Following A Near-Death Experience, I've Spun My Life Around For The Better

What will you remember 2021 by?

For me years 2o21 was a year of learning.

It was a rollercoaster ride, without seatbelts. The first half of the year was defined by highs, extensive travels and new experiences. By mid-year, I was on top or so I thought. My life build up to the highest point of escalation that it was impossible to slow down. But the brakes gave away mid-flight and I fell. I started fading away, both mentally and physically: if continued, I was sure I would not survive.

I booked a shitty spinning class which nearly cost me my life. I am a high achiever. I am a workaholic too. I never knew how to rest properly. My friends and family used to tell me to slow down.

"I will rest when I die..."

Ironically, I nearly did die.

I joined the spinning class to get rid of the negative energy. I was overworked as usual. Work was all that mattered to me.

The class welcomed me with a loud cheer while a lady instructor gave a heart compelling speech. I was incredibly stimulated. Seconds later, the class put the headphones on, the lights went out, the music kicked in and the ride began.

Within the next 15 minutes, I was out of my breath: legs throbbed with excruciating pain, my body was dripping wet, and I felt like fainting. I had to slow down. The moment I leaned back to sit down, I heard a criticizing voice in my headphones :

“Second row, yes you! The girl with the brown hair I can see you. Don’t stop now. You have come so far; you are stronger than this. Keep riding! You can do this, common!”

"How could I let the instructor down? How could I quit now when I am so close?"

Suddenly I wasn’t in the spin class anymore.

I time-travelled back to the second half of the year 2021. I remember all the bad and ugly. Those who did me wrong and made me suffer. Those who upset me were unfair to me in work and in private life. Those business deals that I made and never received recognition for. All those hours spent on the phone negotiating, all those conferences, all those long nights when I didn't see my family because I had to be somewhere at the end of the world drinking with executives to gain their trust and get those bonuses. All those sleepless nights over KPI's...

I got angry, livid, vengeful. I wished for a second chance where I would not have missed my sister’s wedding, family birthdays and where I would not be with my family when they needed me. I was focused, like never before. I was riding towards something in the distance — towards new me: better, stronger, happier. Adrenaline kicked in and I pulled my but up high and peddled. I peddled until I dropped.

I dropped — literally. I could not feel my legs, hold balance and with the help of strangers, I was put into a taxi and left for home. Hours later, I was still unable to walk. My spirit was still elevated and I felt proud of myself. While resting my legs under pillows on the couch I went to such lengths that I booked another class in two days time — I assumed, I had delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) and with a few home remedies such as cold compressions and a warm bath, my pain will go away. I was ready to challenge myself once again, little did I know, that a far bigger challenge was awaiting me.

In 48 hours my pain worsened: my upper legs became rigorously swollen, my body temperature raised, and my urine turned dark brown. I called emergency and I was advised to go immediately to the hospital. In no time, my partner drove me to the Emergency Department, where I received a diagnosis.

I was experiencing rhabdomyolysis — a rare but life-threatening condition. For short “Rhabdo”, which results in muscle tissue breakdown, releasing toxins into the blood, which can seriously damage the kidneys, leading to kidney failure. In some cases, the condition can be fatal. My blood tests showed over 200,000 U/L. The higher the levels, the more likely it is that kidney damage or even failure could occur at any time. The doctor advised I needed fluids to reduce strain in the kidney until levels decrease. From that point, it was clear that I will be staying in the hospital for some time.

And so my challenge began.

The first night in the hospital was physically the hardest. I arrived in the Emergency Department just before midnight. It took over 3 hours to be seen by a doctor and to receive the above diagnosis.

People of all ages were seated in the waiting area, desperate to be seen by a doctor. Ultimately to be saved. I knew I was in for a very unsettling night. Emotions heightened, and the room lacked the one thing that is needed the most from patients — patience.

Just before the clock stroke 4 AM, I was put on a mobile bed and given my treatment. They parked my bed in between the assessment cubicles and waiting area as there were no rooms available upstairs in the ward. I did not sleep that night. I doubt anybody slept in the Accident & Emergency department that night.

There’s a monitor that’s always beeping. There’s a mix of sounds including people swearing, moaning, crying. There’s silence. There’s a space, where that sound changes from a mix to individual sounds of people treated in rooms. A nurse or doctor is asking a patient questions. And there I am, lying in bed, looking at the closed curtain and wondering if I am next.

People I have met while in the waiting area are slowly one by one disappearing behind the blue curtain and I am wondering “What will happen to them? Will they survive the night?”…

Around 6 AM, I realise that I have been up all night. I should have been asleep by now. My body starts to shut down, and I experience shivers. Just then I realise that I haven’t reached out to my partner or my family. My phone ran out of battery, and I have no charger in my purse.

No one is ever truly prepared for the emergency.

Later I meet a nurse, let’s call her Diana, who fled from her abusive husband with her child and moved to the United Kingdom. The nurse informed me that they would put me on a catheter.

My first reaction was “No way!”.

I was scared, exhausted, frustrated and a little bit humiliated. Catheter reminded me of my late grandfather. Isn’t that for truly sick people? Am I that unwell? I needed fresh air and a cigarette. Ultimately I needed time to digest.

Noone wished to let me out of their sight; just then, Diana offered to accompany me. It was her, who realised that all I needed was compassion to go easy. Because of her, the whole experience that morning was less painful and degrading.

The staff I met that first night are warriors.

They are thick-skinned and compassionate at the same time. They made my night more comfortable, bearing. With a deep sense of gratitude, just before 10 AM, I was sent upstairs to the Acute Admissions Unit.

The Acute Admission Unit provides treatment to the majority of patients requiring emergency treatment. It gives care for all levels of sickness from walk-in to high-dependency.

There were five female patients in my room. Even though the room was relatively crowded, especially during family visitations, I felt like I had a considerable amount of space. I was unconsciously comparing the ward to my last night’s nightmare. I was looking for a good night’s rest, but my body was still unable to calm down. I have been through a lot in the past 24 hours. The doctors gave me additional treatment: fluids to help my body flush out the toxins, and painkillers to ease the muscle pain. I laid back and closed my eyes.

I started thinking about hospitals. I find hospitals fascinating because of the harmony and discord between the stories of nurses, patients and doctors. Between the halls of these institutions runs a complicated relationship between power, suffering and healing. By definition, hospitals are sites of major life events. During my short stay, I have passed so many different faces, with intricate stories and unknown fates.

I remember seeing an elderly couple in the visitors’ room. The lady was in a wheelchair, the husband sitting next to her. For the half-hour that I watched, they did not exchange a word, they just held hands and looked at each other — a few times the man patted his wife’s face. The feeling of love was so deep that I felt I was sharing in their communion and was shaken afterwards by their pain, their passion, something sad and also joyous — the complexity and fullness of a human relationship.

Earlier, I overheard a conversation between an older woman and her daughter. Her daughter plead with her ill mother to withdraw the life-long savings, as she needed to close the deal on the house, according to her husband, it could not wait anymore. The older woman reassured her daughter and promised to contact the bank later in the afternoon. Soon after the daughter left, the woman asked for a cup of tea. Her hands with frailty and caution, shook as she reached for the hot tea. I realized how vulnerable the woman was and how much of a toll the sickness had taken. She sipped tea and called a nurse. She had to make a call to a bank; after all, she made a promise to her daughter.

The nurse intercepted my daydreaming and informed me that they would move me to a High Observation Unit (HOBS). I looked around the room and searched for ladies I never got to meet: a professional carer, who while caring for others, lost her own health; a mother of three waiting for an appendicitis surgery; and the mystery patient. an older woman who did not speak a single word.

It was past 8 PM when they moved me to my new ward. The sickness moved from door to door like a salesman and just as unwanted it washed from the east wing to the west. Like a tsunami of illness that picked off both strong and weak in equal number. There was no greater leveller than this bug, indifferent to wealth or pleading. I slept that night, and I dreamed: I had horrible nightmares.

The next day I jumped into the hospital routine: breakfast at 8 AM, blood tests at 9 AM, consultations with the doctor at 10 AM, lunch at noon and then siesta. In the afternoon, I usually went downstairs for a cigarette. It was hard for me to move as my legs were still severely swollen, and I was unable to lift them up. I moved very cautiously, re-thinking every step fearing putting too much weight on my legs. Usually, I managed to go downstairs without anyone’s help; sometimes though, nurses accompanied me.

I dreaded going downstairs as the smoking area was just outside of the A & E department, and I felt uncomfortable there. On my way down I met a man in his 80s, he was in bed, being moved by hospital staff. He was pale and needlelike, his eyes watered, and he reached out to me with both his hands.

“ Please, please help me stand up…Please, please, why don’t you help me stand up? Please, I am begging you.. “ — he kept repeating.

We were mere seconds in the elevator together, but to me, it felt like hours. I felt helpless, miserable and hopeless.

Outside, while smoking a second cigarette, I was thinking about the elder man I saw earlier, tied to the hospital bed. It seemed to me that in the bed lies everyone’s future unless they are lucky enough to pass in their home.

Today it was an older man; all of his useful years; he’s happy and healthy years are now in his past. His eyes once sparkled after a long day outside on his farm. His farm used to produce the best lamb meat and delicious cheese to nearby family-owned restaurants. In the evenings he used to work as a carpenter. Often, he walked for miles looking for the perfect tree to cut and use for his creations: tables, chairs, clocks. Both his arms and legs were not so long ago, his most valuable tools. His feet have known the woods of Wales. This person is still there, tethered to a heart that insists on beating despite his chances of his recovery being non-existent.

Just before 6 PM, the staff brings out the dinner: jacket potato and tuna pate. A peculiar combination, but I don’t complain. Just as I pick up my cutlery a loud alarm rings, the nurse, doctors, staff drops everything immediately and altogether they disappear into the area where I was before: Acute Medical Assessment Unit.

In 20 minutes, nurses come back, bringing three older males to our ward. Nurses bring seats to the men, turn on the television and bring out medications. I am listening, trying to understand what has just happened. They keep apologizing to new patients in our ward. They are deeply sorry that they had to witness something tragic and promise that the medications they gave them will calm them down in no time.

My head is on fire: what has happened? Can anybody tell me? But I am too scared to ask. A young nurse, Charlotte, breaks down in tears. The other, older nurse, Rachel, hugs her.

“I can’t believe this just happened. There were no signs of risk. The poor man was in his early 40s. And his family, children were there; they saw everything! Oh my god, so tragic…” — Charlotte whispers.

I did not eat my dinner that late afternoon. I cried instead. Later the nurses told me details: a man in his early 40s came in the morning to the unit with severe chest pain. His vitals were excellent, and there was no sign of complications. Somehow, he died anyway. I did not ask more questions. The poor man was in the unit where patients are supposed to be “out of immediate danger”. He was supposed to be okay. I was broken, and I thought:

“I am put in High Observation Unit. Does that mean that my condition is really that serious? Am I to be next?”

I started panicking. I went downstairs for a smoke and called my partner and told him what just happened. He wished to come and see me, but I was persistent not to meet up inside the ward as It was too gloomy for me to be there.

It was getting late, past 10 PM. As I entered the HOBS, I received a text message from my partner saying that it is perhaps too late to come by and that we would not have enough quality time to spend that evening.

Though he was right, and I was not in the right state of mind — I reacted inappropriately: I was overwhelmed, I was livid! I perceived his message as an "I don’t care about you" announcement. My eyes watered, my temperature rocketed. I got myself into bed and looked around: my neighbours were asleep; nurses were seated in the corner, silent. The presence of death still lingered in the ward. I remembered my best friend, Milica. She is a doctor. Right now she is working in an oncology department in Montenegro. I asked her if the job of letting go of people gets any more comfortable with time. Her answer was:

“That is the ultimate lie. I can tell you — it never gets easier.”

I adore her honesty.

I could not stop thinking about the man who passed away hours ago. It was someone alive and now is gone. Someone who loved and was loved. Someone’s friend and family member. The emotional impact was tough on all of us. I broke into tears, the nurse came by and asked if she could help anyhow. I asked for a painkiller. I wished for all that pain to go away. I did not mean the pain in my legs, but the pain in my heart as It was grieving for an older man I met in the elevator, for strangers with incurable diseases and for the poor soul that left us today. The nurse gave me something to sleep better.

Around 3 AM, I woke up to a woman’s cry. Still sleepy, I lifted my head and looked around, searching for the source of my disturbance. An older lady, in a robe, was standing outside of the exit door. The nurses were in her way.

“I want to go. Let me out; I need to leave; my husband is waiting for me!” The poor lady shouted.

Rachel approached the lady cautiously.

“I am sorry to say this, my dear, but your husband passed away a long time ago...”

The lady sobbed, shook her head in disbelief.

“No, that isn’t true. He is at home waiting for me…”

I could not listen anymore; my eyelids were getting heavier. I drifted away.

The next day I woke up to hospital staff asking me what I would like for lunch. I answered yes to all of the options, without listening. I felt exhausted: the pain in MY muscles was catching up with me. I woke up past noon. The ward bloomed with visitors.

It felt as if the news of yesterday’s death travelled fast, and the families of the other patients rushed into the hospital to see their loved ones: scared of missing out on the time with their loved ones, of being too late. My bed was in the middle — without any visitors. I became unsettled.

By dinner time, I had no appetite. I felt alone, even though nurses, patients and strangers surrounded me. I felt hopeless; although the doctor reassured me, I am getting better. I felt helpless, even though I had an army of hospital staff helping me out. Just after 5 PM, I had a breakdown.

My legs were getting stronger, but it seemed that my spirit crumbled. I broke into tears. That is how my mind worked — I saw everything pitch black. Anger, frustration, desperation and pity overwhelmed me. I spoke faster than I thought. I cried more than I could wipe off, and my whole body shook until it hurt. My heart rate increased. The nurse, Charlotte listened, and then she advised me to rest.

She did not leave until my heartbeat slowed down. Before I fell asleep she told me something I will remember forever.

“Hospitals tend to have a reality of their own. All that you are feeling now is increased due to you being here, try to remember that. This too shall pass. And you will be home soon.”

My best friend told me that in Montenegro you’re not allowed to be left alone in the hospitals. There is always somebody with the patient. I remembered my mother when she died in 2012. My mother departed from pancreatic cancer; her case was hopeless since the initial diagnosis. She was the lucky one because she passed away in her own bed. My oldest sister found our mom breathless at 4 AM on the 23rd of September.

A telephone call woke me up that morning. I was thousands of miles away from my mother. My sister told me she was unable to wake up our mother. I begged my sister to try harder, to shake her, push her, do all it takes. What if perhaps our mum was just asleep?

I decided to lock this memory far away in the depth of my brain. Somehow that night, in the hospital the painful memory found me and tormented me all night. That night I dreamed vivid dreams: a group of strangers were pursuing me in the dark hallways with the intention to hurt me, as soon as the crowd swallowed me I woke up only to fall back asleep and dream of drowning inside a car. I was in the backseat, while my mother was in the driver's seat, she turned back to me and said:

“It will be all right, my child. Don’t be scared”.

My mother never drove a car.

Days flow differently in hospitals. When you are a patient, you don’t differ workdays from weekends. Every day is a new day: one more day to live, to fight, to get better or to make amends. A hospital bed is a parked taxi with a meter running and all you can do is try not to waste those minutes you have.

I woke up to another day. With the mindset of Scarlet O’Hara and I decided to make it count. Next to me, the older lady held an Ipad and looked unhappy; I asked if everything was alright. It appeared that the lady wasn’t able to call her granddaughters. I made it my task to fix her Ipad. In less than an hour, she kissed me on the cheek and happily dialled her family. I was onto the next good deed.

My night table was a mess: magazines, cosmetic essentials, bags of food and dirty clothes. I started cleaning up the mess. I looked into the bags and saw that I have a huge amount of fruits: bananas, peaches, apricots, oranges and apples. I was unable to eat them all, so I decided to share.

I went for a walk. I approached every single patient in both HOBS and Acute Medicine Department and gave away goodies. I politely chatted with every one of the patients. The time flew by fast and I was back in my bed to rest my legs just in time for the tea. I have met everyone in both wards and came to the realisation that I was the youngest and honestly, now, in the best physical shape.

I realized how arduous it must be to be sick when old. Just two days ago, I had a catheter; I was unable to sit on the loo, unable to shower, in constant pain, and so on. Day by day, I got better — I was still unable to run and it will hurt me to stand up and bend my knees, but I am young — I will recover. In time.

Elderly patients won’t be getting better physically; the doctors will cure the patients latest problems but they won’t bring back their youths. If an older lady is unable to breathe effortlessly now, she will be discharged when her breathing improves. But what about her back and joint pain, poor eyesight, tachycardia and high blood pressure? A doctor will advise her to eat healthier, go for walks and come in for check-ups — and she will oblige. But she won’t run the next London marathon.

I thought of us, patients, as cars in a repair factory. Where vehicles receive a wax, full cleaning and few small repairments but the engine, the source of energy, is still the same — and it has it’s fixed lifetime. And no mechanic can fix that or replace.

I also realised that due to my insolence I pushed my closest away, especially my family. Perhaps it is an age thing: belief of having all-time in the world and that people will just crawl back to you when you need. That day I began helping out fellow patients and thought of myself as Robin Hood of the ward.

But just then when I was again the only one with no visitors, I envisioned my future. I imagined myself in my 70s being alone, and it hurt. I understood that today I am the youngest and oldest I will ever be and that if I do not treat my loved ones with kindness then I perhaps, in 40 years I will be back in the hospital bed with no familiar face holding my hand. And somehow I knew, it will not be as bearable as it is now.

Something had to change.

As the clock struck 10 PM, I send out messages to my loved ones, updating them on my well being and asking about theirs. I also apologized for pushing them away. For not being there. For putting work first. For not listening to them and for not resting when advised.

I came to accept my situation and to make the best out of it. I looked forward to tomorrow: hoping to be visited by them, sharing my learnings and asking for forgiveness and in no time, I was asleep, and I have never slept better.

After breakfast, the doctor told me that tomorrow afternoon I would be released from the hospital. The CK levels were dropping, and there was no need for me to stay in the High Observation Unit anymore. My kidney was out of danger. Just before the doc left, he turned to me once again and said:

“ I am still bewildered how you managed to crush your muscles like this, and it had no negative effect on your kidney. Your kidney must be powerful, or it is just you being tough. Anyway, you are doing great. Keep up.”

Later that day, the nurses moved me back to the Acute Medical Assessment Unit. I reached for the phone and called my loved ones to tell them the good news and to tell them how much I love them. As I was on the phone with my siblings, my partner walked into the ward. I did not realise how much I have missed him until I saw him standing in front of my bed. I had so much to tell him. I had so much to apologize for. I had no time to waste.

That day we walked hand in hand as I told my partner all that I have encountered so far in the hospital. I concluded that I underwent a life-altering experience. The spin class instructor delivered on her promise: the class was challenging but not as demanding as the days that followed.

My body and spirit were broken when in hospital, but somehow I believe I came stronger out of it. I understood that body and soul cannot be separated for purposes of treatment, for they are one and indivisible. Sick minds must be healed as well as sick bodies.

My body is healing, as well as my mind. It will take months of exercise and physiotherapy to ski down the Alpine ski slopes again. It will take years for me to stop being a workaholic. But it takes a minute to slow down, reflect, rest and remember to thank people around me who love me.

Before my partner left home that evening, I remembered to thank him for being by my side through thick and thin and for never giving up on me and us.

It is hard to admit that it's been just a few months and I might miss my days in the hospital. I won’t miss the smell, nor the food or the midnight screams of the patients in pain. But I miss the slow pace. The pace that made me slow down, reflect and ultimately be grateful for all I have. As I packed my belongings, I started counting my learnings:

• Life is too short for what-ifs;
• Nothing in this life is forever;
• Things always work out — one way or another;

• Invest in relationships that are an absolute "Yes";
• I will always take that extra trip to visit my family;

• I am the source of my own happiness.

And finally, I will accept change and just go with it. And this year I will prioritize rest above anything else.

Everything changes. Each stage of life has its rhythm: there will be different people around me, job changes, illnesses, problems or pants sizes.

Often, I get caught up in the moment and forget to remember that it is not the end of the world when the music changes. So what? It does not mean I have to stop dancing. Next time, in the year 2022 I will pause, listen to the sounds and then perhaps I will tune in and the change may be the best next thing that happened to me.