I very nearly died in the early hours of Tuesday 20th August 2024. I got sepsis; it was swift, frightening, aggressive, relentless, unpleasant, and almost successful in ending my life. Don’t get me wrong; I have nearly died twice already. When I was first diagnosed in September 2018, I could literally feel my life essence starting to fade away. It’s a complicated experience to explain, as it’s like a tap that has been turned on very gently and the essence of who you are very gradually just pours out of you, into somewhere.
It was similar in July 2019 when I was waiting for my second surgery, where my cancer had spread internally. It was so bad that I was constantly having to go to the toilet, as I was continually leaking a rather revolting mucus/fluid substance. I kept a paper and pen next to the loo and recorded what time I went. On the worst day, I recorded 64 visits. It was constant day and night; you cannot sleep, and at one point I was matching Usain Bolt for the 100 metres from sofa to the loo. I also enjoyed a close personal relationship with my new best friend, Tena pants, or as I like to call them, nappies for the more mature baby. However, as you can tell, on both occasions, I lived to fight another day.
But when I woke up on Monday 19th August, I knew immediately that things were not right. I had fever-like symptoms, that foggy head feeling, but even worse was the shivering; it was relentless and I just could not stop. In retrospect, what I should have done was ring my cancer hospital, who would have advised me to get straight to A&E and take my cancer pack with me. However, as usual, I did the stupid thing and hoped it would simply go away, which of course it never does. So I got up, had a cup of tea, shower, medication, stomach injection, and then went back to bed with a hot water bottle and promptly slept like a baby for 2 hours.
When I woke up, the shivering had stopped but not the foggy head and sense of illness that goes with it. But as usual, I thought I knew best, so I got back up and took my temperature, which was low at 35.4°C. It should be 36.6°C, but no, I chose to pretend that all was fine when it very clearly was not. And this is the real lesson I should have learned: I knew full well that these were the symptoms of sepsis, but I was in denial. And this is the really stupid thing with sepsis: what kills you is time. Every hour of delay reduces your chances of survival by 7.6%. In addition, ambulances advertise the danger of sepsis. Next time you read an ambulance, actually read what it says: “Sepsis Kills.”
So I carried on with the everyday Monday tasks while my internal time bomb kept ticking. Fortunately for me, I did one good thing: I told my friend Aliya, who is a senior cardiac nurse. On reflection, I’m glad that I did, because she very kindly took it upon herself to come and visit me at 8pm as she was concerned that I had sepsis, which of course I clearly did, except it was now 10 hours later and I was internally cooking myself to death. She immediately took my temperature, which was now 38.4°C, a red flag if ever there was one. She rang 111 and that was it. With her expert medical knowledge, she had me registered for a call with a doctor. At 9:55pm, I received a phone call telling me that I needed to be at Worcester A&E at 10:30pm, a drive of exactly 30 minutes. So that was it; I jumped into my trusty old knackered Volvo steed, and at 10:27pm, I arrived.
I presented myself to reception and that was it; the angels took over. The very nice lady doctor gave a quick and thorough examination. By now, it was internal turmoil: my temperature was at an all-time high, blood pressure had plummeted, heart rate was going like the clappers, and I was finding it difficult to talk sense, which is another classic sign. So they put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me off to the A&E waiting room, which was rammed. I then really annoyed everybody else waiting and their dogs because I was seen immediately.
First, extensive blood tests from both arms; next, an X-ray of the chest, quite a cold experience but necessary; next, an ECG; then a cannula in the right hand; and finally, at 03:20, two very large syringes full of antibiotics were poured into my very grateful old bones. As simply and quickly as that, I was on the road to a full recovery. I spent the night sat in one of those chairs that you find in the chemo wards, where you recline, which I did. Each chair was surrounded by a wafer-thin blue curtain which, of course, offers some privacy but does not cut out any noise whatsoever, so you can hear every single thing that both patients and medical staff say.
To my left was a man with chronic lung disease who coughed for England loudly and incessantly all night; it was a nightmare. To my right was a woman who clearly had mental health issues; she screamed and swore as Lionel Richie famously said, “all night long.” But the most disturbing experience that I tried hard not to hear was a man who I never saw. He was in a chair to my left diagonal. At about 03:00, a doctor walked in and said, “I want you to be level with me and tell me how much you drink.” The guy just said that he had cut down, but the doctor asked if he was still drinking a litre bottle of vodka every day. The man admitted that he was, so the doctor said, “Well, it is probably too late, as you have cirrhosis of the liver. If you carry on like this, your two-year-old son will turn three without you, as you will be dead.” It was very hard and sad to listen to, if the truth be told, but this is the harsh reality of life in the accident and emergency department, no doubt the same up and down the land. The brutal realities of life and death, and in this instance, it was very nearly my death, but not today. I was eventually told that I could leave at 12:30pm, fully functioning and back to my normal happy self.
In conclusion, I have to say that the staff at all levels at Worcester Royal Infirmary, from porters to nurses, health assistants to receptionists, and doctors both senior and junior, were all simply magnificent. But without one particular nurse, I would not be here today able to tell my story and recognise my own never-to-be-repeated stupidity. It is crazy really, having survived cancer for almost 6 years, after 111 doses of chemo, two huge life-saving major surgeries, and all the fun and games that come with it all, that my own apathy and stupidity very nearly cost me dearly. So, my dear reader friends, if you take one thing away from this, let it be this. It might save your life or someone close to you: when it comes to sepsis, it’s about TIME—T for Temperature, I for Infection, M for Mental Decline, and E for Extremely Ill!
Kommentare