Sick Boy: Part 4

Note: I don't remember anything after everything went dark, but I sat down with my doctor a few months later, and he explained it all to me. I also became good friends with my physiotherapist, Jody da Silva, who could provide additional information. Also, if you missed Part 3, you can read it here.

The physiotherapist, Jody, arrived to find me still in High Care, surrounded by nurses and doctors. My doctor, who had by then completely abandoned his usually subdued demeanour, informed Jody that I had mucus plugs in my lungs and that my left lung had collapsed. The doctor asked Jody to try and loosen the mucus plugs because my sats were plummeting. While Jody was performing chest physio on me, my doctor called for back-up. More physicians were called in, to see if they could figure out a plan to save me. At some point, after Jody had left the room, my heart stopped. And, while my body was losing its battle, I was somewhere else.

I've often seen in movies what dying looks like - for your soul or spirit, I mean. If you grew up Christian, as I did, you're taught that you will see a bright light and then you will be at the pearly gates of heaven. If worthy, you will be let in and you will get to see God. That's a very watered-down version, but you get the gist of it. Anyway, for me it was different.

I remember the moment my heart stopped. Although I wasn't conscious, I could feel it. I could feel my body shut down and let go. I had the presence of mind to understand what was happening, and I felt at peace. A sort of relief, mixed with understanding. A sense of completion. I saw the bright light. When my eyes finally adjusted and the light became less bright, I was in a field (veld as we say in Afrikaans). There was a breeze, comfortable and cool. The sky was grey, but not in an ominous way. I looked around me, and I saw my deceased relatives walking towards me. Weirdly, they were in the order of most recently deceased in front. They were all so happy to see me, and I was happy to see them. I felt so incredibly free. I was free from anxiety, from fear, from pain. I was free from the worldly worries that kept me awake since I was a young boy. I was in a place where no negative thought or feeling could ever reach, with the people who I loved dearly. Given the option, I would never have left. I remember suddenly looking up at the sky and being worried about lightning. I looked at my relatives and told them that we needed to seek cover of some sort. They laughed at me, but not sarcastically. They seemed surprised that I still didn't seem to understand. One relative said that nothing could hurt us there, and they all smiled in agreement. I then remember telling them that I had to go. I couldn't stay there (I don't know why). I looked at my grandmother and expressly said to her "I need to go". She nodded with approval. I then remember being aware that I was back in my body (for lack of a better phrase). I wasn't conscious, but I knew I was back. My soul somehow felt heavier again. And I was desperately sad about being back. I don't know if souls can cry, but mine did in that moment.

I know from my doctor that several days passed. They had started gradually lightening my sedation for a couple of days - a process that could be achieved quickly on the first round of ventilation but was now a much harder task. My first new memory is of suddenly hearing movement in my room. It was someone opening and closing the ICU sliding door. I heard papers moving - probably my patient file. I heard the door open and close again. I heard a male voice, but not a voice I recognised. It wasn't my doctor, and it wasn't Jody. "How's it going in here?" he said. "No doctor, the still the same in here." said the person next to me who I now knew to be a woman. "I don't think he's going to make it," said the male voice. "I don't know, doctor. I don't think so." I panicked. I tell my body "When I count to three, you will open your eyes and let them see you are here. You're not dying. They shouldn't give up yet." I counted to three at least four times that I can remember, but nothing happened. My body was disobeying me again - hurting me again.

A day or so later, I remember seeing a doctor's torch/light. It was very brief, and I couldn't keep my eyes open, but it felt like hope to me. "Looks much better, in here," the doctor says. "I was right," I think "it is hope!" The next day, I felt hands on my neck and head. I opened my eyes a little and saw that it looked like morning. "Good job on the eyes thing, buddy" I joked to myself. My happy thoughts were quickly interrupted by excruciating pain. They were picking up my head, and moving my neck. "Typical," I thought "After all that, they're going to break my neck and paralyze me now." I woke up a day or two later. This time with all my senses intact simultaneously. Everything hurt. I was acutely aware of the intubation tubes this time - they hurt me. I saw a nurse in the room, and I looked at her until she noticed my eyes open. "Welcome back, Mr Coetzee," I needed no explanation of what had happened or where I was this time. I knew what had happened. "You gave us a very big fright", the nurse said. The welcoming was more subdued this time, probably because the Lord knew I would not be able to tolerate the peppy nurse this time. I smiled at her.

I woke up, I'm not sure how many days later, and I saw Jody entering my room. I could feel tears on my cheeks. Every part of me wanted to jump up and grab him to tell him how happy I was to see him. I know now that he shared that feeling of joy. He also shared in trauma with the pandemic. Seeing it every day. Living in it. I think we trauma-bonded, but I'm glad we did - he is a dear friend. Jody's visits quickly became the highlight of my day. His special gift for making me feel like a person while treating me as a patient ended up carrying me through those very dark days. This time, I was in a lot of pain. My body felt like it had been intubated twice in one month. Gone were the "Could it really have been this easy?" nonsense of my juvenile self. The man waking up this time had been to war. He has seen things he will never talk about to anyone. He knows what it feels like to make his peace with dying - and he is changed by it.

Over the next few days, I gradually improved. Slower than the first time, but at least there was an improvement. Eventually, I could feel that my body was starting to fight the intubation. I got irritated by it, but my sats weren't improving enough to extubate me. A day or two later, I was ready to be extubated. This time, I could feel how the tubes hurt me as they were pulled out. My throat hurt like I've never felt before. Later that day, I was checked to see if I could swallow. They fed me jelly and custard and I felt like a kid again.

That afternoon, when I was doing better, a nurse brought me the ward's mobile phone. She said that someone wanted to speak to me. I took the phone and managed to get out a very hoarse hello. "Hello! I miss you!" It was my partner. I cried when I heard his voice. The nurse cried too.

When I improved enough and was moved to the High Care ward again, I was prohibited from getting up. No moving around unnecessarily. I had no energy to do so anyway. The next day, Jody was ready to increase the intensity of our sessions by having me sit up in bed. When he first suggested it I thought he was joking - I would certainly be able to handle a bit more than that. I was wrong because when I sat up for the first time, I realised how weak I'd become. I spent twice as long in High Care that time before I was moved to a private room. In the private room, I felt safe for the first time since I was admitted. And felt that I could now, safely, take stock of what was left - physically and emotionally, after the battle. I thought the worst had passed.