Not Today, Satan…A Septic Saga in the Woods

The wild rice lake where I’ve been grounding and healing.

I’ve always believed healing lives in the woods. My mama taught me that, and she was right about a lot of things. But sometimes healing also needs a scalpel. And maybe a surgeon. And a hospital system that remembers you exist.

Spoiler alert: mine didn’t.

Let me back up. A few weeks ago, my right elbow started acting up—just some inflamed bursitis at first, nothing I hadn’t powered through before. I went in early, tried to get ahead of it. But it got infected. Septic. I’ve now been on at least six different antibiotics and was recently hospitalized—from Friday to Monday—for IV antibiotics and monitoring.

One of many reminders that this infection hasn’t been taken seriously enough.

The plan? According to the surgeon, I was to stay hospitalized until a procedure on Thursday—maybe a simple drain, maybe removal of the bursa sac. The surgeon wasn’t sure yet, but they’d keep me on IVs and observe me until then.

Fifteen minutes later, I was discharged. Told to go home and take oral antibiotics (the ones I already tried that weren’t working), and that I’d get a call later that day or “first thing tomorrow morning” to schedule the surgery as an outpatient.

That was Monday. It’s Wednesday. I’ve called seven times. I’ve been on hold for over 90 minutes total. No one has returned my calls. No one has scheduled anything.

Waiting, resting, grounding. This is how I reclaim some version of care.

I’m off work (doctor’s orders)—and let’s be clear, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid. Time off to recover? Great. Except I’m spending it trying not to die from an infection that could have been handled days ago.

I’ve shown up to the ER three separate times, all at the direction of my primary care provider on the reservation, where I receive my care as a Native American woman. I also have a hefty medical history. I’ve been through some things. And yes—I have tattoos. A lot of them. Maybe that’s why the urgency just doesn’t seem to be there when it comes to my care.

(Side note: trauma lives in the body, and mine is still learning to exhale. So if you’re judging my medical history instead of treating my current medical emergency, I hope your license comes with a mirror.)

She always comes back to me like this. Yesterday marked six years without her.

And yesterday?

I saw her.

In the dragonflies.

She always comes like that—quick-winged, shimmering, watching over me without saying a word. I felt her close. Right here in the soft places between the tall grass and grief.

Best hospital room ever!

I’ve got dragonflies, and hawks, and my mama’s wisdom on the wind. I’ve got time off, even if it wasn’t planned like this. And I’ve got an angry part who’s not afraid to advocate, escalate, and make the system look at itself in the mirror.

Until then, I’m barefoot in the woods.

Healing. Watching. Listening. Trusting.

Sending good vibes from the rice lake,

– Naazh