08-20-2014, 11:34 AM
Most of this is a copy-paste from my blog on another site. I didn't want to rewrite it, but here you go.
On July the 30th at 2 AM, me and my mother went to the hospital in the middle of the night. I had been dealing with severe pains for the past couple of days and swelling that wouldn't stop. I couldn't walk, sit, lay down, or really exist in any sort of state without being in constant pain. We went in, sat in the waiting room, and a nurse appeared to take a blood test and my temperature. I had a fever at the time, which surprised me. It was at 39,8 degrees Celsius when we first came to the hospital. The blood test was a pretty typical one, too. A quick test where you measure the amount of proteins in your blood. Increased amounts hint at infection. Being below 10 is normal. With an active infection you can be between 40 and 200. Above 200 and you have a severe infection. My reading came up at 470+ when we checked in.
Turns out, later, that I'd came down with Necrotizing Fasciitis. The doctors here just called them "flesh eating murder bacteria", since that's what the tabloids like to call them. Rewinding a bit... I came to the hospital at 2 AM. They took my temperature and blood test. Then I sat there waiting for five and a half hours because the only available doctor in their department didn't answer the nurses' calls. None of the nurses took the time to look at me any closer, but lounged about their break room, sprawling in their sofas watching TV. My mother and I waited for hours until the ordinary emergency room three floors down opened. It wasn't long before a doctor saw me once we came down to the emergency room, though, so that's good. The doctor took one look, called in another doctor from another department who also took a look, and within half an hour I was in a hospital bed, being driven by nurses at high speed across half the hospital with my mother running after them to keep up. "Every minute counts", they told her.
The first week at the hospital is a blur to me. I was fighting the infection, and at the same time I was struggling with high fever. Reality was fuzzy enough and I admit that I saw things that weren't there. I even had an episode, or vision, where I was visited by my great-great-grandmother. Looking back at it now, it's kind of fascinating. Mostly because I have had to realize what a close call it was. I'm still struggling with the reality of it all, that I'm lucky to be alive right now. I was hours away from death. Or, at the very least, the amputation of my left leg (which is still partially numb). The infection spread like a wildfire, and if they hadn't hooked me up to the antibiotics when they did... Well, I don't really know what would've become of me.
These past weeks have been very harsh. Both on me and on my family. A lot of people, friends and family, have reached out to us to show that they care and wished us well and for a speedy recovery for me. It has been surreal. I still can't wrap my head around it all. I have many stories from my time in the hospital so far and no doubt I'll have a few more before I'm out of the woods entirely. Today marks three weeks of being here, and I've had a total of 8 surgeries in that time. I'm having another tomorrow. It's not such a big deal anymore now, though, since I've been through the procedure so many times. I'm just silently hoping that I'll be out of the hospital soon. My family's occasional visits have been life-savers. Without them, I would go insane.
So, that's about it, for now. I don't know what else to say. I just needed these things to be said for my sanity's sake. I'll finish off with a hospital picture and that one song that always keeps me going, and by saying that... No doubt, this is going to be a big part of my day to day for months to come. I'm glad I'm still alive.
On July the 30th at 2 AM, me and my mother went to the hospital in the middle of the night. I had been dealing with severe pains for the past couple of days and swelling that wouldn't stop. I couldn't walk, sit, lay down, or really exist in any sort of state without being in constant pain. We went in, sat in the waiting room, and a nurse appeared to take a blood test and my temperature. I had a fever at the time, which surprised me. It was at 39,8 degrees Celsius when we first came to the hospital. The blood test was a pretty typical one, too. A quick test where you measure the amount of proteins in your blood. Increased amounts hint at infection. Being below 10 is normal. With an active infection you can be between 40 and 200. Above 200 and you have a severe infection. My reading came up at 470+ when we checked in.
Turns out, later, that I'd came down with Necrotizing Fasciitis. The doctors here just called them "flesh eating murder bacteria", since that's what the tabloids like to call them. Rewinding a bit... I came to the hospital at 2 AM. They took my temperature and blood test. Then I sat there waiting for five and a half hours because the only available doctor in their department didn't answer the nurses' calls. None of the nurses took the time to look at me any closer, but lounged about their break room, sprawling in their sofas watching TV. My mother and I waited for hours until the ordinary emergency room three floors down opened. It wasn't long before a doctor saw me once we came down to the emergency room, though, so that's good. The doctor took one look, called in another doctor from another department who also took a look, and within half an hour I was in a hospital bed, being driven by nurses at high speed across half the hospital with my mother running after them to keep up. "Every minute counts", they told her.
The first week at the hospital is a blur to me. I was fighting the infection, and at the same time I was struggling with high fever. Reality was fuzzy enough and I admit that I saw things that weren't there. I even had an episode, or vision, where I was visited by my great-great-grandmother. Looking back at it now, it's kind of fascinating. Mostly because I have had to realize what a close call it was. I'm still struggling with the reality of it all, that I'm lucky to be alive right now. I was hours away from death. Or, at the very least, the amputation of my left leg (which is still partially numb). The infection spread like a wildfire, and if they hadn't hooked me up to the antibiotics when they did... Well, I don't really know what would've become of me.
These past weeks have been very harsh. Both on me and on my family. A lot of people, friends and family, have reached out to us to show that they care and wished us well and for a speedy recovery for me. It has been surreal. I still can't wrap my head around it all. I have many stories from my time in the hospital so far and no doubt I'll have a few more before I'm out of the woods entirely. Today marks three weeks of being here, and I've had a total of 8 surgeries in that time. I'm having another tomorrow. It's not such a big deal anymore now, though, since I've been through the procedure so many times. I'm just silently hoping that I'll be out of the hospital soon. My family's occasional visits have been life-savers. Without them, I would go insane.
So, that's about it, for now. I don't know what else to say. I just needed these things to be said for my sanity's sake. I'll finish off with a hospital picture and that one song that always keeps me going, and by saying that... No doubt, this is going to be a big part of my day to day for months to come. I'm glad I'm still alive.
(When I uploaded it, it had the appropriate CAPTCHA "cliff-hanger".)
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