Something BIG. Part 12.

Before I knew it, it was time to leave my little nest at Loyola and head home.  While we were all thrilled, we were equally scared to death.  Although I hadn't shown signs of infection in a month, my pain was still strong as ever, my wounds were huge and required a great deal of care, and I could barely get around.  I was able to move around for very short bouts of time with the walker, but still needed a lot of help.  My mom was still helping me shower, I couldn't get in and out of a chair by myself, had a very, very hard time dressing myself, and couldn't put socks or shoes on.  In fact, I couldn't lift my right leg at all.  When I would get into bed, I'd have to pull myself on with my arms and then use my arms to pick up my right leg and put it onto the bed.

Then there was the issue of Madison, my dog.  She'd been staying with my Aunt Mary & Uncle Bob for the last 2 months and while I couldn't WAIT to see her, we were all afraid that her affection would hurt me...literally.  Mady loves to jump up and sit on my lap, cuddle, sleep ON me, etc.  If anyone were to TOUCH my legs, it would literally feel like a knife stabbing me open...now imagine a dog jumping right on your lap and their fingernails....... ouch. It hurts just thinking about it.  To this day, she's not allowed to sit on my lap or walk across me or jump on me when I get home.  8 months later, it's still very, very painful.

My mom had taken a leave of absence from her work and (PRAISE GOD) they let her stay with me as long as I needed....and I needed it.  She moved in to my apartment for the next month, and took care of absolutely everything.  I have the best, most generous, caring, amazing, Godly parents in the world.  I couldn't even begin to tell you how they saved me time and time again during my illness.  How they put their lives on hold in Virginia and came to my rescue.  How their prayers healed me.  How their faith strengthened me.

The day I left the hospital was a bittersweet day.  The nurses and I were all in tears as my parents packed up my room.  Nurses from the Burn Unit (where I had spent a majority of my time) came down in groups throughout the day for hugs and stories and cries over the battle won.  Those nurses at Loyola were angels.  They were family.  And they knew everyone in our family.  When Dr. G and Dr. M came down to say goodbye (my physicians/surgeons for nec fasc who saved my life), we all lost it.  They knew as well as I did that I wasn't supposed to live.  That I wasn't supposed to have a right leg.  That I was a damn miracle.  Dr. G once told me that if I hadn't been a marathoner, I would've died on that first night.  My heart and runner's lungs were strong and were able to sustain the hyperventilating and heavy breathing that ensued for hours upon hours because of the sepsis, shock, and pain.  That morning before I left the hospital, Dr. G promised me he'd be at my first marathon.  In Hawaii.  Like I've told you before, Dr. G is pretty damn fabulous.

Once everything was packed in the car and ready to go, the doctor gave me a stack of prescriptions to fill (literally like 30 different meds) and my dad wheeled me out to the car.  I was OUT OF THE HOSPITAL for the first time in 2 months!!

The ride home was horrific.  I was sitting in the back, basically laying down with my legs up, because I couldn't bend my knees at all, so I couldn't handle a "sitting" position unless my legs were flat out in front of me.  Every bump or jerk, and I'd wince and stop breathing.  Towards the end of the trip, I was in tears.  I feared that the pain would never go away.  I feared that I'd never be the same again.  Now, 8 months later, I know that I won't.  Those 2 months in the hospital and the hell that I endured changed me forever.  Not only did it change my outlook on death, but it changed my outlook on life.  God showed me that I had strength beyond my imagination.  I learned that if I could get through that, I could get through anything.  And I was stronger because of it.

I learned that prayer produces miracles.  I learned that miracles aren't just Old Testament stories.  God's performing them all the time, all over, on all of us.  There are no coincidences, people.  I didn't live through necrotizing fasciitis because I'm a healthy marathoner and worked really hard to stay alive.  (Those things helped me, but I was those things because God made me those things).  12 years ago, when I started running marathons, God knew that one day I'd have to fight for my life against a deadly infection.  HE IS IN CONTROL.  And when you realize that, no matter how hard, painful, horrible things can be, there is a sense of peace that transcends the pain and horror of it all.  

Although I had made it out of the hospital, I still had a long road ahead of me.  My BIG was far from over.  In some ways, it was about to get even BIGGER.  There were some horrible things that were about to happen as I recovered that are still so painful and raw, I'm afraid to tell you about them.  Necrotizing Fasciitis is no joke.  Please pray for strength and courage as I tell you how my recovery at home unfolded....what happened....and how I lived through it.  One last picture to show you.  This is the night I came home from the hospital.  Jon posted it on his Facebook with this caption:  

"Everyday you are alive and healthy on this planet is a gift from God.  Don't ever take it for granted."

Smart guy, that husband of mine.