A Drug Addict Saved My Life

I keep vampire hours. They say PTSD may be the cause. I haven’t been to war. I’m not even in the military or law enforcement. Before all of this, I was a self-employed medical courier. The worse trauma I was subjected to was an unwanted kiss planted on me by a forward 80 year-old white haired white man who thought he needed to grace me with his slobbery New Year’s Eve blessing.

I suppose I did experience a different kind of combat. I do have the battle scars to show for it. My body looks as if I was tortured. So yes, there was trauma. Apparently, enough trauma to result in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that keeps me awake all night and part of the day. Enough trauma to make me avoid falling asleep for fear of never waking again.

Melatonin, Tylenol PM, Benadryl, Remeron, Ambien, Lunesta, two sleep studies and a prescription CPAP machine later, I still can’t fall asleep at a decent hour. If I do sleep, it’s not for more than two consecutive hours at a time. I have insomnia and sleep apnea. So, after seeing a sleep doctor, it was recommended that I have Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to reset my circadian rhythm. Basically, my sleep/wake cycle is all messed up in my internal clock.

That's all in the present. Let me tell you about what brought me to this point in my life. Time to rehash my traumatic past. So, here we go! My guy surprised me with tickets to see Erykah Badu and Busta Rhymes. He’s a couple decades my senior, so I was surprised to find out he had all of Miss Badu’s albums. I love her music and don’t even own one, Busta on the other hand is a different story.

I bought a floral mini dress that was too cute, paired it with some tan, thigh high, suede-like peep toe boots and my long, light brown corduroy coat with the faux fur. I was looking like I stepped right out of the 70’s. Can you say Willona from Good Times?! I was living my best life. Eating tasty morsels at McCormick & Schmick's and attending hot neo soul/hip hop concerts in Atlantic City.

That was in February 2019, when I first felt like I was coming down with something. An illness typically referred to as “common”, was far from common for me. I caught a cold that I just couldn’t seem to shake.

My life went on as usual because I didn’t have the time to take care of myself any better than I typically would. I was pretty healthy and only took vitamins regularly. Anything extra was too much. I was a divorced mom who worked a physically active business to support my household. I just sucked it up and kept it moving.

I went to my Primary Physician for care on more than one occasion, but I wasn’t improving. The cold that had taken a hold of me turned into pneumonia. I continued to work and attempt to live my life as I typically would, which is extremely difficult when you can’t breathe easily.

I worked in the medical field as a courier servicing St. Mary Medical Center and their affiliated doctor’s offices. My position entailed a lot of walking and driving. Every day got harder and harder, although I took my meds as instructed. I never gave myself the chance to rest. When I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid-- one of the downsides of being an Independent Contractor. When you’re self-employed, you don’t get employee benefits.

If you don’t take care of yourself, you cannot possibly perform optimally. So, in March 2019, I ended up in the hospital. At least that's what I assumed led to my hospitalization. I was treated and released, prematurely. I trusted that the doctors knew what they were doing and returned to work a couple of days later.

I wasn’t a workaholic, I simply had no choice. I had to make sure my family had everything they needed and some of what they wanted. Less than three weeks later, I ended up back in the hospital after visiting the Pulmonologist.

My oxygen level was dangerously low and the doctor was surprised that I was conscious let alone able to drive myself to Jeanes Hospital ER. He phoned ahead of my anticipated arrival. I refused an ambulance. I had my adult daughter with me who doesn't drive, so I had to get us there.

They immediately took me back to the triage area and I was admitted again. They could not seem to understand why I had such aggressive, now, double pneumonia. Fast forward a couple of weeks in April, I didn't feel they were doing anything to improve my situation so I demanded a transfer to Temple Lung Center.

My best friend became my voice when I could barely use mine. She works in the social work field and advocates for those who don't always have a voice to do so. Her mother works as the Secretary to the President of Temple University Hospital. They were my ticket to get the ball rolling towards my health improving, although it would take nearly a year before I was on the mend.

Early May 2019, I arrived at Temple Hospital and I had a large lovely room in a fairly new building. I didn't remain in that room for more than a night before I was transferred to ICU. Apparently, a trip to the bathroom a few feet away from my bed dropped my oxygen level so low I created a dangerous situation for myself.

Things worsened quickly and I was inconsolable. I required more than a little oxygen, I needed a ventilator. At this point, things got a little fuzzy. I remember being rushed to another section of the hospital but I had to take the word of my 15 year old daughter of what ensued next.

Weeping, I begged for someone to help me. I was dying. It wasn't my imagination causing me to feel like I was going to die, I was actively dipping my big toe in Death's pool. There was little hope that I would survive what was to come.

There was nothingness. I was unaware of time passing as I lie swollen, constipated, bloodied and wonky-eyed in Intensive Care for months. Apparently, I was prone to nose and mouth bleeds. My eyes were slightly opened, although my brain wasn't detecting sight. They peered just wide enough for my loved ones to witness the loss of muscle control my eyeballs had during this trying time.

I was in such a state because I was fighting the machines. The hospital had no alternative but to put me in a medically induced coma to prevent the resistance. That same fight within me is what kept me alive to tell my story.

I woke up in July. I wasn't better, my journey was just beginning.