Michelle Edwards
In the first week of December 2015, I nearly died. I have an autoimmune disease called Crohn’s Disease. My body frequently attacks itself thinking my own cells are intruders.(Sepsis and Impaired Immune System) When I was 21 years old, I discovered a lump in my left breast. I was working a lot and couldn’t go to the doctor at the time because my manager at work wouldn’t give me any time off. Fast forward 1 week later, when a coworker of mine decided enough was enough and dropped me off at my local urgent care. I was told there was nothing they could do since it was a weekend and sent home with no exam and some antibiotics.
I went to an appointment on the following Monday to have my breast examined, some of the fluid aspirated, and the lump biopsied. They again sent me home, where I got worse and worse. They had given me medication to which I was severely allergic, and when returning to my follow up and informing them that I felt like I was dying, they disregarded me, and told me to continue the antibiotics that I had been throwing up all week long.
All week I had taken my medicine and every time I had thrown it up. By the time I went for my 2nd follow up, I was practically in a comatose state, with my boyfriend having to do everything for me.
The breast lumps were back and I had to be aspirated AGAIN. Yet my doctors still said I was ‘fine’ and probably just ‘had the flu’. 2 nights later, my boyfriend helped me out of bed, and into the bathroom, where he left me to my privacy. I never called out for him to help me afterwards, and when he came to check on me he found me unresponsive on the bathroom floor. My nose, ears, and the pores of my face were bleeding, and he couldn’t wake me up. He rushed me to the hospital and carried me in himself. I mostly can only remember what he told me happened.
I do vaguely remember being strapped down to control the shaking, I strained nearly every muscle in my body because of the tremors I was experiencing. The doctors told him my white blood cell count was only 4, and that I wasn’t going to make it the hour if they didn’t figure out what was wrong. He told them every detail he could remember, and they pumped more antibiotics into me via IV. As it turns out, I was allergic to every medication they were trying as they scrambled to save me and only made me worse.
They called an on call doctor [who was also a surgeon] when they couldn’t figure out what else to do. He was at home sleeping. Immediately, this surgeon recognized my symptoms and informed them I was in septic shock. I was rushed to be prepped for emergency surgery to remove the part of my breast that was affected. I was at severe risk for gangrene in my chest cavity and this doctor’s quick thinking saved my life. I was 100% alone because at this point, my boyfriend had spent 4 days awake with me to make sure I was alright, and the nurses sent him home because he had passed out uncomfortably on a small waiting room chair.
They operated on my left breast during the surgery, and put in a JP drain; but not in time to save much. They ended up having to remove almost half of the tissue in my left breast, and I had already had a stroke and began to experience the beginning stages of organ failure. I spent some time in the ICU before being moved down to the 2nd floor for recovery. I couldn’t move, had lost over 50lbs of muscle plus some fat content, and couldn’t even eat. I remained in the hospital with cuffs on my extremities to prevent clots. 97% of my body was in a painful bloody rash, having to be covered in ointment several times a day.
I had no motor skills in my arms or hands, couldn’t turn my head, couldn’t stand up or move my legs/feet, and couldn’t even roll over in my hospital bed. My family still had not come to see me, claiming that I wasn’t really even in the hospital. The CDC came to meet with me, and informed me that the cultures done of the lump in my breast came back as a rare bacteria that they were unsure how I contracted. (Sepsis and Bacterial Infections) They were going to send me to a nursing home upon discharge, at 20 years old, where I most likely would have passed away due to recurring infection and lack of proper medical care and supervision. If it wasn’t for my boyfriend insisting at discharge that I come home for him to take care of me, and for finding me in the first place and rushing me to the hospital, I would be dead. I either would have died on our bathroom floor at 20 years old, or in a nursing home.
It has been a horribly long road since then. It took me months to get back on my feet, and as soon as I was barely able to walk I had to go back to work. I still don’t have complete control over some of my body. I never got to attend any physical therapy because of conflicting hours with my job, and my boss and the company’s higher ups refusing to work with me. Over 3 years later, and I still experience dizziness any time that I stand. I can’t even sit up without leaning on something. Without support, I start to lean and fall forward or to the side and end up slumped over without even noticing. I haven’t driven more than a handful of times since December of 2015. I can’t see in low light. And for the life of me, I cannot build any muscle mass. I struggle to stay above 100lbs because of my Crohn’s disease that made my recovery that much harder. [I’m told it was ultimately my Crohn’s and a severe mold allergy that shut my body down. When my body tried to fight the infection it instead fought itself, and I had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics I was given. ]
A lot of days, I can’t remember half of the words I’m trying to say. My cognitive impairments make living normally extremely hard on top of my other health issues. (Sepsis and Post-Sepsis Syndrome) I have night terrors when I can sleep, although I never can sleep for more than 2 collective hours each night. My entire body is weakened to the extent that I can’t even do basic modified yoga positions without pain from the shortening of my muscles. I can’t cut up vegetables for dinner without excruciating pain, as I still don’t have full function of my hands, wrists, and arms.
Only a few people in my life even know that I went through this, and how much my boyfriend [of only 1 year at that time] saved me as my caregiver. He had to remove the stuffing inside my breast twice a day, and replace it by packing it full again [shoving it into my chest cavity with a long stick]. I had seizures nearly every time while he did it [throughout my recovery], and he never once left my side. Even to this day, with my physical inabilities, he still stands by my side. I will forever be grateful to this man for being there for me, despite the mental health problems that have resulted from it. We actually fought the entire year following the incident; I had become so depressed that I actually began to resent him in a way for saving me. I began to pick fights with him, and lash out, telling him it was his fault for not just ‘letting me die’. I went through a long period of anger and denial that almost separated us, before I finally acknowledged that I had PTSD.
I’m still struggling and hope one day to be ‘normal’ again, but I know those chances are very unlikely. I hate being 25 and knowing I’ve already had a stroke, and permanently lost a lot of normal functions that I need to be a healthy and functioning adult. Paired with a chronic and debilitating illness, my post-septic issues have definitely disrupted my life majorly. But I am finally at a place, 3 years later, where most days I am grateful to be here, despite the permanent physical and mental changes I have gone through.
