Stories
My swell Christmas
Something was rating me for Christmas dinner!
Turkey with all the trimmings, party hats and presents... It was the week before Christmas, but my whole family had gathered to celebrate with my mum Dale, 75, so she didn't have to travel around on the big day.
We did it every year and, normally, I'd be the first one reading out the cheesy jokes from the crackers. But after a few too many Brussels sprouts, I felt awful.
‘I think my lupus might be flaring up,' I croaked to Mum. I'd been diagnosed with the incurable immune system illness 10 years ago, regularly went through periods of being tired and achy.
‘Why don't you go upstairs for a nap?' she suggested.
‘I think I might,' I smiled.
A few hours later, I woke up with a sore throat. Sitting up as I swallowed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. ‘Oh!'
My face was red and swollen - another symptom of lupus. Oh dear, best go home to my own bed.
By the time my hubby Jerry, 52, joined me a few hours after that, my face was covered in blisters. ‘You have to go to hospital,' he urged me. ‘You've never been like this before.'
After arriving in casualty, the duty doctor confirmed my lupus flare-up. ‘It's a bad one though, get some rest,' he said, giving me some painkillers and a steroid shot.
‘I hope you're well enough to cook the turkey!' Jerry joked, making me a cuppa back home. ‘I can't do it.'
‘No, you'll try to put it in the microwave!' I smiled. But although I was trying to stay bright, the pain was getting worse.
Days ticked by, but I couldn't even get off the sofa, let alone put up decorations. I'd hoped to have the house full of tinsel and treats by the time my son Jeremy, 25, arrived on Christmas Eve, but there was no chance.
And I looked like a corpse... ‘Have you spoken to Doctor Meadow?' Jeremy frowned, making me a welcome brew. He was my lupus specialist.
‘Dad tried to call him, but he's off now for Christmas,' I croaked, squinting at my son through swollen eyes.
‘Well, if you're not better tomorrow, we're going back to hospital,' he decided.
Christmas morning, I'd planned to cook a big fry-up before we sat around the tree opening our presents together - but I hadn't even managed to wrap my gifts. Instead, as the big day dawned, I was paralysed by pain.
As well as my balloon face, my right ankle was swollen and bruised, and even the smallest movement sent pain shooting through my body.
‘How are you feeling?' Jeremy smiled at lunchtime. ‘I've brought you some toast.'
‘What are you and Dad having for lunch?' I whispered back.
‘We found a pizza in the freezer...' My heart sank. I'd invited my lad home for a big family Christmas, but he wasn't even getting a slice of turkey!
‘I got you a pressie, Mum,' he smiled, handing me a box. But my fingers were so swollen, he had to open it for me. I squinted at it, but couldn't make it out through my slits of eyes.
‘It's a GPS,' he explained.
‘Help me find my way to the hospital...' I joked, taking some more painkillers.
I slept through the rest of Christmas Day and didn't wake properly until 6.30 on Boxing Day morning.
Eurgh, my face felt strange. Putting a shaky hand up to my cheek, I felt a jelly-like substance slide off. ‘My God,' I cried. It was my own skin...
‘Jerry! Jeremy! Help!' I screamed. ‘My face is peeling!'
Huge chunks were coming off in my right hand - itself swollen to twice its size.
My son and husband didn't know what to say or do, just rushed me to A&E double-quick. They took just one look at me there and transferred me to a bigger hospital, St Francis in Columbus, instead.
Good news at last, because that was where my lupus doctor was based. He'd be able to stop my flesh from falling away, ease the burning, unbearable pain that made me want to scream until my throat gave out.
As soon as Doctor Meadow clapped eyes on me... ‘This is not lupus,' he said, stunned.
‘Then wh-what's wrong?' I asked, panicked.
‘I don't know, we'll have to run tests,' he said.
With medical bills stacking up, Jerry had no choice but to go in for his shift at the factory where he worked. But Jeremy and my mum stayed by my bedside as the agony punched through the painkillers I'd been given. I couldn't think through it, couldn't move because of it, it was all- consuming, every nerve on fire.
‘This must be what it feels like when you're dying,' I thought to myself. Then I passed out...
Blinking in the bright hospital lights, I saw Jerry smiling down at me, tears in his eyes. ‘How are you feeling, love?' he asked me.
‘Pain...' I winced. Less than it had been, but still agony.
‘When you fell unconscious, Jeremy called me straight here. Your doctor told us you wouldn't last the night,' he croaked. ‘You're a real fighter, love.'
‘You can't get rid of me that easily!' I whispered. But while I seemed to have come through the worst of it, doctors still didn't know what ‘it' actually was...
‘Tests are coming up blank,' Doctor Meadow told me as blisters appeared on my left foot - and my right hand continued to swell to more than three times its normal size. ‘All we can do is keep pumping you with antibiotics, and hope something works.'
New Year's Eve came and went in a haze of pain. Finally, after almost a week on the edge of death, doctors gave me a cocktail of antibiotics that helped get the swelling down.
Then, on January 6, I was discharged from hospital and went to live with Mum because I needed 24-hour care. I couldn't walk, feed, wash or dress myself. Jerry was working
every hour he could just to cover my medical bills.
In February, I was sent to a specialist to have my wounds dressed. ‘You've got some goodies here,' he said, inspecting the open wounds on my feet and hands.
‘I know,' I sighed. ‘I just wish I knew what caused it, but they can't tell me.'
The doctor looked at me confused. ‘It's necrotising fasciitis,' he said, matter-of-factly.
‘Er... what's that?' I asked.
‘It's really rare, perhaps your doctors had never come into contact with it before,' he explained. ‘It's more commonly known as the flesh-eating bug.'
‘Flesh-eating bug?!' I gasped.
That explained so much - the open sores that wouldn't heal, the skin falling off my face...
‘It's amazing you survived without a proper diagnosis,' he went on.
‘But in some ways, it's lucky, too. If they'd known what it was, they would have cut off your arm and leg to stop the disease from spreading.'
Good God! Feeling dizzy, I just sat stunned while the doctor dressed my wounds with some silver pads to draw out the toxins. I just couldn't believe it - not only had I been lucky to survive, but it was a miracle that I'd survived in one piece.
A year on, all my wounds have now gone, but I've been left with nerve damage where the bug ravaged my fingers and toes. It also took me seven months to learn to walk again.
Still, I count myself lucky. This year, we're going to have a proper Christmas to make up for last year - and the only flesh being eaten will be turkey... not me!
Kathy White, 53, Cuthbert, Georgia, USA
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