It's All About Me

The day my body failed me... and I ignored it

When I was young I was constantly sick. In the 90s I picked up illnesses like they were Looney Toons Tazos (i.e. they were everywhere and I had hundreds of them in my collection and we traded them at school). If there was a cold to be caught, I caught it, if there was pollen in the air, I sneezed at it and if there was a hint of chicken pox, well scratch on, my friend, because by the end of the day I would be covering myself in calamine lotion and begging for mercy from the unbearable itch. My teen years were full of congestion with me cursing my genetics for my crappy immune system. And then, just like that, it stopped. No more asthma, no more sniffles, no nothing. For the first time in my life I really could wake up and smell the coffee.

And I remained well... until recently. And this time, when I did get sick, my false sense of immune security led me to making the huge mistake of I ignoring my instincts … which of course landed me in hospital for the very first time.

 Months of overloading with various activities and not allowing time to rest had gradually taken its toll on my body and it had decided to get sick at every single opportunity. The most recent time followed a night of drinking. Whoever thought alcohol could lower your immunity? By the morning, complete with hangover, I had a sniffly nose and that familiar itchy burning right in the back of your nose/throat area that signals a nasty illness is on its way. Then came the aches. Then the sneezing. Then the coughing. And the phlegm… oh the phlegm… And then the shortness of breath. Wait, what? I knew enough to realise I didn’t normally get short of breath when I was ill. Could it be my asthma returning? I tried Ventolin but to no avail. It mustn’t be asthma if Ventolin doesn’t work, I thought. Speaking to The Boy was enough to allay my worries… the symptoms sounded like a chest infection he’d had. I just needed to steam myself and my lungs should open again.

They didn’t.

I went to sleep. And woke up. And went to sleep. And woke up again. I don’t think I got more than an hour’s continuous sleep that night. I kept waking up gasping for air, as if I had actually stopped breathing. But, in my tired state, my goal was to trick myself into thinking I was breathing so that I could get more sleep. The next day, I was still not breathing properly and my body ached from all the heaving my chest was doing to allow air in. It was an effort and I really had to will my body to take the next breath. Still, the red lights that should have been flashing madly in my head stayed dark. Some part of me felt like I was overreacting if I called an ambulance… That was only for emergencies right? It’s not like I had stopped breathing. I could still get air in, and for some reason that ability made me think calling a paramedic would be diverting resources away for people that really needed it. Even when I finally went to the doctor, it was only really because I was over-tired and emotional and sick of it being so hard to breathe, not because I actually thought I was in any danger.

When I arrived, looking pale, frail and wheezing more than a mangled accordion, I was whisked out the back and hooked up to a nebuliser even though I was an hour early for my appointment. And it didn’t work. I was fine as long as I was hooked up to the machine but as soon as I was off it, the fight to get air in resumed. Something wasn’t right. (FREAKING DUH LIZ.) I was having an acute asthma attack. And FYI, acute means BLOODY BIG not small and cute like it sounds. After a scolding from the doctor for ignoring my symptoms for 24 hours and a lecture on how I could have died (yes, DIED), I was whisked off by a very worried Boy to the emergency department of the hospital where I was admitted immediately.

 I was on a nebuliser every 15 minutes, had adrenaline shots, had an IV drip inserted, was given various pills (none of which were explained to me), had chest X-rays, had a urine sample taken, had blood taken, was put on oxygen, and was injected with morphine. Over the course of 5 hours I received so much medication that I had lost control of my body and was now shaking involuntarily. I couldn’t walk because my legs were jelly, I still couldn’t breathe properly, my heart was racing so hard and fast that it hurt and now I couldn’t feel my hands. Apparently all of this was normal. Sure didn’t feel normal. I was told I would need to be put on a potassium drip as all the treatments had stripped my blood of this vital element.

After seven hours I was moved from the emergency ward to a proper bed. My excitement at scoring a private room was soon nixed when I found out I couldn’t use my own bathroom as the patient next to me was infectious. Great. Knowing my immune system I would end up with ANOTHER bug. I settled in for a long night, ready to watch TV to take my mind off the pain and the tremors. But no, TV had to be rented and the people didn’t come around until the morning.

 Never mind, I thought, I will read my book The Boy brought me. I flicked my light button. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Great. My light didn’t work and my legs were still too jelly-like to bother getting up and down again.

So there I was, shaking, heart racing, alone, in a bathroom-less hospital room, in the dark, with weird oxygen thingys blowing a light breeze up my shnoz, a tube sticking out of my arm, sticky ECG pads stuck to my body and sporting a very unflattering backless gown.

Moral of the story? IF YOU FEEL SICK, SEE SOMEONE ABOUT IT. Sticking it out will help no one.

Don’t make me describe the hospital food to you…

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