Day 1 — on 15 September 2020, much before the alarm went off, I felt the chills. I was shivering. I was so cold, I got up, pulled out my thickest sweatshirt and wore it, and climbed right back under the sheets. I was running a temperature; although it didn’t feel too high.
When I heard the alarm, I knew I couldn’t get up. So, I asked my husband to wake up our 10-year-old for her online classes. An hour later he asked me if I wanted him to take our newly adopted dog for a walk. It was a practice I had started to work some of his energy off. Off he went.
I don’t remember much of that day. I do remember staying in bed, feeling feverish; and the chills kept coming and going. I also remember texting a client and putting off a call we had scheduled for the day.
Day 2–16 September, was exactly as day one. I put the call off again. The 10yo was in the middle of her school competitions. I just about managed to get up from the bed in the evening, and helped her with her costume and make-up for the Histrionics competition, where she was playing Maleficent. While she waited for her turn in front of the laptop, I laid down on a recliner. As soon as she was done, I went straight back to bed.
Over these days and the next two, I could hear the kids and the dogs going in and out of my room, my mother bringing me food, my husband checking my temperature and consulting our physician over the phone, but I don’t recall fixing my gaze on anything in particular, or even talking about anything. I did keep telling the kids to stay away from me. I was terrified; was I down with Covid? I felt like I was putting my whole family at risk. But I didn’t have the strength to say or do anything about it.
Around this time, I also stopped sleeping. I felt like I was awake all night. But I was “dreaming”; and these “dreams” were vivid. Colourful. I saw strangers. New cities. Busy streets. Ornate buildings. Strange conversations. I hated it. All I wanted to do was fall asleep. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t.
I was given medications for fever, and it quickly went away. My doctor suggested a blood test; all was well, but for my creatinine levels. Concerned, he said I needed to visit a hospital.
Meanwhile, a strange purply-brown wound appeared on my thumb. It filled up with pus, burst, and soon I didn’t even know or care about what was happening to it. I was sleepless, could barely stand or eat or talk. The nightly hallucinations continued.
And then, I got diarrhea. Never in my life have I felt so helpless. Completely drained overnight, I didn’t even have the physical strength to go to the bathroom. New medications helped control diarrhea by the end of the next day. We were now on day five of my sickness.
Day 6 — I woke up with an excruciating pain under my left foot. There was an angry rash-like mark, and I couldn’t stand or walk without help. On this day, we finally decided to visit a hospital. Covid protocols meant going straight to casualty. I was propped up on a bed, given an IV, and asked if I was pregnant — my tummy was bloated like was 6-months pregnant. I would have boxed the nurse’s nose in if I could! We were sent away with one instruction — get a Covid test done.
Day 7 — It was a Monday. The first thing we did was get a Covid test done. I could barely move, so someone came over to the car to take my samples. I have no other memory of that day, just that I could hear strange music playing somewhere, I was getting increasingly breathless, I was having a weird dream (that you don’t want to hear about), and my husband telling my mother that my Covid result was negative. I was immediately packed off to the hospital — I am told I was fed dinner, changed, and taken to the car, where my daughter handed me a card — I don’t recall any of this.
I was moved to the ICU, four hours after I reached the casualty wing, in the early hours of 22 September. By now I was 100% mute — I had no voice; I couldn’t breathe without medical assistance. And then… blank.
Over the next 30 hours or so, I had the strangest dreams ever. Or let’s call them hallucinations; because that is what they were. My deepest fears, anxieties, and doubts were manifested in them. I ‘woke up’ disturbed, still imagining things around me, swearing at people — including my husband and the doctors, spoke inappropriately and in too much detail about private stuff (I embarrassed the hell out of the husband, that’s all you need to know); but I was getting better despite my altered state of mind.
That one week in the ICU was the loneliest period of my life. Although I got to see my husband twice a day for a few minutes each time, I missed my mother and my children terribly. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t come to see me at the hospital (Covid protocols meant nothing to my distressed mind) or why I couldn’t speak to them over the phone (ICU, duh!).
After my condition stabilized, which took a week, I was moved out of the ICU and into a room. My husband then told me the gravity of what had happened to me. Sepsis with multiple organ dysfunction. I had never even heard of it. I had to Google it. And the more I read, the more overwhelmed I was. I was the miracle recovery the doctors were talking about. The 39-year old, mother of two, who nearly died; but surprise-surprise, didn't!
The words were floating around me. I felt like everyone was talking about someone else. Not me.
All I could think of was what I looked like — something the cat had dragged in. Worse, I could neither walk nor use the bathroom without help. My legs hurt like crazy. My purple-black thumb was completely black by now. It needed surgery. So off they sent me to the OT to fix it before I could give Ekalavya competition.
Thankfully, my thumb was saved too. It was, along with my arm, put into a sling, and man was I sore!
But the good news was every day I felt better. I was eating fine, sleeping okay, I was moving around on my own, just that it took me five minutes to take 15 steps!!! But I was on the road to recovery.
It took about three months for me to feel completely okay. But, even now, on some days, I feel like I have forgotten so much…conversations, incidents, memories… My body feels fine; well, almost. But there’s always some kind of fear — fear of what my body lost, and what I nearly lost — my life.
Questions like what if I hadn't made it, what if I had survived but lost a limb or become a vegetable or had serious cognitive damage — all possibilities with sepsis. The fear is so real that on some days I cry, not understanding why I cannot be more grateful for this rebirth.
The truth is, I am more than grateful. But I am also human, and revisiting the past, how much ever frightening it can be, doesn’t stop me from doing it.
People have asked me what caused this illness. To be honest, the doctors couldn’t give me a clear answer. Was it food? Was it from a sanitary product I was using? Was it from a wound I hadn’t paid any attention to? I don't know. What I do know was that I was physically fit when it happened. I was working out regularly and my vitals were healthy; which is why, medications worked wonders, even when my blood reports read like a death story.
A lot about my illness is shrouded in medical jargon; stuff that I didn’t want to research. My family and I were just glad I had survived. But I did read horror stories of recoveries. People who are still ravaged by the aftereffects of the illness — either physically or cognitively.
On the contrary, I was slowly but steadily getting back up on my feet. Occasionally, there are days when I feel mentally and bodily exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed. But I try to take these in my stride. I have become more demanding of my family, especially my husband. I need him around more than ever to feel safe and stable.
I have restarted my exercises, doing a mix of yoga, cardio, HIIT, and strength training to regain my lost flexibility, strength, and stamina. I believe my body passed with flying colours because I had worked hard on it prior to my illness. I intend to continue giving it all the love it deserves.
My story has a happy ending. I am here to write it, ain’t I?
