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Illustration by Drew Shannon
Recently, I survived a near-fatal encounter with sepsis. Before this brush with death, sepsis had personal meaning only as a word heard occasionally on a newscast. It certainly didn’t spring to mind while I endured four days of alternating high fever and teeth-chattering chills. I had COVID, of course. What else could it be? Although the test registered negative several times, I resigned myself to soldiering on through COVID.
On day five, black urine in the toilet bowl panicked me into action. I phoned the provincial health line where an immediate visit to the nearest urgent-care clinic was advised. It took until noon the next day to secure an in-person appointment with a physician. My bloodwork indicated a complex bladder infection. The clinic had no suitable antibiotic in stock, so my family rushed to emergency at the hospital. All this time my condition steadily worsened. Supported between husband and daughter, I stumbled into the triage room.
From then on events became a kaleidoscope of disconnected noises and blurred images, while I lay across two metal chairs with legs dangling into the crowded aisle. I longed for a pillow. A technician took my blood. At some point the guard changed – my husband and daughter went home after my son-in-law, Sean, arrived.
Under Sean’s watchful eye, I was examined by doctors, admitted to hospital and hooked up to an intravenous antibiotic. With no bed available, I was resettled onto another couple of chairs in ER, oblivious to the chaos. Apparently, an unkempt fellow crouched down to scrutinize me until Sean yelled, “Get away from her. Give her some space.” I remember none of this.
Later Sean accompanied me to a CT scan somewhere in the bowels of the hospital. I heard him exclaim to a nurse, ”OMG! Nanna will kill me if I don’t record this for her Octogenarian Adventures.” Indeed, I have photographic evidence of sliding into the CT doughnut, arms extended over my head and face stretched into a laugh. How reassuring that Sean expected me to survive to post another entry on Facebook!
Back in emergency they procured a sleeping arrangement for me – a reclining leather chair in an area the size of a storage closet. I awoke sufficiently to avoid being a dead weight as they transferred me from stretcher to chair. After tucking me under a blanket, Sean went home.
Noise and activity continued all night. A muscular male nurse asked whether I had ever visited Churchill. “A weird question,” I thought. After he pointed to my chest, I realized I was wearing a T-shirt proclaiming: Churchill Manitoba, 58.46 degrees north. We had a quick conversation about his stint nursing in that wilderness community. A breath of fresh air, so to speak, in my cubbyhole stuffed with six patients reclining awkwardly in leather chairs.
Half-asleep, I plotted how to donate 500 pillows to the emergency department. In my next lucid moment, I concluded it would be too difficult to sterilize them between patients. One by one, patients were wheeled away to the coveted rooms in the hallowed halls above. With each commotion I emerged from my blur long enough to grumble, “Are they all sicker than I am?”
I don’t know when I got my private room, but my daughter found me there when she visited after work. The nurse wanted me to take a fever-reducing pill, but my body wasn’t ready to swallow even a sip of water. It just bubbled back through my lips. The nurse decided to try children’s cherry-flavoured syrup. For half an hour my daughter held a small plastic cup, cajoling me to take another baby sip. She never expressed frustration, but I imagine she was suppressing nightmares of these eldercare duties expanding in the future. I was endlessly grateful for my family’s support.
Kudos to the Canadian medicare system for the state-of-the-art care they provided. Despite being short-staffed and overworked, the nurses were always cheerful. In particular, I remember the nurse who always wore a fruit-coloured outfit. After nicknaming her Mango Girl, I had to relabel her Raspberry Girl the next day. When she invited me to choose tomorrow’s flavour, I suggested watermelon. I thought I had bested her, but she appeared in watermelon pink the following day.
Happily, I responded to the antibiotic and was discharged after five days. Three months later I feel mentally alert, but still too weakened to walk more than 15 minutes. No longer cavalier about my body, I have become diligent about daily maintenance – such as flossing, sunscreen, exercise. The distance between robust health and near-death is smaller than I ever suspected and can swing on small misjudgments.
I was blindsided by sepsis because I had no idea how fast it can overwhelm your body. If the COVID swab tests negative but you’re ill, take action. You may have something more serious. If you have a high fever and black urine, skip the urgent-care clinic. Go immediately to hospital and tolerate your long wait in ER, because they have the most advanced care available. Take your own pillow.
No matter how ill you are, look for moments of joy in the present. My hospital stay abounded in humorous incidents, acts of tenderness and opportunities to appreciate others.
Anne Dalziel Patton lives in Victoria