As a very fit and strong – physically and mentally – 43 year old Life coach in Brighton, the last thing I expected to happen at this stage of my life was to be floored by sepsis; a serious, life-threatening condition where the body starts to fight itself – not the infection. The ‘problems’ I was worrying about were a million miles from life and death; would my next course or group programme be a success; my ageing roof and it’s annoying leaks on the kitchen ceiling; my hermit neighbour and the overgrown garden. How insignificant these things seem after a nine night endurance test in hospital.

At 1am on Saturday 27th July I awoke feeling grotbags. Pain everywhere and a raging temperature. I thought it was one of those ‘winter-summer’ bugs. I stayed in bed all weekend, isolating myself from my partner as we thought I was contagious. By 3am Monday morning I screamed when I tried to pee, and so reluctantly woke my partner to take me to A&E.

After a 12 hour ordeal in A&E (that experience alone deserves its own post)….

I was admitted to the gynae ward while being treated for sepsis. I had crazy pain in my abdomen, temperature and blood pressure like a seesaw, and terrifying rigours that made me feel disassociated from my feverish body. 

After two days my body hadn’t responded to the drugs and I had emergency surgery; I really thought my time on this planet was up as my temperature spiked 39.9 in the anaesthetic room. (I’m a fighter though, so of course it wasn’t) They drained the infected fluid from my insides, but were baffled as to what had caused such a raging case of sepsis. My body calmed for 12 hours or so after surgery, but then I relapsed again as I broke out in red welts all over my hips and pelvis. I was rushed off for a second late-night emergency CT scan; they wanted to rule out something awful, which mercifully they did. My antibiotics were changed, and finally my inflammatory markers started to come down.

Spending nine nights on an NHS ward is a life-changing experience in ways I’m not sure I can articulate with words – I’m still processing. My understanding of what it means to be human has shifted, like I’ve been given access to some secret room hidden behind a curtain; a book containing lost secrets of the mind.

I stayed sane thanks to my grasp of the human condition, my philosophical approach to life and my knowledge around NLP, EFT and coaching. Here’s what I learned from the most awful experience of my life.

When shit gets real, all that matters is human connection. Everything else is just noise

The job, the money, the pretty things in your home, the climbing the ladder, the new dress, the better car, social media. Nothing. Matters. When you’re faced with the terrors, the horrors of hospital and are questioning your own mortality, suddenly everything shrinks. Gravity in your personal solar system gets stronger, and only a few close things are in your orbit. People and connections. Not being alone in your darkest hour; having someone to comfort you; having someone you love hold your hand; having medical staff fuss around you, doing things to save your life. Ultimately, the people woven into the fabric of your life, the people who bring colour to your memories, the relationships that bring meaning to your existence – this is what matters. 

Nothing quite like staring into the empty eyes of death to pull focus on the truth.

The paper-thin nature of existence 

Things go horribly wrong on TV shows, not in our own lives. We mask the truth of our fragility with social media posts, shopping expeditions and the desire for wanting more more more.

But the truth is, life is more delicate than your mind will let you imagine; it’s too scary otherwise. Like walking a tightrope over a pool of pissed off Great Whites – the lights can go out at the flick of a switch.

One day I was delivering a packed masterclass to a highly engaged audience with people saying in the chat they’re signing up to my new programme. Hours later, I got sick. Really sick. Thankfully my body was strong enough to fight; my foundation was solid. This is not the case for everyone. 

I saw many sad and distressing stories unfold during my time on that ward. The one I can’t shake is the woman who’d had an operation for cancer – the first stage in her battle. She was doing so well, then suddenly plummeted and was whisked away…she was an extremely large woman who needed a special bed – she didn’t have a strong body to fight with. I can’t stop thinking about her; did her body give up the fight?

Privilege 

Despite the questionable levels of care I received (that’s another story), my sense of the great levels of privilege I have – unearned – in my life, washed over my mind every day. The privilege to have a body that (until this point) had kept me out of hospital. I was born healthy and happy, and I’ve made life-choices to keep my body and mind in great shape. This experience showed me how important these choices were to help me win my battle.

The privilege that until this point, I’d only experienced care in private hospitals. I didn’t understand the true nature of the NHS. The chaos that exists with the walls of the hospitals. The overcrowding, the stressed out doctors and nurses, the system bursting at its bloodied seems.

The privilege of working in corporate and having spent 20 years taking clients to swanky restaurants while the parallel universe of the NHS is going on. The world of branding, client meetings and wrap-parties seems laughable right now.

The privilege to live in a country where healthcare exists – and is free. Not everyone can go from brewing up sepsis in their bedroom, to bring hooked up to life-saving drugs within minutes.

And then, the realisation that broke me, that was too painful to consider while on the ward – the privilege that I live in a country where there is no war. That while I lie in bed fighting a life-threatening condition, there’s no fighting going on outside. No chance a bomb will rip the walls off of the building where hundreds are vulnerable, needing medication to stay alive. At this point, I had to redirect my thoughts, regulate my nervous system so that cortisol didn’t flood my veins.

Gratitude. So much gratitude.

Mental flexibility

Otherwise you will break. A stiff and brittle hamstring won’t get you very far in a marathon. If you approach the race of life – and your plans for it – with an inability to shift your perception, to be open-minded and able to cope with change, your mental health will take a nosedive. Thankfully my self awareness and ability to switch to meta thinking is right up there on my skills list. Sure, I experienced deep trauma – I thought I was going to die and people around me were dying – but I was able to regulate my emotional state while the trauma unfolded around me, and for that I am grateful. My mental strength will help me recover faster too.

Don’t fight it; flow with it

The dance between the surrenderer and the warrior is complicated. In the same way you can’t ‘dance about architecture’ it’s impossible to explain the nuance of what goes on between body, mind, spirit and the perception of reality when you are facing a condition as serious as sepsis. I remember the reluctance I felt towards being ill. I fought it, afraid that if I put my weapons down, I’d lose the fight. But what I realised is that one has to accept the situation in order to ride the wave. Fighting waves just causes wipe outs. Flowing with them is the answer. It’s not giving up. It’s choosing to energetically flow with what is.  

Patients need patience 

Now I get why these two words sound the same. As a patient, you must relinquish your wrist watch, turn the time display off your home screen, and ignore the taunting ticks of the wall clock. No longer do you operate on your own schedule. Because I was so sick, for the first 4 nights in hospital I was woken on the hour to have my blood pressure and temperature taken to make sure I didn’t need any urgent care. Once I was out of the danger zone, any requests for help could take hours – something I had to accept. The Solfeggio healing beats playlists on Spotify got a helluva lot of play while I let the hours slip past. Minutes, hours, days all faded into one long blur.

Noise Cancelling Headphones are a gift from the Goddesses

Previously used to block out the noise of wailing children (child-free by choice, this is my least favourite noise on a train). I’d never imagined I’d need them to block out the sounds of other sick humans. At home, my partner and I do not share a bedroom – another privilege. Suddenly, I was thrown into ward-life with three other roomies, and many beeping machines that simultaneously kept us alive, while driving us insane.

I’d never heard anything like the noises that escaped one particular woman at night. A mix of snores, screams in response to her own deep, animal-like snorts, fearful wails and moans that sounded sexual. It was A LOT. 

I couldn’t believe my humble headphones coupled with my beloved healing Solfeggio sounds dulled this racket out. Maybe the morphine helped.

And now? I am alive, hyper-aware of how this experience has changed my life and even more aware that I have many lessons still to come. This will become part of my identity; part of the story of my coaching and training business; part of how and why I show up for my clients; part of my epic rise from the ashes. 

One thing I have learned from being me for 43 years is that every trauma I have ever experienced has only added more fuel to my tank, more dreams to my imagination and more desire to have a positive impact on my community. I am a warrior. I am resilient. I am an energetic channel.

I am now taking time out to heal my mind, body and soul. To reflect and learn from this experience. And to return to my business and wonderful clients bigger, bolder and braver than ever before.