In May 2018, I was in the thick of running my business and juggling mum life. I was in the middle of a day of maternity nursing with a client, and my ankle suddenly turned in—just as it can do. Normally this would just be a little bit of a sprain, but it hurt to a point I couldn’t put any weight onto it. Within half an hour I was in tears and had to leave my client (something I have never done before or since) to drive home, which is a drive I’ll never forget. As it was my left foot, which is obviously clutch, it was the worst drive of my life. Every time I had to push the clutch in, I was biting my lip in pain—and the drive was around 45 minutes to get home! By the end of the journey, I had started to experience flu-like symptoms; I was jittery, cold, shivery, and literally limping into the house.
I sobbed to my middle child, Lizzie, as I felt so awful and just couldn’t understand what had happened.
Overnight I tried to sleep but couldn’t even bear to have the cotton sheet over my left leg as it hurt so much, and by the morning I couldn’t walk—I literally had to crawl on my hands and knees to get downstairs to let the dog out and sort the children’s things for school. I set the ironing board out on the lowest height and kept my leg in the air while ironing the uniforms so that it wasn’t touching anything at all, but the pain was still huge. I remember waking the kids up and sobbing because I was in so much pain.
By the time the children got home from school, I was in excruciating pain; I physically couldn’t get to the bathroom, so I had held it in all day. I cried to my eldest daughter, who luckily was driving at this stage. She took me to A&E, where we waited for hours and hours. I was eventually taken into triage and waited hours more. Eventually I saw a nurse who brushed me off , believing I had damaged tissue in my ankle, and tried to shove a big plastic boot on my foot. By this time I was sobbing, asking her to stop as the pain was so intense, at this point she sent me home to do it myself. My daughter put me in a wheelchair and got me back to the car and home, where I had another horrendous night. By the time the children came home from school the following day, I was literally on the floor. I felt like I was dying.
My leg swelled up like a balloon. I was burning up and freezing cold at the same time. My friend had called round, taken one look at me, noticed a rash, and said, “You’re not right. I’m taking you to A&E.” She called my parents in Yorkshire, who raced to the hospital thinking the worst.
I don’t remember much after arriving at the hospital. I know they triaged me quickly, but there was still a wait. My blood pressure was dangerously low. The sepsis had already started shutting down my body. They rushed me in for blood tests and scans and started IV antibiotics immediately. I remember lying in a hospital bed thinking, “This can’t be happening.” I was 46. Healthy. A busy mum. I didn’t even understand what sepsis really was. No one ever talks about it until it’s too late.
Over the next few days, I was moved to a side room because my condition was worsening. My leg was so painful I couldn’t move. The swelling was extreme, the pain unbearable, and my temperature kept spiking. I was on a drip and the strongest antibiotics they had. At one point, I was told if I hadn’t gone in that night, I wouldn’t have made it through to the next morning.
I remember a nurse telling me, “We’ll do everything we can.” And that terrified me. Because I realised how serious it was. They couldn’t find the source of the infection. My ankle was inflamed, so they diagnosed septic arthritis, but something didn’t sit right with me. I knew my body, and this felt deeper.
Then one night, everything changed. I had my now usual pain relief, but as I was being taken down for my tests, from down below to my spine, I felt agonising pain—the roll of the bed felt like it was going over huge bumps, and it took hours for the nurses to stabilise me and the pain. The next morning, when one of my consultants, Dr Nash, came in, I just burst into tears. I said, “My body is rejecting something; I can feel it.”
He paused and said, “You don’t have a coil in, do you?” I froze. “Yes,” I said. “The copper one. It’s been in for years.” And then it hit me; I’d had the same copper coil for 15 years. Life had been busy; I’d been through a divorce, and it just got left. I’d even asked at smear tests, “Is it okay to leave it in?” And they’d said yes and would advise how long I had left, but time just got away with me. But it wasn’t okay now. Copper coils are only meant to be in for 10 years.
Dr Nash looked at me and said, “That could be it.” He explained that when copper coils are left in too long, the copper can begin to corrode and release toxins into the body, leading to sepsis. He tried to get someone from the Women’s Hospital gynae to remove it, but no one was available. He said, “I’m not a gynaecologist, but I’m a doctor. Do you want me to remove it?” I nearly shouted, “Yes! Get it out of me!” And the minute he did, everything changed for the better—within 30 minutes, my colour came back. I sat up, talking. I remember saying, “The venom’s out.” Everyone was shocked. The transformation was immediate. He took swabs and cultures, but the antibiotics had already wiped everything out, so they couldn’t officially prove it was the coil. But we knew. We just knew.
I was discharged a few days later, but the road to recovery was long. I had to learn to walk again. I had to work through the trauma of nearly dying. I had flashbacks, panic attacks, and insomnia. I cried all the time. I felt like a completely different person.
Six months later, I had EMDR therapy, and it changed everything. I finally felt like myself again. But I still live with post-sepsis symptoms. My foot aches in the winter. I can’t wear heels like I used to. I get tired more easily. My memory isn’t the same. It’s not just physical; it’s mental. And emotional.
But I’m alive, and I am so thankful every day.
And I need women to know: check your coil. Don’t leave it in too long. Don’t assume it’s harmless just because no one talks about the risks. Mine nearly killed me. If I hadn’t listened to my gut, if Dr. Nash hadn’t asked that one question, I might not be here.
Sepsis is a silent killer. It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers. And you must always listen to your body.
