While I was out working, a vivid memory of my first near-death experience came flooding back to me—the events surrounding it, who showed up at the hospital, and, more importantly, who didn’t. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and as I pen these stories, I’m searching for the moments that shaped who I am today. Perhaps it wasn’t just one moment but rather a series of a million little cuts. These stories are my truth, as I remember them, and some may even inspire songs for my upcoming album, Phoenix Rising: The Emperor’s Ascension, due out on June 30, 2025.
One month prior to my 30th birthday, I became violently ill. At first, I thought it was just the flu or something mild. My temperature was 101.0 degrees, and I wasn’t in any serious relationship at the time, just a casual fling. However, the illness escalated quickly. My best friend, Randal, rushed me to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. By the time we arrived, my temperature had skyrocketed to 107.8 degrees. The hospital staff immediately placed me on a gurney, but I was left there, fading in and out of consciousness.
A male nurse attempted to insert a catheter, but my urethra was swollen shut. Each painful attempt failed until they administered a shot to reduce the inflammation, finally providing some relief. For three days, I lay in that hospital room without a single visitor. I notified my job about my situation, but the silence from everyone else was deafening. At that time, I thought I was good at maintaining friendships and family connections, but those lonely days in the hospital made me question everything. Did anyone really care about me?
I’ve always shown up for others when they needed me. I attended a co-worker’s wedding in Ohio and stood as her witness. Yet here I was, in a hospital, fighting for my life, and no one showed up. My parents, just 90 miles away in Lansing, knew I was hospitalized but didn’t come. One friend attempted to visit but turned back, spooked by the idea of being a white woman alone in Detroit. (Ironically, she’s in Detroit all the time now that it’s gentrified—no shade.) The entire situation left me feeling angry, sad, and deeply depressed. On top of that, despite extensive bloodwork and testing, the hospital staff still couldn’t determine what was wrong with me.
On the fourth day, frustrated and still unwell, I checked myself out of the hospital. I called my Aunt Deborah, who lived less than five miles away from me at the time. I’m not sure where she was during my ordeal, but she eventually picked me up and dropped me off at my apartment. Her parting words, noticing my dramatic weight loss, were, “You’re looking taller.” We both laughed, despite the gravity of the situation. I had lost 20 pounds in just four days.
Still feeling sick, I decided to drive back to Lansing, where I was born and raised. Lansing was known for its excellent healthcare, and I hoped to find answers there. The drive, which usually took less than an hour, turned into a grueling few hours as I had to stop frequently at rest areas due to fatigue. By the time I arrived at my grandparents’ house, it was early evening. My mother’s sister and her husband were there. My aunt took one look at me and asked, “What is wrong with you, Tone?” I replied, “I don’t know.”
When my aunt questioned why I had checked myself out of the hospital, I curtly responded, “Because I wanted to.” I was sick, weak, and in no mood to answer questions or entertain company. Her response? She thumped me on the forehead. I wanted to slap the shit out of her, and she knew it. I told her to keep her hands to herself. This wouldn’t be the last time she crossed boundaries—her behavior has been a recurring source of contention between us. The last straw came years later at my grandmother’s funeral, but that’s another story for another time. At that moment, I couldn’t help but think, where was all this concern when I was in the hospital?
That evening, my mother picked me up to take me to Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. In the emergency room, I noticed a man who had a crush on me years ago. Strangely, he managed to find his way into my private room once I was admitted. Irritated and unwell, I bluntly told him to leave. Normally, I’m kind and diplomatic, but being sick made me grouchy and less patient. The nurse intervened and escorted him out.
Within hours, Sparrow Hospital’s staff discovered the cause of my illness. I had contracted a parasite—A FUCKING PARASITE. This was the type of parasite one could get from eating food prepared by someone who didn’t wash their hands. The health department launched an investigation into all the restaurants I had eaten at that week, but the results were inconclusive. The ordeal left me so traumatized that I avoided eating out for months.
The larger question that haunts me to this day is: Why did no one show up for me? Why did I have to drive 90 miles for anyone to show concern? I’ve always been there for others, yet in my moment of need, the silence was deafening. Have you ever experienced a time when you felt abandoned by those you trusted? How do you process feelings of abandonment and lack of reciprocity in relationships?
As I reflect on this, I wonder if self-preservation is a recurring theme in my life. Is it why I’ve always been hyper-independent, focusing on my survival rather than depending on others? What role do you think abandonment issues have played in shaping your personal growth and relationships? These questions continue to surface, weaving their way through my story, as I try to understand how these moments have shaped the person I am today.
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