It’s been six months since I had my medical trauma. It feels like no time has passed and all the time in the world has passed simultaneously. The first month after I came home from the hospital, it was all I could think about–when I was awake. Not why it happened to me because I’m nobody special in that way. I don’t eat fantastically and I don’t take the best care of myself. Yes, I do Taiji which helps, but I’m not hardcore about my health. I smoked two cigarettes a day, broken up into quarters; I started with a half cig in the morning. I like chocolate and while I’m GF/DF for sensitivity reasons, that doesn’t mean the substitutes are healthy by any means. I do eat five to seven servings of fruits and vegetables a day, but that’s about as much as I pay attention to nutrition.
When people asked if I wondered why it happened to me, I always say no. Why wouldn’t it happen to me? I’m not exempt and it makes total sense that it did happen to me. Once again, to recap, I had walking non-COVID-related pneumonia that led to two cardiac arrests and a stroke. Pneumonia leading to cardiac arrests isn’t uncommon, though two of them and a stroke probably isn’t as common. It’s hard to get exact stats on this kind of thing, but I admit I haven’t researched it that extensively.
What I do wonder is why and how I got so lucky as to survive essentially intact. Without much effort on my part, I might add. Remember, my brother was told that I would probably need to do months if not years of rehab. All the therapists I saw emphasized the long road ahead. The occupational therapist said it could take up to two years for something to get back to normal–if it happened at all. That was the underlying theme, that I could not count on anything returning to normal at all.
I had gone without oxygen for an undetermined amount of time. The doctors were clear with my brother that my chance of survival was not good. At all. And if I did survive, I’d almost certainly have brain damage. They questioned whether I would be able to walk and talk again–and if I could, to what degree. I cannot stress enough that the idea of me returning to any version of normal was not on anyone’s radar. Me waking up at all was the best possible outcome; the doctors took great pains to make sure my family knew the odds of me coming back to life.
If this were a movie, I would roll my eyes at how unbelievable the plot is. Oh, sure. Fat, out-of-shape, middle-aged, sedentary person who does Taiji, yes, but not much else. A light smoker who ate whatever with no attention to nutrition. Well, little attention to nutrition. This person gets hit with walking non-COVID-related pneumonia, which triggers two cardiac arrests and a stroke. And the person survives with almost no lasting damage? Get the fuck out of here. That’s some Disney shit right there.
While I was in the hospital, I had so many people telling me what a miracle I was. Not that my survival was a miracle–though they said that as well–but that I myself was a miracle. At first, I just shrugged and nodded my head. Partly because I was drugged to the gills, but also because I truly was just happy to be alive. As time went on, however, it started to irritate me because it was my life. Me waking up was not the end of the story; it was just the beginning.
My mom pushed me to get a movie of my life made because it would be inspirational. I mean, maybe ,but, fuck. It’s still my life. I don’t want to be someone’s inspiration p0rn, damn it. Besides, I know how it would go. They would start by showing me frantically dialing 9-1-1 before collapsing is my front hallway. Then, the cops arriving to dramatically bag me (oxygen, because I wasn’t breathing) before the EMTs show up. Then, me having a cardiac arrest and the EMTs saving me with CPR and shocking my heart. Plus a jab with an EpiPen. They would bundle me into the ambulance before I had another cardiac arrest. They would shock me again and then I would have the stroke. I don’t know the exact order of what happened, by the way.
Then, sirens wailing, they would race to Regions Hospital, getting me there just in time. They would rush me, unconscious, into the hospital and deliver me to the heart docs. The medical team would do their thing all night long (I arrived roughly ten to four in the morning)’ but I would remain unconscious.
There would be a Hans Zimmer soundtrack in the background as I lingered in the in-between. Or maybe John Williams. How about Danny Elfman? No, wait. I want Lin-Manuel Miranda to do it. Unconscious and hooked up to a breathing machine, I was kept on ice to protect my inner organs. During this time, the focus would be on my friends and family, and how they coped with the situation. There would be quick-cuts to my friends as they each coped with the situation. There would be a Rocky montage of my brother taking care of business interspersed with shots of my parents preparing to fly back to Minnesota from Taiwan. Once in a while, they would cut back to me lying, motionless, in bed with all the stuff sticking out of me to keep me alive. The breathing machine, the diagnostic tools, and me chilling on ice.
There would be a dramatic scene in which the doctors inform my brother that my chances were not good. He would nod gravely as he continued doing what needed to get done. There would be a giant swell as my brother was informed that he had to think about pulling the plug. Three minutes of him driving around, contemplating the decision he had to make. Another musical swell as he gets into the car to drive back to see me. Then, cymbals or something as my brother receives a phone call.
“She’s awake.” That was the call as he contemplated pulling the plug on me. Imagine hearing those words, especially in that given moment. Especially after a week of me being unconscious. Especially after being told that I probably wasn’t going to make it.
Since I was unconscious the whole time, the experience wasn’t that traumatic to me. I got to just lie there and rest while everyone else freaked the fuck out around me. My friends and family told me what they went through while I was unconscious and that was my biggest regret–that I put them through so much. All of them said it was nothing and they were just so happy that I woke up. Which, I get. I would feel the same in their shoes. But it still saddens me that they had to go through that agony.
Six months after the medical trauma, I am back and better than ever. I am enjoying my bonus days with everything I have. I hope that it’s just the beginning of the second act of my story.