Nine Years Ago Today
TW: Medical imagery, mentions of death
When I was driving to pick up my family’s first post-Passover takeout meal, an ambulance passed me on the left. It darted into the fast lane, lights spinning - but no sirens blaring. As it sped off into the distance, I couldn’t help but remember my own ride in a silent ambulance nine years ago today, the day I was sure I was going to die.
I was loaded into the ambulance in a small town in upstate New York, to get care in a larger hospital better equipped for vascular emergencies. The sirens were so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think, and considering exactly how fast my mind was going, that was saying something. Before I was wheeled in, I asked the driver to turn them off.
Inside the ambulance, there was a friendly EMT who joked around with me and a student volunteer who was 19 and a freshman like me, who was there to be my buddy. But still, my heart rate was 120 the whole time the ambulance careened off towards the larger hospital.
I’ve recounted on this blog what happened before: the longest night of my life, the question of whether my foot would recover, the three surgeries while I was awake that I still remember, the weeks afterwards where everything hurt and nothing in the world felt stable anymore.
But this year, nine years to the day after I was first admitted to the hospital with a life-threatening blood clot, I feel very stable. Yes, COVID-19 has changed the world and everyone in it, but thanks to the therapy I received two years post-op, I am able to deal with fears, especially medical ones, in a healthier way.
When I first went to cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), I was told that I was letting April 4, 2012 define me like I had not done with anything else. I never let OCD define me in that way - I always said that I was a daughter, friend, nerd, etc. before a person with OCD. But I was seeing the world through the lens of a blood clot survivor as if there was nothing else in my life and to live for - as if it had actually killed me.
I made the conscious decision to not let that one day dictate the rest of my life, and I spent a year in intensive cognitive behavioral therapy to help me make that choice a reality. But every year, on April 4, I recognize how far I’ve come and how much better my life is now than my hospital stay, and how much I have to be grateful for.
As I saw the ambulance pass by, I smelled the amazing baked ziti take-out on the seat next to me and smiled at the thought of eating my favorite food right after Passover ended. I was grateful that I was driving myself, and the ambulance was far away. My quality of mental health had increased to the point that I could see an ambulance resembling the one I was in - the lack of sirens - and not descend into flashbacks. I was even tapping my left foot - the one I could have lost - on the floor of the car as I listened to music.
Nine years later, while I can’t say everything is the same as it was before my blood clot, I can say that the cliche of “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” does actually work. Nine years later, I know I am stronger for having survived that horrible night and all the nights after, during my recovery from the blood clot and my trauma response that took years to overcome.
There are some things I don’t think will ever be the same. My outlook on physical and mental health, advance directives in medical emergencies, faith, and even my sense of humor have changed (I have certainly acquired a taste for blood puns!). But it no longer needs to be the one thing that defines my life. Just like I can expand the scope of my life beyond OCD, I can be more than a blood clot survivor, while still taking pride in my survival of a physical and mental horror.
Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.