Tia Coughlin
My story begins just days before Christmas 2024. On December 20th, I started experiencing symptoms that felt extreme and unshakable—high fever, severe pain, and a deep, bone-level exhaustion. It escalated quickly. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t name it. I figured I was stressed about Christmas and fighting off the flu.
By the next day, December 21st, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even walk into the ER on my own. I had to be brought in a wheel chair. My labs showed that my white blood cell count was over five times the normal range, signaling that my body was fighting something serious. I was given IV fluids and broad-spectrum antibiotics to treat an infection they couldn’t identify. And then, despite all the signs pointing to something critical, I was sent home.
Overnight, things got worse. Much worse.
On December 22nd, I returned to the ER—barely coherent, my body crashing. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously low, and I was immediately given Norepinephrine to try and stabilize me. It was then that they diagnosed septic shock. In less than 48 hours, I went from feeling “off” to fighting for my life.
Even in the hospital, there was never a clear answer about how I ended up septic. There was no specific source of infection identified—just a cascade of systems in my body starting to fail.
I was moved to the ICU, where I would spend Christmas Day hooked up to machines, surrounded by wires and beeping monitors. It wasn’t the holiday I had planned. But I was incredibly lucky: my kids and friends came to visit me and I watched everyone open presents over FaceTime. I was weak and overwhelmed, but in that moment, I felt nothing but gratitude. I had survived to see their faces.
After about a week, I was discharged. But no doctor came to speak with me. No care plan was provided. I was sent home still reeling, still fragile, still scared—and without any roadmap for what was to come.
What did come next was something I’d never heard of before: post-sepsis syndrome. Since being released, I’ve dealt with unrelenting exhaustion, nutritional challenges, and iron deficiencies so severe I’ve required iron infusions. For the first few months, I could barely sleep. I was having nightmares of being back in the hospital every time I closed my eyes. My body is not the same. My energy, my strength, even my focus—they’ve all changed. And the emotional toll of surviving such a close call has been profound.
What’s most frightening is how easily this could have been missed entirely—and how little people know about sepsis. There’s a misconception that it only happens to people who are elderly or already very ill. But I wasn’t either. Sepsis can happen to anyone. And when it does, you need to act fast. Seconds matter. Trust your instincts.
I’m here today because of a few key decisions—and because of my two best friends, who didn’t take no for an answer when I refused to go to the hospital. They insisted I return to the ER when I was hesitant, and they made arrangements for my kids and my family during those terrifying days. Their support and persistence truly saved my life.
This experience has changed me. I’ve had to rebuild not just my health, but my entire outlook on what it means to survive. I didn’t get the Christmas I planned. But I got something more precious—a second chance.
If you take anything from my story, let it be this: know the signs of sepsis. If you or someone you love has a fever, extreme pain, disorientation, exhaustion, or low blood pressure, don’t brush it off. Go to the hospital. Ask if it could be sepsis. Push to be heard.
Sepsis nearly took everything from me. But it didn’t win. And now, I’m using my voice so others won’t have to learn the hard way.
