In March 2013, my body was plunged into septic shock, a stark contrast to the peak physical condition I had enjoyed just months before.
Rewind to January 12, 2013, and you would have found me triumphantly crossing the finish line of the Disney half marathon. At 38, I was undeniably in the best shape of my life. However, this pinnacle of health was swiftly followed by a dramatic and terrifying downturn. A mere week later, I was jolted awake in the dead of night by an agonizing pain. Crippling abdominal cramps doubled me over, stealing my breath as I collapsed onto the bathroom floor. My frantic husband rushed me to the emergency room, where a CT scan revealed a kink in my intestines. The cause remained a mystery, but the solution was immediate: emergency surgery to excise the blockage and reconnect my intestines. Upon waking from the anesthesia, I was assured the surgery was successful. Ten days later, once my digestive system showed signs of recovery, I was discharged from the hospital, seemingly on the mend.
Looking back, the subsequent weeks were filled with warning signs that we unfortunately missed. Instead of improving, the post-surgical pain intensified. Within six weeks, I had shed 22 pounds, experienced persistent chills, agonizing pain after eating, and often ran a low-grade fever. My doctor dismissed my escalating complaints, attributing them to slow intestinal healing. I was too weak and exhausted to challenge his diagnosis.
But deep down, in every fiber of my being, I knew something was profoundly wrong. I even missed my daughter’s birthday party after a harrowing night in the ER. The pain had become unbearable, yet I was sent home with a potent course of antibiotics, diagnosed with post-surgical colitis. Three days later, my body reached its breaking point. I couldn’t keep down food or water and found myself once again in the emergency room. This time, I knew I wouldn’t be sent home with just antibiotics.
Unable to tolerate the barium for another CT scan, the attending physician ordered an abdominal x-ray. This revealed a suspected small bowel obstruction, likely a complication from the initial surgery. I was admitted to the hospital and placed on NPO – nothing by mouth. Recognizing my malnourished state, the on-call doctor immediately ordered supplemental nutrition. A PICC line was inserted, and total parenteral nutrition (TPN) was initiated. The medical plan was to wait and hope the bowel obstruction would resolve on its own.
Amy Widener Headshot for Sepsis Awareness
As days turned into nights in my hospital bed, my abdomen began to swell alarmingly. Nausea became relentless, requiring a nasogastric (NG) tube to relieve the pressure and bile buildup in my stomach. By the fifth day, my distended abdomen resembled a third-trimester pregnancy. Weakness and excruciating pain were my constant companions. Even high doses of morphine offered little relief. Finally, further testing was ordered at the radiologist’s urging, who suspected something was seriously amiss, but my primary doctor initially dismissed it. The nurses, witnessing my decline, felt helpless. That evening, my vital signs painted a grim picture. My heart rate surged between 150-160 bpm, and my blood pressure plummeted. Nurses urgently called the doctor when my BP dropped to 89/53. By 6 AM on March 13th, my blood pressure had crashed to a terrifying 63/51, and I was finally transferred to the intensive care unit (ICU).
The ICU doctors acted swiftly, pushing for immediate surgery, believing I was on the brink of death. This marks the last memory I have until waking up 24 days later, on April 5th.
During my unconsciousness, my family endured an unimaginable ordeal. The ICU team explained that my body had succumbed to septic shock. The subtle clues had been present all along, but we lacked the knowledge to recognize them. My family became my unwavering support system, holding my hands around the clock as a ventilator breathed for me, and my body swelled grotesquely from the massive influx of fluids and antibiotics.
When my organs began to fail, and the medical team exhausted every intervention, my husband received a 4 AM phone call, urging him to rush to the hospital. Upon arrival, he was told there was nothing more they could do and that my heart would likely cease beating when the last bag of fluids ran out. But against all odds, my heart persevered. I defied the dire prognosis.
We now understand that my rigorous half-marathon training had inadvertently prepared my heart for the ultimate marathon – the fight for my life. My recovery journey demanded a new medical team, two additional surgeries, another year of TPN, countless hours of grueling physical therapy, and unwavering determination to reach my present state of health.
I am profoundly grateful to be alive and thriving, eternally indebted to the ICU team who snatched me from the jaws of death. However, my experience underscores the urgent need for enhanced education about recognizing the early signs of sepsis among families, nurses, and doctors, so that other patients can avoid the agonizing ordeal I endured.
Amy Widener, is a real estate consultant, mother of two and sepsis survivor
