start laughing hysterically, you’re in for a real treat.
I was hanging out with my nurse Don one afternoon and we were talking about which type of chocolate we liked best, so I told him that I try to pretend I’m sophisticated and eat dark chocolate but honestly all I ever want is a Reese’s peanut butter cup. That evening, Don’s like, “psssst. I heard they’re allowing you to eat solid foods again,” and he whipped out a thing of Reese’s that he smuggled in for me!
Kerryanna would hang out and talk with me for hours and, one day when I was a lot stronger, she pulled me out of bed, grabbed my oxygen and IV tower (the thing that looks like a big coat rack with all the machines and IV bags on it), and was like, “You said you really wanted to take a walk? I believe in you. Let’s go for a walk.” She held my hand around the short loop we took, and we went verrryyyy slowly, but the walk was a success. On the way back, Dr. Ragosta was having a serious discussion with a group of pretty nurses all around half his age, so I made eye contact with him, grinned, nodded toward the nurses, winked, and gave the thumbs-up. Instead of yelling at me, he looked at me deadpan for a few seconds before he and the rest of the group bust out laughing hysterically, along with me and Kerryanna. I never thought I would have fun in the intensive care unit, but when I’m surrounded by these great people, the good times are really, really good.
One afternoon, the group came in to talk with my mom and I: they finally figured out what was wrong with me. Basically, it goes like this: when I had mono, my immune system was weakened significantly. Upon returning to Colgate, even though I didn’t even carry the virus for mono any longer, I was still unable to fight off anything that entered my body. I was afflicted by a parasitic/malignant bacteria called fusobacterium, and when it entered my body, it killed off all the white blood cells I had left. When my WBCs were gone, it started destroying all my internal organs and basically was burning my body from the inside out. This is something called Lemierre’s Syndrome, and as a result of that, I was admitted to the ICU in the end stages of septic shock with an incredibly slim chance of survival. There had been the maximum time delay between first having septic shock and finally being treated, so another few minutes would have meant death. Although this disease is strictly physical, I attribute my initial survival to whatever it was inside me that told me to fight.
I know I’m supposed to learn something from this experience, but the experience isn’t over yet because I’m typing this from the same ICU bed I’ve been in for a week now. I’ve never been the type to question “why me,” because these things just happen. A lot of people will say like, “damn, you’ve been hit with way too much in your life,” but it’s not like the events that transpire have anything to do with me, they’re just events and I’ve happened to be in positions that make me negatively affected by those events. It’s a hard concept to explain, but it’s my consolation when things happen to me, they are not my fault. I have much more on my plate than most, and much less on my plate than others, and that’s okay because at the end of the day we’re all thankful for something.
From here, I’m just going to figure the rest out as I go along. Due to my extended illnesses, Colgate withdrew me from all of my courses and my enrollment will be terminated before Thanksgiving break. Thankfully, they’re refunding most of my tuition, but I’m not exactly looking forward to the prospect of not being in college until a year from now. I couldn’t turn in my transfer app for Binghamton by the deadline because it passed while I was, you know, critically ill. I’m not setting out with a plan anymore, because anytime I’ve gotten used to anything, it’s been taken away from me somehow. But I have a set of goals, and I’ve come to understand that reaching them only involves the acquisition of a hypothetical Point B, not the path from Point A to Point B itself. First thing’s first: I’m getting healthy, and I’m getting out of the hospital. I’m doubling up on my coursework so I can graduate with a BA by the time I’m 20. I’m going out and becoming a musician for a while, and if I make money, that’s how I’m funding my charity, and if I don’t, I’m going to the Peace Corps. And if I don’t wind up in college by this time next year, I’ll probably be building houses in Kenya or something.
The troubled wail of a siren outside is complemented by the howl of a child down the hall. New blood from a broken IV stains my gown. It’s hard here sometimes. I can accept the things that I cannot change because they have never made anything impossible for me—the only impossibility to present itself would be finally dying, and I’m sure as hell not doing that if i have a say in it. I wish I could maintain the purity of my theory and say that I don’t have a plan for everything I’m going to create in my life, but I do. And I have, like, five backup plans in case something goes wrong (it always does). The drip of my IV is cooled by the soothing hum of my oxygen mask, and I feel calm and at ease. All things considered, I like it here. It’s just some time to sit back, to think, to idealize. I have a whole life ahead of me, and here it begins from a hospital bed.
Epilogue:
This was written while I was in the hospital, in November 2010. I was sent home by December.
Nine months later, in August 2011, I began my freshman year of college all over again at Binghamton University. I’m studying music and neuroscience to one day research possibilities for brain recovery/plasticity after tissue damage.
This life is wonderful, and may we all be so fortunate in whatever we encounter.
