So You Faced Death and You Survived?
Balancing Fear and Gratitude
It’s our summer holiday! Since I am on vacation this week, I am reposting my favorite five-part essay series from my 24-hour road trip last summer!
CW: near-death experience, medical trauma, facing parental mortality
“If we postpone this procedure, there is a high likelihood part of your bowel will die. We’ll need to operate,” the doctor warned.
The clock read just past 3 AM, though my bleary eyes couldn’t determine the exact time. My bowels were sucked in on themselves, and going through necrosis, which explained why I couldn’t stop vomiting, even as I drained my feeding tube. I was in shock, shaking despite three warm blankets and a heating pad. The doctor described the area of intussusception as a difficult place to operate. The word death was repeated several times, with high percentages attached to it. She needed my consent to exchange my GJ feeding tube for a G tube right now. Their suggestion involved an urgent procedure without an experienced doctor or medication, with no guarantee of success.
“I guess there isn’t another option. Sure.”
She nodded and left the room. Air was entering my lungs at an irregular rhythm. It took longer than it should have to realize I was panting. Breathe in for four seconds, hold, out for six, I repeated to myself. I needed to relax during this procedure.
“Hey, are you all right?”
My vision blurs, trying to reconcile the face of a doctor standing over me with my friend Anna’s look of concern. I shake my head minutely before answering her.
“Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”
“We should probably head out. I don’t know where the other girls are, but the store is closing,” she repeated, her head still slightly cocked and her eyebrows furrowed.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The other girls caught up with us as we exited McKay’s Nashville into the warm summer night. We hugged, and I promised to text them when I got home. Everyone thought I was insane for driving home, making the 23-hour round trip on zero sleep. They didn’t realize how much my body could withstand on trace amounts of rest.
The lights in the city, similar to hospital fluorescence, bend time until I almost believe it is midday.
In dreams, my mother’s frail body haunted me - bound by rails and IVs, or frothing at the mouth and cold to the touch. For years, I didn’t sleep, stumbling between school, work, parties, and the ICU. Another infection raged, this time in her bloodstream.
“We have to take out her port as soon as possible,” the doctor said.
My mother was asleep, and he whispered. He faced me, despite my grandmother standing beside me. Everyone deferred to me back then. I swallowed back the scream of a sixteen-year-old and nodded. My mother’s cheeks were gaunt, and her forehead shined with sweat despite the ice packs stuffed under her armpits.
I shake my head, hoping the memory will get lost somewhere in Tennessee. A knife twists in my gut, but I burp and it dissipates. The Monster on my taste buds reminds me I am nauseated due to copious amounts of caffeine, not impending death. My heart is racing regardless of the reason, so I begin my exercises.
The highway signs are green; my car light flashes over white lines on the road; there are several cars around me; one of them has a Texas license plate and McKay’s Ultimate Road Trip written on their back window; my mother’s ring catches the light -
My breath is coming in gasps. I am 26; my mom died when she was 36. Do I only have a decade before my body fails me, the way it failed her? I have spent 10 years grieving; am I to spend the next 10 dying?
No. That isn’t true. I am not dying. I survived intussusception and shock. My body survived far longer than it should have, given the extent of the damage. I have spent 10 years living and will spend whatever time I have left on road trips, in physical therapy, relaxing under covers, and with my cats.
I sing love songs while I drive with the windows down. My stomach hurts, and I keep guzzling energy drinks, permitting myself to deal with the consequences later for once. I name everything - the smell of sycamore trees after rain, trucks pulled off at each exit, the moment the sky begins to lighten.
The garden is bathed in gold when I arrive home. Despite my arms being full of feeding tube supplies and my legs cramping, I pause. The smell of rosemary permeates the air. The clouds crowd around the sun without blocking it; my mother used to call this phenomenon an angel’s smile. With a final inhale of a summer’s morning, I seek my lover and our animals.
It is time to live.