Sherri Winston

The cough was epic.

It wasn’t COVID.

The pulmonologist said it was a severe lung infection. That was August ’22. It was a dry cough. Bone rattling. Wake in the middle of the night gasping cough. It shook my insides and made sleep impossible. I awoke one morning that steamy summer barely able to catch my breath. As soon as I presented to the triage nurse at the Orlando ER, I was whisked away to a room and put on oxygen. I was there for seven days.

Diagnosis: Bacterial infection in my lungs and a severe sodium deficiency. Apparently, my sodium was low enough to induce seizures and death. I had no idea.

They sent me on my way. Pressure in my chest lessened.Breathlessness decreased. And for a while, the cough lessened, too. Lessened, but never really went away.

In the fall of that year, my book Lotus Bloom and the Afro Revolution was released. A day after being released from the hospital I left on a multi-day book tour and tried hard to keep my health issues secret. Navigating the airport was a nightmare. I had to take wheelchairs because I was too weak to manage otherwise. It was humiliating and debilitating. Still, I tried to convince myself that the doctors had conquered my problem and in time I’d be back to normal.

But the cough didn’t go away.

Neither did the fatigue. Or weight gain. Or shortness of breath.

They all lingered like ghosts, the cough scratching at my lungs, clawing at my throat, the fatigue causing me to fall asleep mid-sentence in the afternoons.

More trips to the pulmonologist. Breathing treatments. Coughing spasms to rival any advanced tuberculosis patient. Days and weeks and months went by.

I was buoyed by the success of my book, Lotus Bloom earned national recognition when it was longlisted for the National Book Award. I looked forward to the release of my next book, The Braid Girls. Still, good news wasn’t stronger than the cough. It grew like bacteria in a petri dish, like fungus on a damp, dark host. 

In May, I was looking forward to one last school visit and then resting at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Michigan. 

I arrived at the E. Lansing, Mich., hotel in the middle of the night. I was so out of breath I had to rest in the parking lot and on the stairs. At the school visit, I told the children I was getting over a cold and made my illness part of our presentation, with the children eagerly helping me finish sentences. They thought it was great fun.

Air in my lungs was elusive.

Two days later, in the comfort of my brother’s basement, which is fully finished and often serves as my writing retreat, I dropped to the floor and believed I was dying. I sucked on the expensive inhaler until I could taste plastic in my throat.

Nothing.

The inhaler wasn’t working. And I couldn’t breathe.

Once again, I made my way to the ER, weak and sweaty and confused. And once again, the triage nurse whisked me away.

Only this time, the preliminary diagnosis was different.

“Sounds like you’re in heart failure, love,” the male nurse said matter-of-factly. 

Signs of heart failure

• shortness of breath
• loss of appetite
• extreme fatigue
• persistent cough
• swollen (enlarged) abdomen
• swollen ankles or legs

I would’ve laughed if I’d had the energy. There was nothing wrong with my heart. Why did he think that?

Well, many tests and ten days later, I came to accept the truth. I was in heart failure. The cough, extreme weight gain , shortness of breath, swelling in my feet and legs—all classic signs of heart failure.

Then came the tests. Good news, bad news. The good—no plaque, no buildup, no clogs. Bad news—my lower left ventricle was only working at twenty-three percent capacity. They explained that the average person’s heart was at fifty-five to sixty-percent at its peak. 

A surgeon with silver hair and the hearty disposition told me, “I think you’ll be fine in a few days. Then you can go home.”

A taciturn heart specialist with the bedside manner of tv’s House told me, “We don’t understand why you were so sick. Do you understand how bad you were? You need to stay here longer.” So I did.

That was six months ago. 

Now, I have to judiciously monitor the amount of fluid I take in (64 oz. per day), as well as weigh myself daily to make sure I’m not retaining extra fluid.

Finally, after months and months of a cough that shook my body like an earthquake, I am no longer coughing up my lungs.

I’m still traveling, I have a new book coming out in January, Shark Teeth, and I’m awaiting a contract on another, fingers crossed. 

For now, at least …I can breathe.