‘I’m walking back to happiness’
On Christmas Eve five years ago, Tracy Ralph lay on the brink of death. Here, the mum of two, 39, takes us through the challenges of her recovery – and how she found the courage to fight back…
How a brave mum fought back from the brink of death one Christmas Eve
I’ve always been a Christmas person. I love the decorations, the buzz and the chance to come together with family and friends. For me, it’s a time of celebrations, forgiveness and gratitude. This year,
I’ll be holding those I love tighter than ever, taking time out to reflect and feel grateful. I know I’m so lucky to still be here.
Christmas 2014 began like any other. I’d been busy decorating our house with lights, a tree and baubles, and wrapping lots of toys for my sons,
Miller, then four, and Hudson, 16 months. I’d booked to take Miller to a panto on Christmas Eve, a treat we were both looking forward to.
However, that year, the preparations had been harder than usual, because
I’d been feeling under the weather.
I was usually fit and well and even training for a half-marathon, but my energy levels had fallen. Thinking it was just a cold, I carried on, determined to focus on the festivities for my boys.
But by Christmas Eve, my muscles ached and I couldn’t stop shivering. ‘I’m too weak to go to the theatre,’ I told my husband, Brad. His parents had recently had the flu and I guessed I’d caught it from them. As Brad agreed I needed rest, I texted a friend: ‘I don’t know how I’m going to finish this half-marathon because I can’t breathe properly.’ Strangely, I have no recollection of that message.
In fact, the whole of that day is a blur. Miller went to the theatre with my friend, and Brad went out to buy sushi – my favourite food – to try to get me to eat something. But after he’d left, I suddenly felt worse, my breathing shallow and laboured. Becoming scared, I rang my doctor who told me to come in straight away. When Brad came home, he took Hudson from me and drove us all straight there.
FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE
After that, everything happened very quickly. The doctor called an ambulance, and I was rushed to the emergency department at Southend University Hospital and put into an induced coma.
The days that followed are black, glaring holes in my memory. I was diagnosed with Group A streptococcal pneumonia, complicated by respiratory and organ failure due to septic shock. By Christmas Day, I had severe sepsis. There was no known cause. It had simply happened.
I was 34, a non-smoker and at the peak of fitness. But I was suddenly fighting for my life.
The boys were told that Mummy wasn’t well and on Christmas Day they stayed at their gran’s house while Brad came to the hospital to visit me. He’d put on his Christmas jumper thinking I’d be awake and it would cheer me up, but the reality was that a nurse told him
I’d taken a turn for the worse.
A specialist team from St Thomas’ Hospital in London were called to Southend. They connected me to a machine called an ECMO via tubes going into my neck and chest. It was breathing for me while my heart and lungs rested, but it was my last chance of life. My family were warned they might have to say goodbye. Somehow I made it through the night, and on Boxing
Day I was transferred to St Thomas’ Hospital. There, I had countless operations to remove blood clots. Brad visited constantly while juggling looking after the children.
At the beginning of January,
‘My future was suddenly impossible to fathom’
I woke, disorientated, my memories fragmented. Hooked up to machines, I couldn’t move and, with a tracheostomy tube going into my throat and down to my lungs, I couldn’t speak either. But Brad was there and he tried to explain what had happened. I remember looking at my fingers and legs, noticing the skin had turned black due to the sepsis, yet the drugs were keeping me so numb I couldn’t even feel shock.
MY DARKEST MOMENT
On 15 January 2015, surgeons told me there was now only one option: they’d have to amputate both my legs below the knees and the tops of all my fingers. I watched in silence as Brad signed the consent form, my hands too damaged to even write my name. I just kept thinking how my future was suddenly impossible to fathom.
Waking up after the surgery to see the huge bandages, my legs and fingers missing, was one of the darkest moments I think I will ever experience. I started to cry – and once I started sobbing, I couldn’t stop.
Those next days were so hard.
I still had so many infections that
‘I wasn’t allowed to see my children for two months’
Brad and my family had to wear protective gowns to visit me. My sons weren’t allowed to come at all and yet that was a relief to me.
I didn’t want them to see their mummy like this. How would I ever manage to look after them again?
I just wanted to give up. I remember telling Brad to ‘let me go’. I didn’t want to live. We’d been married for seven years, but I kept telling him if he left me now, he would meet someone else. He sat by my bed for hours, reassuring me that he’d always love me, but I was in too dark a place to respond. Looking back now, I struggle to understand why or how I ever felt that way. Brad and the boys are my world; they are what I live for every day.
A few weeks after my amputations, I was taken back to Southend hospital
and at the end of February, my eldest son, Miller, was finally allowed to see me. Nurses had covered up my legs with sheets to minimise his shock, but Miller seemed scared of me and I didn’t know what to do or say to make things better. When he left, I burst into tears, feeling completely useless.
COMING HOME
My turning point came in April 2015, when I was moved to the Douglas Bader Rehabilitation Centre in Roehampton. Slowly, my therapist helped me to cultivate a clear and positive mindset. I learned mindfulness techniques, and the importance of being in touch with my emotions. I also received my first pair of prosthetic legs. Standing up and taking shaky steps was one of the most amazing feelings I’ve ever experienced.
There, I met other amputees, and talking through my emotions helped me to understand my grief. Slowly, I was taking back control. I’d lost all my fingers down to the knuckles, so one of the first things I learned to do was how to drink a cup of tea and use a knife and fork. I often worried about people staring at my hands – to this day, they are the parts of my body I’m most self-conscious about. However, gradually I learned new tasks.
Coming home in May 2015 on my prosthetic legs was hugely emotional. I remember the pride I felt as I walked through the door and saw the look on Brad and my children’s faces. I wanted to walk everywhere, just because I could.
Slowly, I rebuilt my relationship with the boys again. My presence at home, organising their daily routines and the reassurance of a mother’s guidance was all it took for our family to fall back into place. Brad had temporarily given up his job at an oil-brokering company to look after me, and I felt guilty knowing his life was on hold. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him if he still found me attractive – just looking in the mirror showed me how much my body had changed. But Brad told me he loved me, no matter what.
A NEW BEGINNING
As Christmas approached, I vowed to make it more special than ever. As memories of the last one haunted me, I bought new decorations so there were no reminders of the past.
This was my fresh start.
On Christmas Eve, we had an open house party for family and friends. Seeing so many people I cared for around me filled me with such gratitude. I’d never felt so loved. I was alive, and nothing else mattered.
I also got involved with the Limbless Association. Its slogan, ‘No amputee need cope alone’, is close to my heart. I now volunteer with them several times a week. When someone calls, anxious or frightened because they’ve just had an amputation, I can tell them I’ve been there and I understand. Through the charity, I’ve climbed London’s O2 Arena and even taken part in a disability triathlon. Crossing the finish line, I couldn’t stop smiling.
As a person, I’ve changed massively. I always look at the positives now, and while bad days are natural, I know they will pass. This Christmas marks five years since everything changed, and I’ll be celebrating how far I’ve come. I’ll take Miller and Hudson to see Santa, and we’ll have our Christmas Eve party.
I’m so proud of the way my boys have accepted my situation. Hudson is now six and doesn’t remember me with two legs. He passes me my prosthetic legs when I get dressed in the morning, thinking nothing of it. I often hear Miller matter-of-factly telling his friends about me when they come over to play. It must have been such a scary time for him, but he’s adapted brilliantly. Both boys understand that while some people are different, we’re all the same inside.
My relationship with Brad has been strengthened, too. However, the fundamental core of who we are and our bond hasn’t changed – and I’m thankful for that. The boys remain at the centre of our world, and I’m lucky Brad has always been a brilliant dad as well as husband. As we watch the boys open their presents this Christmas, I’ll be relishing every moment. A future with my family is the best gift I could ever receive.
‘I vowed to make Christmas more special than ever’