It was near the end of 2017 after looking at a photograph of myself at a family members wedding that I knew I needed to change, I didn’t even recognise this overweight person in this picture. Was this really me? I was disgusted with myself, how could I have let myself get to this point, I didn’t love the person in that photograph anymore, not to mention the tears that streamed down my face when I stood in front of my mirror completely naked, exposed and bare.
It was at that very moment, I made that decision 100%, I was going to get fit, I was going to start exercising, eating correctly, I was going to change. I wanted to love myself again, to be happy.
I started going to the gym and I actually loved it, I ate decent sized portions of food, I cut down my sugar intake, as well as all those temptations, the sweets, the chocolate… One thing I did learn though, if you crave that chocolate, have a block or 2, but don’t devour that entire slab!!
Within roughly 4 months, I was feeling fantastic, I had lost 13kg (28.6lb) and in celebrating this milestone, I decided to get a tattoo!
But then disaster struck, in that May, arriving back home one Tuesday evening after badminton, I felt a pain in my side, which at the time I thought was a stitch from being too aggressive during my workout. The following morning, the pains progressed, they moved lower and I thought “you bitch”, PMS!
Boy, oh boy, was I wrong!!!
I couldn’t keep a thing down, I couldn’t even drink a thing or 2 seconds later I was clinging to that white porcelain bowl for dear life. At this point I’m thinking, “ok, this isn’t anything to worry about, it’s just gastro, it will pass”.
Haha, yeah right! But on the brighter side of things, I lost another 4kgs!! lol
Most of that Wednesday and Thursday I was in bed trying to sleep this off. By Friday, still no change. It wasn’t until early that Saturday morning that I woke with stabbing pains in my stomach, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I was frozen, I tried to wake my husband. Once I managed to wake him I had said to him that something isn’t right and he needed to take me to the emergency room NOW!
But here’s one for you, my medical insurance was only due to activate that Monday coming!
We set off for the nearest emergency room which was 15min away, to my shock and horror, they turned me away. But let me mention that on the drive there, every bump, every movement of the car, I felt as if I was being stabbed over and over again in my abdomen. Eventually we reached another hospital another 20min away, by this time, I cannot walk anymore, I have to be taken in with a wheelchair. My husband pushes me to their reception, they then refer us to the emergency area where I have to sit for another 30min before I am seen because I have to fill out paperwork.
By this time, it has been 2.5 hours since we have left the house. A doctor eventually takes me behind a curtain, draws my blood, tells me to stay on the bed and he will be back as soon as he has the results.
That very moment in my life when that thin white curtain was pulled back and I saw the look on that doctors face, is one I will NEVER ever forget, nor will I forget his words. “I don’t know how you are still sitting there”. I didn’t understand why he was saying this. It was with his next words, I finally realised what was happening. “I don’t know how you are still alive, but you are dying and we need to get you upstairs immediately for scans”.
I was then told to drink a liquid (the most foul, sour tasting stuff you will ever come across). We were then told that the scans had to be paid upfront, because yes, with my luck, no medical insurance yet!
Halfway through drinking this liquid and sicking it up back in the cup, I’m told to stop drinking because the money needs to be paid first. Luckily my husbands boss helped us with the cost. I then had to drink the liquid remaining in the cup, sick and all. Yes, absolultely 100% true and disgusting!
I was then wheeled upstairs, put in the MRI machine, injected with what felt like lava going through my veins, another pain I would not wish on anyone.
By this time, I was just hoping to pass out and just sleep as I couldn’t take the pain anymore. To be told to keep absolutely still in the extremely loud machine while you are writhing in pain, I still don’t know how I managed it.
At this point, the doctors were conversing with my husband as most of the next 3 hours, for me, was like having an out of body experience. But one thing I do clearly remember, is being told “your apendix has ruptured over 3 days ago and you have peritonitis, you should be dead!”
By now, the doctors are asking for R250 000 before they operate, which no, we couldn’t afford, nor do we know where we would get that kind of money. The only option was for them to call an ambulance and take me into the middle of a township, 45km away, to a state hospital.
I am now back behind the white curtain in the emergency room waiting for the ambulance to arrive. I then tell my husband to call my mother and tell her I’m going for surgery, that I am fine and to leave out the details of what is actually going on. But before that, I demanded he take me outside to have a cigarette, because if I was going to die on the way to another hospital, I wanted that last cigarette!! I managed to speak to my mother, with all the strength I had left to sound as fine as possible, I told her I was ok, that I was waiting for the ambulance and by that time, they called for us because the ambulance had arrived. I ended the call with my mother, not knowing if it was the last time I would hear her voice, tears streaming down my face after pushing that red button.
The drive to the next hospital was absolute torture, the pain with every bump in the road, every movement, even though I was strapped down to a gurney.
The paramedic did everything he could to keep me awake as I was not allowed to fall asleep. We eventually arrived at the hospitals emergency room, one I am glad I will never see the inside of again. It looked like something from a horror movie. They wheeled me to the waiting area, put my file on my lap in the wheelchair and pushed me to a corner and left. My husband at this point is M.I.A, 40mins later I can hear shouting, I recognise the voice, it is my husband. I see him approaching with a nurse, they take me behind another curtain, tell me they need blood and X-Rays done and to prep me for surgery.
The nurse who was assisting me, I don’t know where she qualified or if she even was, but I remember her sticking that needle in my wrist so hard I could feel it hit the bone that I started to fall off the bed. Luckily caught by my husband. I could then see the mark on my wrist and the swelling begin, 1min later I had a 3cm bump where she had put that needle.
Next was the dreaded catheter. These nurses have no sympathy! The just shove it in. Not to mention, they don’t care if the curtain is completely closed, if anyone can see you, your personal bits and bobs either!
From there, I had to go for X-Rays. I had to be held up, the nurse moving quickly out the way so they could do the X-Rays and coming back to grab me before I collapsed on the ground. All I remember after that was seeing my husbands face, tears streaming down his cheeks, me saying goodbye, not knowing if I would make it.
They wheeled me into theatre at 10 minutes to mignight!! YES, you read that correctly, after starting out that morning, being told i’m dying and arriving in theatre to be operated on just before midnight.
The surgery lasted just over 2 hours because after waking I saw a white clock, I cannot remember the exact time, but it was after 2am, I heard talking around me, another 2 nurses then approaced my bed, now telling me I had to lift myself out of the theatre bed and onto another one so that they could wheel me to the room. By this time, I have no strength, I cannot feel anything from my belly button down, because for some strange reason, nothing below that wanted to work. I managed to scavange every ounce of energy I had, grabbed the bed posts and dragged myself to the the other bed. This I had to do AGAIN in the room when I arrived.
They then propped me up against a wedge shaped metal cage as I was not allowed to lay down. I had no pillow, a gown on that was a size too small, no idea where my clothes, possessions or husband was.
They medicated me, which helped me sleep 4 hours. It was only another hour later when I heard a nurse shouting my name, telling me it was my mother on the phone. She had been calling the hospital since 3am that morning.
The nurses then told me, the only way for me to be able to talk to her, was to climb out of my bed and come to the desk which was 6 metres away.
I still do not know where or how I found the strength to get to that phone, but I do remember my words to my mother “Happy Mothers Day mom, I gave you a good gift this year, I didn’t die!”
I remember standing at the desk, tears streaming down my face, a wet puddle at my feet, looking down and seeing that the nurses hadn’t closed the bag to my catheter properly, yes, I was standing crying with my mother on the phone in a puddle of my own urine!!
It wasn’t 2 hours later my husband arrived, with clothes, slippers, a pillow and a few food items, of which I couldn’t eat anyway, as I was told I was not allowed to eat for 3 days. Keep in mind, I have not eaten a thing since that previous Tuesday. Nor have I had anything to drink, or was allowed to. The only thing I was allowed, was to rinse my mouth with water and to smoke!
It was another hour when I discovered what actually had been done to me, the doctor arrived to check my incision and see how I was. It was then that I broke down and the depression I already was battling had set in even more. I looked down to discover a horrible 30+cm scar from the inside of my navel down to my pubic bone.
My world was falling apart, I was crying, wishing I was dead, over an incision!
I looked hidious, all the hard work I spent months on, all of it, down the drain.
But that is not the end of it. Oh no!! I was released 4 days later, finally in the comfort of my own home. I couldn’t shower or bath myself, I needed help like an infant, my only option, standing in a bath, completely exposed to my husband with this disgusting mark on my body, having to be washed because I cannot move. I couldn’t even go to the toilet on my own, I needed help with that too.
But the story isn’t yet over! Nope. The following week, late evening, I am standing in my living room eating half a slice of toast when I feel a wetness between my legs and running down my inner thigh… “oh God, have I urinated on myself again” (yes, that did happen before as I couldn’t control it).
I look down, lift the bottom of my red hoodie and see blood, pale pink blood, I start screaming. My husband comes running to me, strips me down to my underwear and we see this liquid pouring out the incision and it wont stop.
He calls the hospital, they say it’s normal, that I must clean it and put new dressings on, then come in the morning for a check up.
We arrive the next day, see a doctor at the hospital, not knowing by this time I could see any doctor near my home as my medical insurance was activated already. At this time, I have hand towel folded and shoved down my pants because this liquid won’t stop seeping out the wound. The doctor says he will remove a stitch so that it can help with the seapage, which i he then does, which later left a horrible mark on the scar as it healed.
The next day, we make an appointment at my doctor. He then says he needs to take swabs and send them off to the lab. To go home, not to worry and he will call when the results are back. The next day we go back to the doctor, expecting good news. Only to be told I have 4 infections.
The next 3 months were worrisome, because as it turns out, after the weekly injections I had to endure, it turns out, my doctor didn’t want to worry me by telling me that one of the infections I had could of turned into or was linked to flesh eating disease! Are you ****** kidding me??
3 months later, too many injections to count, 2 months of sleeping upright, medication, battling with the most simplest of tasks, I was finally out of the woods!
Almost 4 years later, I still battle with depression, anxiety disorder, have a huge scar running down my abdomen. My muscles completely severed and a belly that looks like I’m 3 months pregnant which seems it will never go away.
But a few things have changed, even though I am no longer with my husband at the time of all of this, I appreciate what he did that day and the days and months following. But things between us did come to an end (not because of this, but that is a story for another time).
Since then I did meet an amazing man, someone who taught me that the scar I have, is a battle scar, it tells a story of tradgedy, of bravery, of survival and I should be proud of it. A man who loves me for who I am! Who has taught me so many things, who keeps me grounded, keeps me fighting, who helps me with my daily struggles with myself, who loves me without limit!
I am ALIVE, I am a WARRIOR, I am STRONG and I am his barbarian woman!
(Yes, he calls me his barbarian, among other nicknames, lol)
