Me and my nosey-parker-syndrome overheard someone at work talking about how they nearly ended up with sepsis, so obviously I now feel obliged to tell the tale of my sepsis survivor story…

Sepsis. A scary six letter word I knew nothing about, until I was laying in a hospital bed, being prodded like a pin cushion with frantic nurses hovering over me from every angle, attempting to draw blood from my withering veins and flustering over my deadly diagnosis. 

Rewind a couple of days to when I was sitting in one of my uni seminars, bundled up with a jumper and padded coat on, whilst everyone else was sat in their t-shirts with the windows open (it was November time but anyone who’s sat in a uni seminar for more than 5 minutes knows how much of a sweat fest they can be).

My shivers were sensed by the girl sat next to me, who asked if I was feeling okay. I told her, “I think I have a water infection but I’ll go to the doctors on Friday”. Literal IDIOT. It was Tuesday at this point and I couldn’t drive, so a lift on the Friday suited me better. I faintly recall her whispering, “Be careful because that can lead to sepsis and that’s really bad”. She was point blank ignored. In one ear and out the other, with no consideration to what the word meant. I was FINE. 

For context, I was no stranger to a water infection and saw this as more of an inconvenience that I could “flush out” myself if I drank plenty of water, rather than something that was actually making me poorly. I was basically a doctor, I know. 

With deadlines approaching, my tutor sat with me to take a look at my work. I spouted some vague nonsense, with fingers trembling as I scrolled through what I had written, to which he decided to help me pack up my belongings and walk me to the vending machine down the corridor for a hot chocolate. Nothing a bit of sugar can’t fix, he must have thought. The loose coins vibrated on the surface of the machine as I struggled to insert them. Like trying to unlock the front door when you’re 6 vodkas deep. I could feel his burning stare from behind me, likely annoyed that I had just interrupted him from delving deep into the wonders of Ford Madox Ford. 

I staggered into the toilets, after a couple of awkward sips and nods of affirmation that the hot chocolate had made me feel much better. 

As I sat on the closed lid, bags scattered at my ankles and the door cracked slightly open, I closed my eyes and leaned back. Silence. My mind drifted into nothingness. I find it hard to comprehend what I was experiencing at this point; it was as if it was the end, but I was ok with that. Exhaustion in the masses. I felt at peace, as if I could just sleep without concern of if I would awaken. It was heaven disguised as a stinky uni toilet cubicle. 

Something within me convinced me to render myself back to reality. An echo in the corner of my mind whispering, “Get up”. 

I was quickly collected from uni, (the irony, ask for help and you get it), after the uni medics insisted I go to the doctors straight away. Friday is basically straight away. I stumbled through Tesco on my way home and bought some cystitis sachets, which were promptly downed with a cocktail of paracetamol and ibuprofen, before passing out in bed with a hot water bottle. 

The following morning, I could barely function. I (somehow) managed to dress myself in what felt like a suit of armour and dragged myself downstairs for one of my magical glasses of w a t e r. Next thing you know, I’m laid on the kitchen floor with just enough energy to send a text message – I think I need to go to the hospital.  It was at this point, I knew I couldn’t keep up with the “I’m fine” facade any longer. 

I don’t remember what time I arrived, or what I attempted to tell the nurses. Each time I tried to speak, the words disappeared before my brain could register what I was trying to say. Half finished sentences and dazed zombie-like mumbles appeared to be all I could manage. 

Soon (I think), I was in the admissions room, where the nurses quite literally peeled my hoodie off me to change me into a hospital gown. Not the greatest outfit choice for someone with a temperature of 40+ °C but I was clearly all for making good decisions that week. Might I add, I had just failed my driving test on the Monday. TWO DAYS PRIOR. When I was literally DYING (not that I’m holding a grudge).

After countless blood samples, many of which were no good as my veins decided they’d had enough of my nonsense and weren’t co-operating, the S word was announced. I was still oblivious to the severity of the situation at this point (even with an IV drip attached to my arm and my ex boyfriend’s Mam shaking in the chair beside me). I had no idea what all the fuss was about. My Mam was on holiday at the time, so when she rang me crying, I genuinely thought she was overreacting. 

Basically, what started out as a water infection had travelled into my blood, resulting in sepsis.

Three key phrases I recall during the blurry night that awaited me were: 

“If you’d have waitied until Friday, you’d be knocking on Death’s door” 

“Do you want to say your final goodbyes?” (Like??? What do you mean final goodbyes???)

And my personal favourite, spoken from one nurse to another, “Bed 3 has sepsis” … “Ooohh not many survive that”. As if there wasn’t just a paper thin curtain separating us from this conversation. 

Now, I’m not religious, but let me tell you I was PRAYING in that hospital bed. If there’s, erm, a God out there, please help me out. 

The following morning, after a night of distracting my panic riddled brain with the continuous beeping noises that echoed around the room, I had just about propped myself into an upright position when I felt my stomach gargle. I took a deep breath, hoping it would pass, which was followed by a tsunami of antibiotics plotting their escape from inside me. 

I buzzed. I buzzed again. I sheepishly cried out, “Is there a nurse anywhere?” but as the words left my mouth, a nuclear explosion erupted from within me. The pool of ultraviolet liquid stretched underneath the curtain, to which a nurse eventually pottered in with a sympathetic gaze. Not my finest moment.  

I was fortunate enough to be released from hospital on the evening with a course of boat-sized antibiotics, various check-up appointments and a huge reality check. 

I did, however, pass kidney stones in the subsequent week (I don’t do things in halves), so my recovery process was agonising to say the least. With very little sleep, crippling lower back pain and a panic attack or two for good measure, I began to slowly feel better over the next couple of weeks. This was, without a doubt, the worst experience of my life. 

I still, almost 7 years on, can’t believe I let myself get into that situation, when a simple doctors appointment could have prevented it entirely. So, on that note, please don’t be like eighteen year old me and avoid going to the doctors if you’re feeling unwell.

We are all human and we are not invincible. 

Drinking water is good but being alive is better.