One in Five

My name is Trevor.
This year, I nearly died.

The last eighteen months have been a real challenge for me and my health. It came to a massive head earlier this year. Roughly February.

I have always had eczema. It has been a defining feature of my life and I will most likely write about it again. Unlike most people with this condition, it has been getting progressively worse. This year, I managed to see a dermatologist for it. He took one look at me and admitted me to hospital. This was the first step. I was in there for a little over a week while it was brought “under control”. To be honest, it was better when I left than when I went in, but it did not stay that way. 

As a warning, in the next paragraph I'm going to touch on some of what I went through. It was not pleasant and I’m not going to dress it up like it was. If you don’t want to read about it (and I don’t blame you), skip the next paragraph and understand that it was painful and bad. 

A fortnight later, I had no control. I had cuts, scrapes, sores and wounds. They did not get better. Each time I had a shower or bath, it was a painful ordeal. Imagine washing a cut that you recently have and how much that stings. Now put that all over your body. That was how I was. When I went to bed at night, as I tried to relax, my body took over and I lost a lot of self control. I would scratch. Whether this was in my sleep or in the moments before sleep took over, it was not always clear. So I would lay awake in pain, trying not to scratch and the intense concentration that was required meant that I couldn’t fall asleep. When I woke in the morning, my sheets and pillows were covered in my blood. When I moved any of my limbs or even turned my head, it would open up wounds that were trying desperately to heal. My clothing stuck to my body, taped to open wounds with blood and pus as the adhesive. Taking them off would, again, tear open these pains.

So it became that my life was a constant struggle. I would often rationalise that I was lucky compared to a lot of other people, which was true. But at times, that small mercy seemed like a cruel joke. 

Then I hit my low point.

The moment that I was at my worst, I was sitting in my shower, in agony and despair. I had run out of painkillers in my house and was at a point where I could do very little but weep.

I have often lived by the simple rule: You’re never given more than you can handle. In that moment, I truly believed that I was. It was then that I did something unexpected. Without knowing it, I asked for help.

I called my mother. I was hysterical and I asked her if she could bring me some painkillers. She lives about forty minutes from me and I called her and asked her to bring me some painkillers rather than going to the shop, a mere minute’s drive from my house to do it myself. She knows me and heard something in my voice. She came over straight away, and rather than bring me painkillers, she took me straight to the hospital. By this stage I was delirious. She told me that I was going to be admitted to hospital and that she would not leave there until I was.

Turns out, it didn’t take much of a fight. They knew pretty quickly that something was wrong with me. I was given morphine for the pain. It helped to a point. They took blood samples and tests were done. I was taken up to the ward and told that I would be there for a while.

By this stage, I had started hallucinating. Nothing could have prepared me for this and I can’t remember much of it thankfully. What I do remember though is a blinding terror that gripped me at times. I also recall that the steady beeping of the machine that was feeding me antibiotics and fluids seemed so loud that I likened it to the Chinese water torture. Despite everything going into my system and all the painkillers and morphine I was on, I didn’t sleep that night.

As the meds took effect, I started to get gradually better.

The staff there were great. The nurses listened to me and showed copious amounts of empathy. One even went out of her way to source earplugs for me to help me with my water torture dilemma.

I was diagnosed with MRSA. A blood infection. I spent almost the next two weeks in hospital getting increasingly large doses of powerful IV antibiotics. When I was finally released, I was still on IV antibiotics for a number of days that were fed into my system through what looked like a baby bottle around my neck.

I was incredibly weak at this point in time. I left my house twice during this time. Despite putting on a brave face, I was left exhausted after both of these events. The first was to go to a workshop for being an MC. At the MC workshop, I didn’t show my usual level of energy and participated at a level I would normally be appalled at, but it was the best I could do. The people there were incredibly understanding. The other outing was to see a movie with my friend. She knew me and nothing needed to be said.

When I finally was off the IV antibiotics, I was grateful. In a weakened state, perhaps, but grateful.

It was only then that I finally looked up what I had on the internet. Up until this point, I trusted the people who were there to help me. I trusted that they would tell me everything that I needed to know and that worrying about it was going to hinder my recovery. There were a number of things that I discovered, but one fact stood out in my mind more than anything else. Treated MRSA has a 20% mortality rate.

One in five.

One in five people who had this didn’t survive. It meant that if all of my brothers and I got it, statistically one of us would be dead. I would be more likely to die than to roll a six on a six sided die. I would be more likely to die than to win a free mars bar wrapper. I was more likely to die than I was to be left handed.

This was a humbling thought. Why did I survive? What right did I have to be one of the four? What was I contributing that meant I should continue my existence? I had all of these thoughts and probably thousands of others just like it. Until I had the thought that snapped me back to myself.

I am alive.

Don’t doubt that when I figured this painfully obvious thought out that I didn’t suddenly yell out “I’m alive” in a Doctor Frankenstein voice. I did. It was at a bus stop. Nobody was around (sadly). But what I realised was that I still have the opportunity to become Trevor, or more importantly; I can become a closer approximation to the Trevor that I could be. The Trevor who doesn’t lament what could be, but instead works toward it. The Trevor who would do something because he liked it.  The Trevor who finds a way to work his creative ideas into something more tangible. The Trevor who would make connections with the people around him, even if it meant putting himself out there. The Trevor who takes risks. The Trevor, who instead of locking himself away, finds ways to share himself with the world and (while terrified at the prospect) forces himself to do so.

A small example of some of the things that I have done that I wouldn’t have done otherwise (in no particular order).

I quit my job.
I stage managed a play.
I purchased red shoes.
I devised an improvised comedy show and performed in it.
I made new friends.
I wrote a short play.
I started a blog.

Some of these actions may seem insignificant, but they are the start. How am I going to be a better version of myself? One step at a time.

I quit my job. I did this for a number of reasons. The official reason for this was my health and this is completely true. I could not continue doing that job in the state that I was in. If I’m completely honest, I wasn’t doing as well as I should have for the last 6 months because of it. The reasons that I was working for that company were rapidly disappearing. It was time. I couldn’t become Trevor while still tethered to that job.

I stage managed a play. This was different to anything that I had previously done. Up until this point, I had only been on stage. When I was asked to stage manage Villanova Players’ production of Habeas Corpus, I accepted. And aside from the one actor’s near death during a show, I succeeded well enough with this task that when I was hospitalised (again) for one weekend’s performances, the shoes that I left were difficult to fill and was welcomed back whole heartedly the following week. I gathered a larger understanding of what happens behind the scenes of a production. I gained a wider view of what I would need to put on a production of my own one day. I was becoming the Trevor who was working towards his goals.

I purchased red shoes. This may not seem like much, but up until then my shoes were almost exclusively black or white. These new ones don’t fit me well, but they make me smile when I wear them. That is important. This was the Trevor who decided to do something because he liked it.

I devised an improvised comedy show and performed in it. I came up with the idea during a morphine induced state when I was back in hospital. I stubbornly sent off an email with the idea before I let the drugs take full hold. I was then given the opportunity to perform in the debut of Henchman’s Anonymous. It was a success. More importantly, I enjoyed it. This was the Trevor who took risks.

I made new friends. I don’t do this easily. Not because I’m a complete bastard (that doesn’t help), but because I don’t let people in. The biggest example of new friends that I have developed recently was the people involved in putting on a short play for Short+Sweet, Merry Fecking Christmas. The small cast was full of amazing people. I have some special memories from that group as a whole and from each of them individually. A Facebook post that I recently made illustrates it clearly:
June 24 I met six amazing people and reconnected with one. On August 16 we said our goodbyes. Less than 8 weeks. Now, there is an empty spot in my Tuesday nights, but a warmth in my heart for the memory of the Macgregors.
This is something that I wouldn’t have done 12 months ago. Firstly, the opening myself up to these people, and secondly publically acknowledging it on a medium like Facebook (and now here). This was the Trevor who put himself out there to make connections with those around him.

I wrote short play. I was inspired by all of the people from Merry Fecking Christmas, but one way that was unexpected for me was the passion and delight that came from the writer of our play. I decided to try my hand at a little creative writing. At the time of me publishing this blog, I have written the first draft of a play that I intend to enter into Short+Sweet next year. I’ve also begun writing at least two other plays (one short, one not so much). It’s something that I’ve thought about doing for some time. So I did. This was the Trevor who found a way to turn his creative ideas into something more tangible.

I started a blog. This is perhaps, the most terrifying prospect of them all. I committed to writing an aspect of truth about or from myself each fortnight. I’ve always been a very personal and private individual. This is my attempt to share myself with the world. To give me some sense of self-worth in an external fashion. Whether other people read it or not doesn’t matter to the original idea. The fact that I’m writing them in the first place is enough. The Trevor who forces himself to share with the world.

All of these things and a number of others I would never have done without my revelation. 

One in five don’t make it. I did.

It’s not an easy road that I have ahead of me. I’m not even going to pretend that it is. There are a large number of challenges facing me and I’m putting more and more in my way with each decision I make. I’m not taking the easy path. But the road that I’m carving will be much more rewarding. 

My name is Trevor

This year, I survived a potentially fatal medical condition.

I have decided to live