Dying of Sepsis
If my words mean something to you, and you’re in a position to give, it means a lot. Your kindness helps me keep showing up to create.The day before I almost died—and this time, not by my own doing—was a perfect September Sunday. My best friend and I spent the afternoon on her screened-in porch, a pack of Truly’s between us. We laughed and played drinking games. I’ve still got videos of us shotgunning to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck.
The next morning, I woke up completely drained, assuming it was just a hangover. My body felt sick and heavy. I was frigid, like my blood had been replaced with ice water. Whatever, I thought. I dragged myself to the bathroom, but I couldn’t keep my head up. My body just folded. When it came time to get off the toilet, I had to hoist myself up using the counter. I tried to get ready for work, but even lifting my toothbrush was a challenge. I texted my boss: “Hey, I think I’m getting sick. I’m going to work from home for a couple of hours to make sure I’m good.”
This was 2020. Deep in the pandemic.
I lay down on the couch. Everything hurt. You couldn’t even touch my skin without me flinching. I was overheating, and then came the pressure in my chest. Not just discomfort—real pain. It felt like an elephant had perched itself there and refused to move. Bundled in a bouquet of blankets, I stared blankly out the window. I thought for sure I had COVID. I couldn’t do anything but lie there and think about the pain. I didn’t want TV. I didn’t want my phone. I didn’t want anything but relief.
Two hours passed. My vision started to blur. I managed to shuffle to the bathroom to check my temperature: 104º. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
Now, something to know about me: I don’t ask for help. So when I do, it means I’m serious. My mom had just injured her back, but I didn’t have anyone else to call. I propped my phone on a candle on the coffee table and asked Siri to FaceTime her.
She answered right away. “Hey Lexi, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“Mom, I’m really sick. I need help.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”
I’ll never forget how she arrived at my house. My parents were terrified of COVID and took every precaution. She came in wearing a SeaWorld poncho, yellow cleaning gloves, two masks, and holding a pair of tongs. It was hysterical, but I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t even breathe properly.
She tried to help me to the car, but I couldn’t carry the weight of my body. At this point, I was on autopilot. The fever had taken full control, and I became delirious. Somehow, she got me to the car, and I started yelling, “Get me out of here. Help me. Help me.”
She sped toward Butterworth Hospital. We were flying down I-96 when I started frantically trying to unlock the doors. I was completely out of it, convinced I needed to escape, even if it meant throwing myself onto the highway. My mom nearly crashed trying to stop me.
When we finally pulled up to the hospital, I was still screaming, still pounding on the door, desperate for someone to help. My mom returned with hospital staff and a wheelchair. They warned us the ER was overwhelmed and that it could be a long time before I was seen. Whatever. Just get me out of the damn car.
She wheeled me into the lobby, and she wasn’t exaggerating. The emergency room was packed. Patients with COVID filled the hallways, lying in scattered beds. It was chaos. The staff was stretched beyond capacity, doing their best in a nightmare.
Normally, I’m polite to a fault. The kind of person who apologizes when someone else bumps into me. But not then. I was yelling at the nurses, accusing them of being incompetent, begging for relief. It was the fever talking. My body was shutting down, and I felt like no one was taking it seriously.
My temperature climbed to 105º.
By some stroke of luck, a bed finally opened up, and they wheeled me to the back. Given the state of the world, I don’t blame the staff for missing the signs. My symptoms looked almost exactly like COVID. But what was happening inside my body was something else entirely.
I was in septic shock.
In its late stages, your body begins to shut down. You can’t walk. You can’t hold yourself upright. You barely respond when someone speaks. You try to form words, but they don’t come. You try to focus, but your thoughts slip through your fingers. You forget what day it is. You forget where you are. Even your own name starts to feel unfamiliar.
And in septic shock, every second counts.
But in those seconds, I was still being treated like a COVID case. They ran test after test. Bloodwork. Swabs. Everything came back negative. No one could figure out what was wrong. Meanwhile, I was getting worse.
The staff kept trying to talk to me, but all I could do was moan in pain. For nearly five hours, I spoke gibberish and, for reasons I still don’t understand, sang Rhinestone Cowboy on repeat. I have no idea where it came from or how I knew the lyrics. And through all of it, I had that damn mask pressed to my face.
Eventually, they realized what was happening and that I needed immediate, intensive care. People started moving fast, scrambling to give me the support I should have received hours earlier. They told me I was being transferred by ambulance to Blodgett Hospital. A bed was available, but it came with a catch. It was on the COVID floor.
This unit held the most critical COVID cases in all of West Michigan. A family friend of mine was dying just across the hall. But I had no choice. That was the only bed available.
I remember the fear setting in again. I was already fighting for my life, and now I’d be surrounded by patients battling a virus we still barely understood. I was immunocompromised. Was I really being sent to the death floor?
When I arrived at my room, the medical team jumped into action, running a full panel of tests. My skin was still unbearably sensitive. Every touch felt like getting stabbed. The nurses tried again and again to insert an IV, but I was so swollen and in so much pain that my body kept rejecting it. I started crying, begging them to stop. I don’t usually mind needles, but my body was in full revolt. Still, they couldn’t stop.
Even in healthcare settings, I do my best not to be a burden. Even if I’m sick, the instinct is always the same. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Not this time.
At one point, I lost it. I started swearing, demanding a different team come in. No one who truly knew what they were doing should be causing that much pain, I told them. I was desperate for someone to make it stop. I was demanding. I was yelling. I was abrasive, even physically so. I didn’t recognize myself. I wasn’t myself. But honestly, it took a near-death experience to finally take up space. To demand to be taken seriously.
Once the tests were finally done, the real fight began. For the next three days, I stayed in that room, locked in a brutal battle to pull myself out of septic shock.
What were the next few days like? I don’t remember much. The chest pain was unbearable. Nothing touched it. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t form cohesive thoughts or sentences. I was terrified that my intelligence might never return. That the shock had permanently rewired my brain.
And in some ways, it did. Again, I don’t blame the staff. But I was never the same after that.
I’ll also never forget the moment I tried Oxy for the first time.
One night, I had a new nurse. She asked what I had been taking for pain. I couldn’t remember the name. She started listing painkillers, going down the list one by one. When she said “Oxy,” I immediately said, “That’s the one.”
From the corner of the room, my mom interrupted. “No, Alexa, you don’t take that.”
“Why are you speaking right now?” I snapped.
She kept going. “You didn’t take that last time.”
“Yes I did. I tolerate it. It’s fine.”
“Alexa, no, you didn’t.”
“Mom, stop butting into this. Nurse, yes. Get me the Oxy.”
What happened next was wild. It was a night dose, around 10:00 PM. About thirty minutes later, I got the sudden urge to call my boyfriend and give him a piece of my mind. He hadn’t checked on me once. Not one call. Not one text. Not even a message through my mom asking if I was okay. I was dying in the hospital, and he didn’t care.
The Oxy made me furious. I grabbed my phone and called him, launching into a two-hour tirade. I was yelling so loud, a nurse came into the room to check on me. I looked at her and said, “Yeah. I’m handling personal business right now.” And would you believe—I stayed in that relationship for another year. An entire year.
Toward the end of my stay, I was finally able to take short walks through the hospital. I could eat again. I could drink water. The doctors eventually determined that the sepsis had been triggered by an infection in my tonsils. It had spread to my bloodstream, and as that infected blood circulated through my organs, everything began to shut down. As a result, I had a tonsillectomy two months later.
So, what’s the takeaway from this experience?
Dump your shitty boyfriend, and trust your gut. When something feels wrong, something is wrong. Advocate for yourself, even if in the moment you don’t have the mental capacity to do it gracefully.
And for me, it was another moment that defined the journey of my life. Another situation that almost took me out. Yet for some reason, I was sent back to keep going. To keep living.
