Absolute rock bottom came a few weeks into my time in ITU. occasionally secretions would solidify and form a plug, which would lodge itself somewhere in my airway. If I was lucky it would be far enough down that only one of my lungs was blocked off, if I was unlucky it would be both. Needless to say my reserves of luck at this point in my life looked about as healthy as I did; i.e. not good. The setup in my ITU bed at the time meant if I looked up and to the left I could see my monitor; the screen that showed my heart rate and importantly my saturations. Oxygen saturation is a percentage, and represents how well loaded with oxygen your blood is- if your breathing is impaired less oxygen is coming in and so your saturations (or “sats”) decrease. Ideally my sats should have been a healthy 99-100%. On bad days they could drift into the low 90s and I’d feel like a slug with particularly bad asthma.

So, my nurse had just stepped out, and blam, perfect timing- I had plugged off. I immediately knew this was a bad one. The only way I can describe it is that it’s like breathing against a brick wall. Because of the tracheostomy, I couldn’t talk, yell, or generally communicate- I had to click my tongue against the roof of my mouth if I needed to get someone’s attention. I clicked. No one was coming. I looked at the monitor, and could only watch as my saturations started creeping down. 95, 94… I readied myself and tried some deep breaths, but still no good. 88, 87… I’m starting to tire, real panic is setting in. 81, 80, 79… The corners of my vision are fading, it feels like I’m swimming through mud, my tongue is hammering staccato beat onto the roof of my mouth.

There is a deep, gritty fear in the primal parts your mind when you are starved of oxygen. My primordial lizard brain was thrashing about, screaming, screaming, screaming “I’m going to die, I’m going to die, do something, do something or it’s all over…”

Suddenly the room is full of people. Everything feels like it’s moving frighteningly fast but somehow in slow motion. Concerned faces floating in my glassy, blurred vision. I vividly remember that all I could say- and by “say” I mean silently mouth in frenzied desperation- was “help me.” I don’t know how many repetitions I got in before the walls closed in and I lost consciousness. In those last brief moments I really thought I was going to die. Funny how, in that snippet of time, the life that with every waking moment I had valued as less than nothing was suddenly the only thing that mattered. I felt so vulnerable and alone.

I wish I could tell you that I was brave in the face of this feverish nightmare, that my indomitable will and the deep and true strength of my character rose up, that at that moment I was tested and was not found lacking, that I, like all of us, in my time of need found a way to draw upon that intangible well of courage we all believe we will have when the time comes, when your name gets called, when it’s live or die, sink or swim. But I sank. I sank into the hole. I folded like a lawn chair. Before my injury I prided myself on being someone who never quit, who wasn’t a quitter, that quitting was abhorrent and I would always find a way to succeed. But I did quit. I lost the will to carry on.

I was melting, floating away, floating away, floating away with the tide, into the mad waves of the sea; the nature, the essence of who I was drifting apart, being swallowed up into deep nothingness. I think I might have touched madness for some of that time. Forgetting, remembering, forgetting again. Fictitious conversations with fictitious people in my head, replacing reality, painting over my memory with frenzied, random brushstrokes. I spent almost every waking hour listening to audiobooks, losing what was left of me in them; it would be over a year later before I could sleep soundly without blanketing myself with human voice, with a narrative kinder than the one that I would fill the silence with before sleep. In those fleeting initial weeks where I was barely present in my own lifeless body, deep seams rich with pain laid down like heinous but bountiful coal veins, and even now I’m having to gouge them out. I was in the hole.

I was surrounded by people at this time. Izzy visited me each and every one of the 44 days. My only focus was to be strong for her. I was gripped by a primal fear that she would leave me, that any remaining goodness in the remains of my life was eroding away. I knew I had to get the pieces together and hold them there, I had to stop the bleeding. So I would dig deep for those few hours a day, and she did too. Two lovers holding hands hanging over the precipice.

I’ve re-read this many times as I’ve written it; I know it’s heavy, but it’s the truth. But I am reading it now in the comfort of my own home. The photo is my view right now, out of the living room window. It’s a world away from the ceiling of ITU. Izzy in the next room. I didn’t lose my girl. I didn’t lose myself. My friends did not desert me; in fact I am still humbled by the love and support I received and still receive, sometimes from people I had not seen or spoken to in years. I have flown to Canada and back, spoken at conferences, and re-forged a life worth living. My closest friends I now call my brothers. If you’re reading this because you are or have been in the hole, spinal-cord injury or not, I am proof that things can get better. That’s was I would say to myself if I could go back. I’m not saying is going to be perfect, I’m not saying that you are going to walk again, or that your loss doesn’t break my heart, but things are a damn sight better for me now than they were then.

That’s what’s beautiful about sharing human experience; the hole doesn’t care if you can use your hands, or if you’ve lost your job, or if life is just shit sometimes- it’s indiscriminate. I know that this post has been bleak, but it’s positive in a way too; because those times have passed me now. I’ll try and make the next one more cheerful, I promise! I am also so grateful to all the people who are reading, commenting and reaching out to me about the things I’ve written- the feedback has been so validating, and you’ve all been very kind. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep you interested for a long while to come.

Until next time.