Late Saturday night I woke up on the floor of our living room. I could hear my friend Alys on the phone with the 911 operator, "Yes, she's breathing." Someone had propped a pillow under my head, and I gathered the consciousness enough to try to stand. "I have to get to the bathroom," I slurred. I knew if I stayed on the floor, I would surely crap my pants.
My earlobes were on fire, and as I spoke I could feel the swelling in my lips. Emily's voice reverberated muffled in my ears as she told me not to scratch. The itching wouldn't stop, and I couldn't stand it any longer, so I scratched away at my arms, legs, feet, face…
I regained my footing long enough to take three steps before everything went dark for a third time.
The symptoms started on the drive home from Charlotte earlier that night. Everything got a little hazy, and my stomach dropped, making that gurgle noise signaling to me find an exit with a McDonalds.
I prayed I would make it home before I needed a bathroom. I thought maybe the combination of strong coffee and the greasy cheeseburger I ate for dinner hit me the wrong way.
Every time this happens I tell myself I should have recognized the symptoms sooner.
By the time I made it home and to the bathroom, I noticed the hives, my inflamed thighs and hands throbbing and red. I started to lose my balance pretty quickly, and I knew the rest of the symptoms would come on quickly after that.
Grabbing my phone and almost dropping it in the toilet, I texted Emily, who had been with me in Africa the first time it happened. My thumbs typed "come downstairs, I'm having the allergic reaction again."
While I shook with nervousness and fear, thoughts loomed. "Oh God I can't go to the hospital. I don't have health insurance yet. OH GOD."
The resentment started to rise for that physician I saw a month ago when I returned from the race. He didn't take me seriously when I told him about this crazy anaphylactic reaction I had four times in the past six months. He didn't seem concerned. The allergist he referred me to had a three month waiting list.
Panicking, I ransacked my backpack for the right pill bottle. I kept some medicine from the fourth, and last, time this happened in November when we were traveling to Malaysia.
The blinding stomach pain.
the itchy bumps all over my body.
my swollen tongue.
…and the difficulty breathing….
It's all I could do to get up the stairs and not cry thinking about what was about to happen.
How many times would I pass out this time before it was over?
Most people were upstairs watching a movie. I didn't think I could get all the way up another flight of stairs.
Luckily Sam walked in right then, so I asked him to get Emily or anyone from D Squad as quick as he could.
I was really scared.
I think most of the panic this time came from knowing I would HAVE to go to the ER. An American hospital? I can't afford that!
The second time, in July, I was taken to a hospital in Kenya, where they charged $20 to keep me for three hours and administer what medicine they could. Then they concluded that I'm allergic to eggs. False.
I dumped the bottle of pills out on the kitchen counter and frantically searched for the right ones.
Thankfully Ben Jon, an EMT, had just moved in to the CGA house that day, and Sam brought him into the kitchen. He insisted we call an ambulance, and after a little protesting and a lot of scratching my hives, I said okay.
After I agreed to take an ambulance, and laid down on the couch, everything went blurry.
I heard voices, and sometimes I felt someone catch me when I'd try to stand up, inching my way towards the bathroom. Pondering the last time I felt this drunk, I began crawling. I was determined not to crap my pants.
The most humbling part of this crazy night happened when Emily and Laura had to go in the bathroom with me. I couldn't stay conscious long enough to stand on my own.
Then I dropped my phone in the toilet (pre-business). Classic. Laura assured me we could put it in rice and it would be okay. I think I shouted at her because my phone is already a cracked up piece and it astonished me that she thought i'd want to keep it. I apparently have a wry and seething sense of humor when I'm nearly unconscious.
The phone is still sitting in rice two days later. I don't think it's coming back to life.
Once the EMT arrived and I was in the ambulance, they hooked me up with some sweet O2. My vision returned to crystal clear. I could see my face in the back window of the bus. Man, was I blown up like a collagen-injected 65 year old Hollywood has been.
The next twenty five minutes of the ride to the hospital, I chattered their ears off answering questions about what the heck happened. The EMT spent most of that time trying to get a blood pressure reading on me. By the time we arrived at the hospital he finally got one. 50/30. Apparently that's not so good.
The chills had set in, my fever peaked, but the worst was over. I had regained full consciousness, and the chest and stomach pain ceased. I was still itchy, blotchy, and swollen head to toe.
Two hours later, a shot of epinephrin, some predinizone, and a hospital bill (that I don't even want to know the amount of), and I was good to go.
48 hours later, I'm alive, and still a little itchy. I'm thankful for my CGA family who cared for me, and I'm thankful for my life. I know the things that worry me will be taken care of, although I'm not sure how.
The stress of fundraising, and now an outrageous hospital bill and expensive diagnostic testing yet to come, will all work itself out. It's Monday. I'm alive.
And it's an achievement in my book that I did not, in fact, crap my pants.
