Sepsis
I am home now. I am home now, after having been in the hospital – ICU, in fact – for a week. This was my second stay in ICU this year, with the first having been in January but for two weeks that time, and both occurring as a result of sepsis and septic shock.
I acquired sepsis, both times this year, as a result of an unusually large kidney stone in my right kidney. It’s about 3.5 inches long, when most kidney stones that are considered “large” are well under an inch. What’s difficult about this particular stone, and what has been a recurring problem for me, is that my kidney stone is infected, causing a urinary tract infection and making it difficult to manipulate without causing additional problems. So, we have attempted to remove it, twice, with a third attempt in the wings next month. Each time so far has resulted in sepsis, and I expect the next attempt will be the same.
Sepsis and septic shock are conditions that are unmistakable. Unmissable for anyone who has had the symptoms before. There is a nausea that accompanies sepsis, but a nausea unlike any other time you may have felt sick to your stomach. Every square inch of your body feels like it is being torn apart, like there is poison or venom pulsating through your body. It feels that way because, in many ways, that is exactly what is happening – as infection travels through your bloodstream and into your organs. These are the physically detectable symptoms, but sepsis brings with it far more subtle but far more insidious problems. Septic shock is defined by a dangerous drop in blood pressure, a surge in blood sugar, and a spike in heart rate. In the span of an hour, I consumed what must have been a gallon of water and ice chips, as the infection and elevated sugar in my body created an unquenchable thirst that felt like it would never end. I remember lying in the hospital bed, saying “ice chips are my favorite food! Ice chips are my favorite food!”, and as an Italian who really likes to eat, I know that isn’t really true in general, but it certainly was at the time. As you experience all of these physiological changes, it’s like your body is being ravaged, like it’s a product of some kind of alternate reality that you, yourself, are only scantily a part of. It feels as though you are somewhere in between life and death, reality and surreality. It’s terrifying.
Doctors were able to stabilize me with the administration of nearly a dozen IV medications: medications to raise my blood pressure, antibiotics to clear the infection, electrolytes to stabilize electrolytic imbalance, saline to hydrate my severely dehydrated body. Once I was stabilized, I was brought to the Medical Intensive Care Unit (MICU) to begin to recover. Being a patient on any floor in the hospital is bizarre and unsettling, but that is especially the case when in intensive care. There is an overall pall of unwellness and din of mechanized emergency that pervades the entire experience. There is a constant barrage of interruptions, whether generated from alarms, visitors, caregivers, or one’s own self, that blur the line between day and night, dark and light.
I was cared for by some of the most skilled and patient nurses and physicians that anyone could encounter. These healthcare professionals – not just nurses and physicians, in fact, but also nursing assistants, radiology technicians, respiratory therapists, dietary workers, and housekeeping – were committed and concerned and guided my parents and me through an intensely emotional time. No small number of them wore shirts with “COVID-19 Warrior” emblazoned across the front, and some of them still had a shortness of breath from their experiences with the virus that was audible as they worked, turning me from side to side, changing bandages, drawing blood, or checking medications. They were warriors through a time likely more difficult than any they had experienced before as healthcare professionals, yet not at all demonstrably embittered or resentful over what they had endured, though I suspect many may have felt that way without ever indicating it.
I am home now. I continue to recover and continue to grow stronger. I have fighter’s spirit and a vision of hope, but neither of these is sustainable without the encouragement and love of the people around me. The love of my family, the support of my friends, and the will of the people who saw me through this difficult time have been the backbone of my resolve and strength to fight. And, for that I am so thankful. Strength cannot exist without support. Hope cannot exist without love. I have seen these relationships time and time again throughout my life. They are gifts no matter which side of relationship you might be on.