uly 7th–13th, 2017
“The most terrifying weeksof my life.” — Marci H.
July 7th
I picked you up from your house so we could learn how to clean your port at the cancer center. We were meeting Ian there so he could go back to work afterward. At that point, we had no idea how sick you really were.
When I pulled into your driveway, the house was completely dark. I knew you weren’t feeling well, so I went in carefully. I found you lying on the couch, ready to go, but something was different. You were quiet. Too quiet. And you were pale in a way I hadn’t seen before.
We drove to the cancer center, and you wanted to wait in the car for Ian. He was already inside, so we eventually made our way up to the second floor together. You were taken back immediately.
The first thing they did was close the curtains.
Then they disconnected the 5-FU.
They started IV fluids right away, but even getting your blood pressure took multiple attempts. Nurses came in and out, trying, adjusting, waiting.
Then Dr. K and Dr. Preston came in. After a short evaluation, they said you needed to go straight to the hospital across the road. They wanted fluids running before transport and a bed ready on the oncology floor.
I drove you to the entrance while Ian parked. By the time we got you upstairs, it was around 2 p.m. We made sure you were settled, and then I went home to rest.
I thought we were in the middle of something difficult.
I didn’t yet know we were at the edge of something life-threatening.
July 8th
At 5:49 a.m., I got a text from Ian.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
I kept those messages because I’m old now, haha.
“Erin was experiencing pain and shortness of breath around midnight. I brought it up with the nurse, they said it was likely related to her heart. As of 5:30 she has been admitted to the ICU for low blood pressure. That is all I know.”
“What room #?”
“9 I think but still in the 6th floor waiting area.”
“Turns out she lacks the enzyme to break down chemo. She is effectively allergic to chemo. They are giving an antidote once every 6 hours over 5 days.”
That was the first time we understood what was happening.
You had DPD deficiency—complete dihydropyrimidine dehydrogenase deficiency. Your body couldn’t break down the chemotherapy. What was meant to treat you had become toxic to you.
And then came the miracle inside the terror: the antidote existed. But it wasn’t easy to find. Lewis Gale had one dose. The rest had to be flown in from Sweden.
No one locally fully understood what was happening except your oncologist—who, by God’s timing, was on call.
He was only the second person in Virginia in a decade to see a case like this.
We kept saying it: God had a plan for you, baby girl.
Your uncle stayed part of that day so Ian could go briefly to the church yard sale with David. Everyone was scared, even if we didn’t say it out loud.
I was working, but I came in and out of the hospital multiple times a day. No one could see you until you were stable.
Saturday was the first day you were placed in a medically induced coma.
Life support.
Ian and I were the only ones receiving updates. We had to call with a code before anyone would even talk to us.
July 9th
I came to see you for the first time in the ICU.
It was nothing like the movies.
It was worse.
Machines everywhere. Tubes. IV lines running into places I didn’t want to look at but couldn’t look away from. The breathing tube especially—it was hard to see. Harder than anything I had ever seen.
There was no certainty in the room. Only severity.
Some nurses were hopeful. Some weren’t. Everyone agreed on one thing: you were critical.
Your heart was under extreme stress. Your body needed time it didn’t have. But your oncologist kept saying he was doing everything he could. He was steady, and that steadiness was the only thing that felt like ground.
At 12 p.m., Ian met with Dr. K. Things were going as hoped, he said. There were small improvements.
That word—small—became everything.
July 10th
5:00 a.m.
I called for updates.
They were decreasing your blood pressure medications and epinephrine to see how your body would respond. Your creatinine was improving. Your white count was coming down.
You even squeezed a nurse’s hand while briefly coming out of sedation.
Not enough to wake fully—but enough to show you were still there.
They found a clot in your heart and legs, and began monitoring it closely.
When I saw you later that afternoon, you were unchanged, still in and out of sedation. But the number of IV lines had slowly started to decrease.
Even that felt like progress.
July 11th
6:40 a.m.
Another good update.
Slowly, things were improving.
By 9 a.m., doctors were in and out of your room constantly. Ian and I rotated schedules so someone was always there.
They turned off your continuous dialysis. Your oxygen was down to 30%.
They wanted to see how your body would respond outside full sedation.
You were exhausted.
Ian stayed late into the night, but you still weren’t fully waking.
July 12th
This was the day everything changed.
The best day.
The most terrifying week of my life finally shifted toward something else.
You woke up.
They removed sedation, and you began to stabilize. You were confused—deeply, understandably confused—but you were there.
When I walked into your room that morning, you were awake. You were looking toward the nurse’s station, watching the room like you were trying to understand where you were.
And then you saw me.
You turned your head and smiled—wide, immediate, full of recognition. Tears filled your eyes before mine even caught up. And then you were crying, and I was crying, and for a moment there was nothing else in the world but the fact that you were alive.
You had no idea what had happened. No context. No time. Just fragments.
You thought it was a dream.
We learned later that you believed you had been asleep for years.
Seventeen of them.
You still had the breathing tube in, which frustrated you—you wanted to speak, to explain, to reach out—but you couldn’t.
That night, you saw Ian. It felt like the first time in forever, though none of it was measurable in time anymore.
They removed the breathing tube later that evening. You couldn’t speak yet. Your voice was barely a whisper.
And you slept. A lot.
July 13th
Visitors started again in small windows.
Vanessa got to see you. Rachel and Jordan tried, but ICU restrictions made it impossible.
You told us later that when you woke up, people had color tones. Vanessa and Ian were orange. I looked normal.
You thought your doctors and nurses looked like they were from the future—like they had all had extreme cosmetic surgery. It made it hard for you to believe us when we told you what year it was.
You didn’t believe your dog was alive. You didn’t believe your grandparents were alive.
Time had fractured completely.
July 15th–16th
We brought you small things—lip balm, lotion, orange Gatorade. You wanted it, but your throat was too damaged to drink it. The feeding tube had done its own kind of damage, and your voice was still recovering.
On Sunday, the 16th, you were moved to the 10th floor after surgery to remove the dialysis catheter.
That day was hard in a different way.
I had to call your mom while she was driving down from Wisconsin. I asked her to pull over. I remember the weight of that phone call more than anything else. There was nothing she could do yet except prepare to come be with you once you left the hospital.
We knew then that recovery wouldn’t end at discharge.
Someone would need to stay with you constantly.
That someone became her.
I stayed in contact with Gina throughout everything. She was a light in the dark—someone I could speak freely with when everything else felt too heavy to carry alone.
Ian and I had to limit visitors. That was one of the hardest decisions. But you were too fragile. Too close to the edge.
Closing
I will never forget the moment you smiled at me when you woke up.
I don’t think I ever fully came back from it the same.
You are not just Dr. K’s miracle patient.
You are ours.
I love you forever,
Marci
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