- The 38-Day Void: Between Dreams and Concrete
Before the pain fully arrived, there was a dream. It was more real than reality itself: I was in my bedroom with my son and my two dogs. My stepmother called, and we agreed to go for a coffee. It was peaceful.
Waking up from that dream was the true nightmare. The memories of the asphalt and the sirens began to surface. A voice from the crash replayed in my head: “Is there anyone else in the car? – Yes, another woman, but she’s dead.” My hope that this was all a dream faded.
In the ICU, I wasn’t just a person; I was a folder, a monitor, and ten cables coming out of a paralyzed body. The doctors gave me 50/50 odds. “50% is from us,” they said, “the rest is up to you.” Thinking of my six-month-old son was the only fuel I had. Survival wasn’t a choice; it was the only executive order I had to follow.
- The 30% Truth
I spent 38 days in an isolation room, hearing nothing but the rhythmic beeping of life support. I couldn’t move more than my hands and sleep was a miracle. Tha pain? I think it has several stages. If most people think that the worst is when you want to scream in pain – I will refute you. There is another stage – when it hurts so much that it is difficult for you to even whisper. I know all the stages so well already.
When my family was finally allowed to see me, they showed me a photo of my son to give me hope. But I realized something instantly—I was the one who had taken that photo weeks ago. They were hiding the truth about his condition to protect me. I knew then: I had to get out of there.
Then came the sepsis. I would later find out the surgery had been botched. I was intubated again. I couldn’t speak, so I used a notebook and a pen to interview the doctors like a journalist. People ask if I cried. The answer is no. The deepest trauma is dry; your eyes are parched, and your soul feels heavy and empty at the same time.
- The Tomato Girl and the Triple Chaos
I was eventually transferred to another hospital to “fix the damage.” Imagine a triple chaos: a shattered body, a failing medical system, and a global pandemic. My mother came with me, looking more desperate than I felt. I found myself comforting her.
I became “The Girl with the Tomatoes” to the nurses, because my mom sliced a tomato for me every evening. I was a permanent fixture of the ward. Surgery became a weekly routine. Painkillers were a luxury there, I had to hold my teeths tight. I started using a walker, then crutches, even though I couldn’t control one of my legs. Time felt like thick, slow-moving tar.
- My First “Executive” Decision: The Great Escape
The breaking point came when I was told I tested positive for COVID-19. I couldn’t believe it. I opened my medical file when no one was looking and saw a list of lies: fever, low oxygen, headaches. None of it was true. My family kept saying, “Just be patient, wait a little longer.”
I was done waiting.
I realized that if I stayed in that system, I would never truly heal. My city didn’t even have a plastic surgery department. So, I did the unthinkable. I found a private surgeon working out of a rented operating room. I signed the papers, took responsibility for my own life, and discharged myself with an open wound in my back. I chose an uncertain freedom over a managed slow death. The manager had taken control.
Continue reading: Chapter 3: Home, but Not Whole