Chasing Air: My Quest for a Lung Transplant Journey (Part 2)
"This is it! I'm dying! I know it!" I frantically shouted between coughing fits and gasps for air. My eyes fixated on the pulse oximeter monitoring my blood oxygen levels. Anxiety flooded over me as the number plummeted into the 70s. Gasping, I struggled to breathe as each cough choked my swollen airways. Hot tears streamed down my face, and sobs started to rise. I couldn't do this; it was too much. How could I breathe? The thoughts flooded my brain. The words of support and comfort from my mom and the nurses fell on deaf ears. Was I crying out of self-pity? I didn't know anymore, or was I just scared of passing away? I cried out to the Lord deep in my soul.
About three months after being listed for a transplant in the hospital, I was receiving antibiotics, and the healthcare team was trying to stabilize me until my transplant. Having lived and worked in hospitals, I wasn't oblivious to the whole process. Witnessing patients pass away, death was not something that necessarily scared me. However, leaving behind loved ones and the pain they would feel was daunting. When all my friends were graduating college, getting new cars, houses, marrying, having children, I had to confront the fact that I was preparing for death. Denial still gripped my heart.
After experiencing several panic attacks, the main transplant doctor entered and sat with me. He calmly discussed the next steps as my health continued to decline. The prospect of being placed on a ventilator in the ICU, sedated and reliant on machines, loomed before me. He explained that if I didn't receive a transplant within 12 days, they would have to consider withdrawing life support.
He wanted to know my wishes alone, with no other family there, because he said that I wouldn't be able to make that decision being sedated. I acknowledged my family's likely reluctance but asserted my own readiness to let go if necessary. In that moment, amidst our conversation, his compassionate gaze and genuine concern reassured me. As we talked, he told me it was all under my control, and I just needed to hold on longer and fight through this. Realizing the depth of my struggle, I admitted my need for psychiatric support, a step I hadn't taken before in managing my mental health. With a blend of desperation and determination, I half-jokingly declared, "I need to see the psych doctors. I need help." He agreed.
It took some time to adjust to the new medication, but they also introduced me to a BiPAP machine. This contraption involved wearing a mask that forcibly directed air into my lungs, essentially doing the breathing for me. The sensation was incredibly awkward. There was such a challenge to surrender to the sensation of air being pushed into my body. This was so awkward at first to do and talk about panic attacks with this. It was a huge mental game to try and put it on and accept the air being forced in you. But as I lay in bed with the mask on, I couldn't help but feel like a character from Star Wars—Darth Vader, perhaps. Despite the initial weirdness, the BiPAP machine proved to be immensely beneficial. Additionally, a group of ladies performed Reiki on me during these sessions. While my mom remained skeptical of its efficacy, she noted that my blood oxygen levels would rise to around 90%, and my vitals would relax. Regardless, this all helped me to relax enough to just pray and talk with God about the future.
After about a week or two with this, I began to feel better and was eventually released to my apartment. It was December, with Christmas just around the corner. My boyfriend, who is now my husband, did his best to support me during this challenging time. I had visitors come to see me, and before all of this happened, I hosted a party so I could spend time with everyone I cared about one more time. You never know what the future holds, and I wanted to make every moment count. As I looked around at my friends and family, I realized that I didn't want to continue living this way any longer. Everyone around me was hurting, and I was ready to move on. I spent my days sitting on the couch with about 12 liters of oxygen flowing, still struggling to catch my breath. I was exhausted mentally and physically. To keep my spirits up, I watched funny sitcoms and crocheted little butterflies, but deep down, I knew this wasn't living.
One early morning, after a sleepless night around 5 am, I found myself staring out the window at the snow-covered park below. My apartment, perched six floors above, offered a beautiful view overlooking the vast park. Amidst the quiet, I remember spotting this runner braving the cold in the snow. Instinctively, I thought, "How silly and absurd it was to run in such freezing temperatures." But then it hit me—I would never even have that option. In that moment, I came to terms with the reality of my situation, realizing I was ready to move on and embrace the unknown of a transplant or death.