The day I almost died

I have always been used to pushing myself and brushing off things.

Last Saturday, I felt unwell with a sore throat and a bit of pain swallowing.

I acknowledge the discomfort and move on as I am used to. Our little Nova has a lot of energy and ideas on how to make life entertaining, plus it is the day of the week when I do laundry (and sticking to a weekly laundry routine with children keeps you pretty grounded in the importance of not skipping a laundry day).

That night, I had a much harder time sleeping: the pain while swallowing extended to swallowing the saliva during the night, and I felt the channel from the throat to the ear was also swelling. Two pillows, slept on the side and got through the night.

Remembering how similar everything was to when I had a severe ear infection in my youth, I decided to go to the emergency hospital here in Uppsala, even with a modest fever. Given that I had a moderate fever and no life-threatening symptoms, I was suggested to go to the city's smaller emergency care unit with shorter waiting times. Once there, I sit in the queue and enjoy some moments of mindfulness practice. Waiting rooms are some of the perfect places for allowing some introspection.

The examination found nothing remarkable that could be seen looking in the ear or behind the tongue. The temperature started to rise but was still under 39. So, I get suggested to return home and take a full dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol for a few days.

Which I did.

And that day, I could enjoy preparing some meals with the family with the daily highlight of the brewing coffee ritual together with Nova (yes, stereotypically Italian. However, I am really into lightly roasted nordic style coffee).

However, that Sunday night was way more intense than what I had experienced the day before. I couldn't swallow anything and had difficulty closing my eyes—another opportunity to train on being open to the experience and acceptance. Plus, a parent to a toddler is used to sleepless nights, so I was sure to brush it off.

That wasn't the case, and I felt exhausted and had difficulty speaking or interacting with anyone. The temperature was rising, and I was having chills. My partner took the lead in the morning routines, and my only interaction with Nova was when she passed by the sofa and told me, "Pappa ledsen" ("Dad sad", English). I replied that I wasn't sad, just tired and needed rest.

Once Nova got to the preschool, we drove straight to the smaller emergency clinic again, even if it wasn't two days from the last time. However, the queue this time was long, and I could not speak a word. After 3 hrs in line with no end in sight, my partner had the great idea to ask for an emergency time at our local care centre. They were extremely kind, and I got a time there at 14.30.

I could barely sit, so we decided to head back home so I could rest a bit before the visit. The following two hours, I was barely able to speak, and it was over 24 hrs since I could eat (which is in itself nothing major since I used to eat just two meals a day) or drink (this is way worse :) ). The body always has ways of mustering more energy than one thinks possible, and I got down the stairs and into the car to be brought to the local care centre.

Now, I can barely walk and have lost the ability to swallow and speak. My partner is the one talking, and I am transporting my body in between places with my adapted spit jar (the best I could find with a lid and what I thought was "enough capacity" was a shaker).

Once we got in, things developed faster.

Temperature rising above 40, CPR at 82 (which is not high but definitely suspect). However, the visual inspection couldn't identify anything out of place, and the quick tests for some common infections turned negative results. The doctor makes the call that things are too unsure and sends me to an emergency visit at the university hospital to get a specialist looking at it.

It is only a ten-minute drive, so we jump in the car and get there. Meanwhile, our family doctor called to confirm the correct entrance and that someone was waiting for us. Once there, we sit on the sofa and ring the bell. A nurse shows up and asks a few questions; my partner does all the speaking. I get swiftly accompanied to a hospital bed after kissing my partner. It is almost 4 pm, and it is time to pick up Nova from preschool.

Within a few minutes, the same nurse passed by, mentioning that the lab wanted a lot of tests, so it was a plus to put in a venous port. I was drawn to some large containers, and she explained that those were for checking if anything was growing in the blood. A few minutes later, I met a doctor in the examination room. She explains that the best way to get a close look is to get through the nose with a scope. I am happy to be examined and finally looking forward to resting.

The rest goes real quick.

The whole healthcare machinery steps in motion with urgent, still non-stressful communication. The surgery room is getting prepared, and the anaesthesia personnel is coming directly to the room. I get to call my partner, who has just managed to pick up our Nova, and the doctor tells her that my epiglottis (the lid that ensures no food gets into the windpipe) is infected and swollen. There is almost no space for air to flow through. I had to be intubated in the next few minutes. And directly afterwards put to deep rest until out of the emergency. I didn't know yet that the analysis also showed sepsis (bacteria running free through the bloodstream).

At that specific point, I understood how little time was left.

It is not uncommon for me to reflect that at one point, I would do something for the last time and probably never know when that is. When is the last time I will tell a bed night story to Nova? At some point, she will grow out of it, and you never know when exactly that last time will be. All this helps me keep myself present and grateful for everything life is.

I am now lying on a hospital bed through the hospital's corridors.

We turn right.

I think of what could have been the last kiss and hug I gave to my partner.

We get through the doors.

I recall the last time I saw our daughter with me on the sofa, and she was running around. She will turn two that Sunday.

Well, now it is time to roll.

Let's help as much as possible.

Breathe slowly.

Relax.

Allow them to focus on getting the job done.

Plan A is to intubate me reaching the windpipe through the nose. On the third try, it was clear: there was not enough space to go through.

The first doctor drew some lines on my neck a few minutes before. She explained to me it was to help in case of trouble. They were the entry points to my trachea.

I remember starting to lose my relaxed stance at this stage since I felt unable to breathe.

I say that.

Someone cuts my t-shirt.

The scalpel opens the windpipe.

Lights out for me.

I woke up after 24 hrs of medically induced coma in the central intensive care unit.

I was alive.

Intubated, with endless monitors, cables and pumps around me.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't speak.

It was evening. 18.00 on Tuesday.

I was happy and felt an intense rush of thankfulness, joy and love.

Everything felt clear: what I care for and where to seek self-transcendence.

That was a weird way to get to a silent retreat, I thought and laughed.

Just a few more hours, and it would have been too late.

Many things had to go right for me to have a shot at living now:

• My partner helped me throughout the day,
• The local care doctor pushed for a specialist's second opinion that same hour
• The nurse recognised that something was more off than usual and sped up the preparations and the process
• The lab sample showed sepsis within a few minutes
• The doctor drew the position of the windpipe
• The hospital can access an operating room and intensive healthcare in the same building.

I am a lucky man. The body will recover. This experience is something I am already thankful for. Thankfulness, joy and love. With a pinch of curiosity.

Speak soon again,

Francesco