Mortality, Humility, Laughter and Longevity

 

My story of Mortality, Humility, Laughter and Longevity

This is reflective, it may make you think, it might make you laugh, it will definitely give you hope

At some point during our lives, we are confronted with the reality of mortality.

When we are young, this confrontation can come in the form of the loss of a family member, friend, or pet - and we learn the lessons about the circle of life, finality, grief and mourning. 

Ordinarily, what doesn't seem "fair" is when a relatively young person is faced with their own mortality.

But, it happens: in children's cancer wards, war zones, poverty stricken communities, accidents, crime and the result of depression and bullying from a young age. 

The world is cruel and unbiased. We dip our toes into the universe to find relief from the weight of it - and we are never quite prepared to be directly impacted by the harsh realities of life.

13 years ago, I was a firecracker of a 25 year old, invincible, limitless. Living in a bustling city and swinging from one country to another like a pendulum. Collecting memories, moments, feelings and culture; all in all - not performative but alive, truly alive, every single day.. (And already writing this blog).

One snowy mid-January morning in London, everything changed. I woke up in a pool of sweat in my bed. dizzy. My left leg was purple, swollen, hot and I couldn't move it. I lived alone in a tiny, but perfect, dolls-house flat on Camden square. I had two orange canaries. It was -3 degrees outside, I loaded my canaries up with food, left the heating on and called a mini cab. I was wearing an oversized turtle neck jumper as a dress with a pair of riding boots. I couldn't walk on my left leg, I could hardly stand up. I had a handbag with my wallet, my phone,  iPod, my phone charger, a hair brush, a notepad, pen and lip balm in it. The mini cab picked me up, I collapsed into the back seat. I don't remember much other than the drivers extreme concern. He didn't charge me for the ride to Princess Grace Hospital in Marylebone. He pulled me out of the car and I held me up shoulder to shoulder into admissions, my only recollection was "Hold on love, it's going to be OK,"

The night before, I was out to dinner with my close friend Tasha. A French place on Walton Street. We used to take each other out on romantic dates because "nobody else was doing it." It was a normal night, we ate, laughed, went to Boujis in Chelsea for a quick dance and called it a night. Everything was normal. 4 hours later, it wasn't.

I was admitted immediately, into ICU and isolation. I remember trying to keep track of everything the specialist on duty was saying, "Septic shock, immediate treatment, drainage, amputation." The words were a blur. At that moment I realised I needed to contact my family and my friends. My first thought was genuinely that someone needed to look after my birds. 

I texted my brother first, I asked him not to tell my mum because I didn't want to worry her. He immediately asked to see a picture of my leg, to which his response was "Fuck. Nadi. I have to tell mum."

I had already contacted my dad before I left my flat, largely because his knowledge of hospitals in London was expert level (a mixture of having a lot of health issues and self obsessed hypochondria). As anticipated, he didn't really care but he did give a good Sunday hospital recommendation (private insurance). I figured I would let my brother fill him in if he asked. 

I then texted a group chat of my closest friends, just telling them "I might be off the radar for a little while as I am in hospital with I'm not sure what." I was a bridesmaid at one of my friends weddings that was 6 weeks later, the messages came streaming back, largely asking if I was still going to be able to fly out for the wedding,  but I did not have the energy or ability to respond.

I texted Tasha to tell her. She immediately tried to call me. I didn't answer.

Lastly, I texted the man I had been "seeing" for about 6 months. Not because I felt as though it was my duty to do so but because we were supposed to have a date on Monday.  The ex city boy investment banker derivatives trader turned cage fighter/book worm/James Bond lookalike. "Hey, I'm in hospital with Septicaemia so I don't think I'll be able to make our date tomorrow, just wanted to tell you in case you try to reach me and I'm unreachable." 

He texted back immediately saying "What hospital? When can I come see you?" To which I responded "Princess Grace, but I'm not great company right now." he shot back immediately "That doesn't matter, when can I visit you?". The exchange felt strangely surreal given we had spent the better part of half a year literally in eachothers bedrooms twice a week.

It was at that moment that I noticed the semi circle of doctors and nurses around me. I was plugged into  IV antibiotics through both wrists. I was starting to feel what I can only describe as a pain that felt as though my body was struggling to function, shutting down. The phone next to my hospital bed was ringing incessantly (my mum), the voices around me became faint murmurs and I let my head fall to the left, and looked out the window as perfect snow flakes descended silently from the sky onto the cobblestone of Marylebone. I felt a stinging, shattering pain in my back as a nurse injected me with a needle deep into my spine, and I blacked out.

When I came to, I was dripping in sweat. I was confused, my leg was pulsing. I felt worse, not better. My wrists were sore from the continuous cocktail of anti biotics, a nurse sat by my bed monitoring my heart rate, my doctor held my hand. "Nadia, you're very strong, very brave. Tell me, on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst, how bad is the pain?' I responded.. "6?" He looked at me again "Nadia, please be honest, how bad is the pain?" admitting defeat "10, it's bad." He nodded, stepped back and sat on the chair, "I've been keeping your mum updated, I think you should have your family here, is there anyone in the UK who can be with you?" I responded, breathlessly "I don't want my mum to feel like she has to see me like this, I don't want anyone to see me like this. Yes I have family in Wales and up north, but I really don't want them to know. " He held my hand again "It's ok to want support, Nadia, this is life and death. The antibiotics are not working, you have been here for 4 days, in and out of consciousness. We are going to try a few more things - but your body is in septic shock, and the only thing we can do to if these last treatments don't work to save your life would be to amputate your leg, do you understand what I'm telling you?" 

There was a knock at the door. My doctor got up and went outside, when he came back in he told me "There's a gentleman here to see you, he says he's your friend?" I had just been pumped some morphine, "OK."

Patrick came in, my doctor left. He sat to the side of me and asked me how I was, I responded "Obviously really sexy." It was at that moment he said "I was messaging you to ask if you wanted me to bring you anything, you didn't respond." To which I said "You did? Patrick, I don't know what day it is." He shook his head " You're still hot."

 The nurse overheard the entire exchange. When he walked in the heart rate monitor was on, and my heart beat sped up for the first time in days as he entered, the nurse commented on it, thinking it was cute - not realising the "type" of relationship that we had. He said "I have that effect on her". The drugs and overall hallucinogenic behaviour began to kick in and I asked him if he wanted to see my leg, first he said yes, then no, then definitely no. The nurse told me it was time to roll over for my back needle again, she asked Patrick if he wanted to stay in the room. He said it was fine, I was none the wiser. As the injection entered my back again, I held my breath with pain and gripped onto my pillow. It was a slow process. Patrick moved closer and whispered 'You don't need to be so brave, it's OK." I responded with "Do you remember the movie Gremlins? Do you want to hear my Gizmo impression?" and I went onto make the adorable and strange noises of the 1980's cult classic character. 

On my bedside table was a "running" magazine, a box of cherries, 3 packets of underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, face wipes and moisturiser. It was then that I recollected that Tasha had visited me the day before. There was also an entire bottle of white wine on my hospital statement. I don't remember much about Tasha's visit. She had picked up my keys to check on the birds, she had brought me essentials, I had apparently, at some point asked her to bring me something to read. There is a very distinct irony in that she bought me a magazine about running when the future of my leg was hanging in the balance (In her defence, I had been training for the London Marathon). I do, vaguely remember her sitting on the left side of my bed, talking about the guy she was seeing, drinking wine, eating cherries. 

Patrick picked up the magazine. Raised his eyebrows "really?", I responded "I asked Tasha to bring me something to read." He said "I asked you if you wanted anything?!" begrudgingly, "OK, fine, bring me a book. In fact, bring me your favourite book." He asked me where the nearest bookstore was, dry-reaching through the pain "Daunts, Marylebone High Street". He came back an hour later when I was asleep, woke me up to tell me " I brought you my favourite book, Quick Silver by Neil Stephenson and Cloud Atlas - which I haven't read yet, but there's a movie coming out - tell me what you think." His expectations of my cognitive abilities were very high given that I was effectively dying. 

Anyway Patrick went to Brazil for Carnival and BJJ camp a month later,  slept with somebody else because she told him he looked like James Bond and dumped me via a stream of drunk text messages talking to himself while I was hiking the Pennines with my uncle -   so that's enough of him (Of course he came running back, but this story is not about him). Spoiler alert: I survived! 

Work in progress TBC...