My C-Section Almost Killed Me
A decrepit old woman stared at me with eerie familiarity. Her thin, mangled body and vacant expression revealed that she had seen too much darkness. I was 31-years-old when I met this sickly, tired soul.
I was staring at my reflection in the hospital room mirror.
On April 26, 2006, I went in for a scheduled C-section and I told my then 3-year-old son that mommy would come home in four days with his brand new baby sister. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.
Shortly after my daughter's healthy birth, I developed a horrendous infection. 15 days later, I was taken in for exploratory surgery, which resulted in the emergency removal of my colon. From April to June, the infection remained, so I stayed in the hospital and underwent several more surgeries. These resulted in massive drains sprouting from my mid-section.
During one of my surgeries, my husband held my hand as my mom and sister grew smaller in the distance. I shouted to them, "Think positive!" and maintained my mom's gaze until she was out of sight. Tiny slivers of terrifying images began to creep into my consciousness: ruby red blood drenching the white sheets, prayers being whispered over me, my tongue being carpeted in thick wool.
It would take me months to unravel the sequence of events that ultimately transformed me into a paralyzed, bald, shriveled, half-dead corpse.
The objective of the operation was to open me up (again) and surgically remove the infectious fluid from my abdomen. My belly was a disaster of coagulated fluid, which caused the surgeon to accidentally hit my splenic artery. I hemorrhaged on the operating room table and was given blood transfusion after blood transfusion. An expert surgical team debated over how my life could possibly be saved.
For two days, I was left open and packed as I bled out. Why? The surgeons didn't want to close me up only to have to reopen me.
I spent all of July in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). I was placed on a ventilator and eventually given a tracheotomy. Being so close to death caused all of my hair to fall out and my body to decondition, essentially leaving me temporarily paralyzed from the neck down. To make matters worse, I was suffering from ICU Psychosis, causing me to witness terrifying visual and auditory hallucinations.
By the time I stared at that stranger's reflection in the mirror, it was mid-August. I didn't eat, drink, speak, or move for another 100 days. More than seven months passed in the hospital until I was finally able to go home in a wheelchair.
I went through intensive occupational, physical, speech, and respiratory therapy. Ever so slowly, I crawled my way back to life; shedding my drains, tracheotomy, and multiple tubes. I went from a wheelchair to a walker to leg-braces.
Today, I only deal with a wicked case of neuropathy and a slight limp. Learning to eat, drink, speak, breathe, and walk again were the first steps in rebuilding my life. I knew how fortunate I was that doctors had brought me back to life, but discovered that only I had the power to truly live again. And it took years of going through therapy — to treat Post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and depression — to fully make this discovery.
People have asked if I ever sued the doctors or hospitals. I certainly considered going that route, but ultimately determined that spending years entangled in legal battles was not a recipe for a meaningful recovery. Instead, I spent seven years cathartically writing my memoir. Now, I share my journey by publicly speaking with medical professionals in the hopes that my experiences may reduce future patient harm.
A decade has passed since the fateful surgery that nearly robbed me of my life. Every morning, I see the roadmap of scars. They are permanent reminders of my darkest days. I can choose to view them either with absolute gratitude or disdain.
Honestly, it's a mix of both.
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