One day in 2002 whilst working in Carlisle, my supply of drugs ran out because I had worked an extra shift. I charged home whilst going into withdrawal, cooked up the heroin and crack, and injected the drugs into my groin. I hit an artery and the pain was unreal. I was really ill over the next two days, but didn’t know what was wrong with me. A friend came around and suggested that he take me to hospital, but I asked him to take me to my mum’s house. She hated seeing me suffer, so suggested to one of my brothers that he buy me a bag of heroin. That didn’t work, so she insisted on making me her poached egg on toast! After eating a little, I charged to the toilet and began projectile vomiting and releasing stuff from my other end, simultaneously.
An ambulance was called. The paramedics looked at me, clearly puzzled that I was still alive. I had a raging fever and all my medical readings were off the chart. They rushed me to hospital where, upon looking at the thin-looking specimen in front of them, staff asked whether I would do an HIV test. I agreed.
The results arrived three days later, by which time I still had the fever and was slipping in and out of consciousness. A doctor told me that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I was not HIV-positive. The bad news was that I had endocarditis, an infection of my heart valves which had probably developed from my injecting into an artery. The infection had caused sepsis, and all my organs were shutting down. It was obvious to me that the medical staff didn’t think I would make it.
I was in hospital for the next seven weeks, slipping in and out of consciousness. I didn’t notice the drug withdrawals because I was so ill. I had a line directly into my chest because my veins were not usable. My body reacted to the first antibiotic they gave me, and I went into anaphylactic shock. They changed antibiotic, and the same thing happened. My mum and niece kept visiting me whilst I was fighting to stay alive.
There was a young man in the bed opposite and he was being visited by his partner and their six-year old daughter. The little girl came over and grabbed the line going into my chest and said, ‘I had one of these when I was a baby because I had cancer.’ I just broke into bits and a flood of tears.
Later, I went over to the lovely couple and told them I had done this to myself, whereas their daughter had suffered an unjust fate. She didn’t deserve that! When I asked them how they had managed to get through their adversity, they told me they were religious and had faith that she would get better. I wasn’t religious, but I went down to the hospital chapel and prayed that I would survive. I left hospital later, with the line still in my chest.
When I was in hospital, I told my niece that if I survived I would go and give talks in schools about not using drugs. However, a couple of days after leaving hospital, I was back on the crack pipe. Smoking crack was obviously one of the worst things for my heart. It wasn’t long before I was injecting drugs, through the line that was still going into my chest as I was still having outpatient treatment!