It started the way these things often do — with something that looked, at first, like a bad flu. Aches, fever, fatigue. Nothing that obviously screamed emergency. By the time I reached hospital in January 2024, the infection had already taken hold. What followed should not have happened to me, and should not happen to anyone.
The 34-hour delay
The clinical evidence is unambiguous. In sepsis, every hour without appropriate antibiotics measurably increases the risk of death. The seminal work by Kumar and colleagues (2006) showed that survival in septic shock falls by roughly 7.6% for every hour antibiotics are delayed.
From the moment my sepsis was clinically apparent to the moment I received the antibiotics that would save my life, 34 hours passed.
By the time treatment began, I had a 2.6% statistical chance of surviving.
What septic shock does
Septic shock is the most severe form of sepsis. The body's response to infection turns on itself. Blood pressure collapses. Organs starve of oxygen. The brain, the heart, the kidneys, the limbs — everything is at risk simultaneously.
I survived. The cost was significant.
What the scans showed
Brain MRI: subcortical signal abnormality in the right posterior frontal lobe. Cardiac investigations: documented heart damage. Peripheral nerves: sustained neuropathic injury that I am still being treated for today.
Coming back
Recovery from septic shock is not a moment. It is a long, often invisible labour that can take months or years — and for many survivors it never fully ends. Post-sepsis syndrome is real. The cognitive fog, the chronic fatigue, the nerve pain, the anxiety that arrives without warning — these are not weakness. They are the predictable physiological aftermath of an event that nearly killed you.
I am currently undergoing repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation (rTMS) for the neuropathic pain that has not yet resolved. The treatment is ongoing.
Why I am doing this work
I cannot give back the 34 hours. I cannot un-do the damage. What I can do is make sure that the next person, and the person after that, has a better chance than I did. That means three things, and they are the foundation of everything Sepsis Advocate stands for.
First — teach the warning signs. If more people recognise sepsis, fewer people die from it.
Second — support the survivors. The medical system is good at saving lives in the moment. It is much less good at supporting the long, complicated work of putting one back together afterwards.
Third — remember the families. My wife, Michele, lived through what she calls the two waiting days. Her account is in this site, in our book, and in the work we do now. Caregivers are the silent half of every sepsis story, and they deserve to be heard.
The book
Michele and I have co-authored a memoir of this experience: 2.6% Chance of Survival: How I Beat the Odds. It is a story about sepsis, about the NHS and the French health system, about marriage under impossible pressure, and about what it means to come back from a number that small. It is currently in final preparation for publication.
If you are reading this in the middle of it
If you or someone you love is recovering from sepsis right now, please know two things. You are not alone. And it does, slowly, get better. The For Survivors page is the best place to start.