Judy Otteson

On November 14, 2004, I was nipped in the right hand by a small, healthy, mixed-breed dog. It was a tiny bite – little more than a cut, really – at the base of my right thumb. It bled freely, and after a good rinse and a Band-Aid, I went home for the night. I felt fine, but watched for the proverbial ”red streaks” that I’d heard (since I was a kid) signified blood poisoning. (Sepsis and Animal Bites)

Thursday passed without incident, but I was a little bit queasy on Friday and that night, at a restaurant in a neighboring town, I noticed that the palm of my hand had turned a bluish-gray, like a bruise. By Saturday morning I’d developed a raging headache and some nausea, and friends drove me to their small hospital’s ER to be checked out. My blood refused to clot after a simple draw, and within minutes I was babbling nonsense. Exactly 72 hours after the bite, I was admitted to that hospital, already (and unknowingly) in septic shock.

I couldn’t breathe and still remember the intubation tubing at my mouth, with someone saying to “open wide and take a deep breath.” My lungs had begun to “harden” and my body was starving for oxygen. An ambulance brought me to a larger hospital, where I was admitted to their ICU and given a 5% chance of survival.

In mid-March, fitted with hard, knee-high, clamshell boots, I was released from Harborview’s rehab unit and went to a dog show in Seattle before returning “home” and settling in a rented room for a year of further rehab. I returned to my job as a trauma counselor a month after I was discharged.

Sepsis nearly killed me, and these past six years have been anything but easy. I can’t walk more than a couple of hundred feet. My balance is lousy (no toes at all, remember?). I’ve downgraded from an 88-key piano to an electronic keyboard I play with a couple of leftover finger stumps. (Sepsis and Amputations) I type with my left hand and right thumb. I cried for almost four years, and then chose to top. Instead, I get mad easily and my patience is short. Getting dressed is grueling, and I can’t wear real shoes. My dresses and skirts are gone. Worst of all, I can’t play with, or ride my horse.

But I’m alive.

People are learning about sepsis. They’re finally beginning to realize why Uncle John died “from that sliver he got in the barn,” and they’re slowly learning that “sepsis” is a proper noun –not the adjective describing the “septic tank buried out back.” Those “brief illnesses” that we read of in the obits, when someone dies in a hospital? Sepsis. You can bet on it. My favorite TV program is “Grey’s Anatomy,” and even the staff at Seattle Grace refers to it every few weeks. They should say more.

I survive by looking at my experience as the adventure of a lifetime. I’ve written the story a hundred times, a hundred ways and told everyone I know. My sister’s a dog trainer and now teaches dog-bite care in her classes. I teach it to my clients: Wash, wash, wash, and then see a doctor.

Still, I remind people that depsis is a condition that can develop from any number of other conditions. It’s the body’s overreaction to infection. It’s the dying process.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

(In case you’re wondering, the dog that bit me was 100% healthy. There was nothing wrong with the dog. He’d had his shots,. I didn’t have Rabies, or Dystemper, or Parvo. There is, however, a natural bug in somedog saliva, and in most cat saliva, that does not belong in the human bloodstream. Check it out: Capnocytaphaga Canimorsus.  You can Google it. Human reaction is rare, most often if your spleen is gone or not working right. Mine works great. Why the “bug” took hold and sepsis ensued remains a mystery.)