A haunting Halloween tale of ICU delirium — or was it?

The slow and monotonous beat of heart monitors echoed throughout the dimly lit hallways. I could hear my blood pressure cuff inflating every hour. Was it Tuesday? Friday? Hours seemed to turn into days, and days into weeks. I’d hear whispers that weren’t there, my sleep was always being interrupted, and time just seemed to slip away. Was I losing my mind? Apparently, intensive care unit (ICU) delirium is a thing.

I’ve told the following story before, but since it’s Halloween tomorrow, it’s a good time to tell it again. If the story sounds crazy, like the rantings of someone who was sick, exhausted, dehydrated, delirious, and dying, it’s because, in the fall of 2020, I was all those things. But I had physical proof that something strange had indeed happened.

In September 2020, I was admitted to the ICU. Unbeknownst to me, I was in multiorgan failure from a rare disease called atypical hemolytic uremic syndrome. It took five weeks for me to be diagnosed. I sometimes forget how long those first five weeks seemed at the time.

Hospitals don’t really create much time for patients to rest. Every time I’d get comfortable and drift off to sleep, someone would wake me up. I had blood draws at 4 a.m., weight checks at 4:30, discussions with doctors at 5:15, medication at 5:45, and transport to dialysis at 6:15. Weeks of this drove me crazy.

That’s where ICU delirium comes in. According to Johns Hopkins Medicine, about 80% of ICU patients experience some form of delirium, such as hallucinations, confusion, inattentiveness, and mood changes. I know that my medical team was doing what they had to do to save my life, but the disrupted sleep was awful.

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A stranger in the night

One night at about 2 a.m., I was on my phone, and the ward was quiet. Just before I drifted off, I heard a light knock on the door. An older man with a smoothly shaved head entered the room wearing scrubs and pushing a small cart.

“Hi, sorry, I know it’s late, but I’m here for some blood,” he said in a hushed tone.

“Technically, you’re early,” I said weakly. “Normally, the phlebotomist comes at 4 a.m. But good luck, apparently, I’m a hard stick.”

Because of hemolytic anemia, I needed daily blood transfusions. But due to dehydration and a low platelet count, it was difficult to draw blood. My body was littered with huge purple bruises from each attempt.

“I’m Donovan, and don’t you worry,” he said, snapping on a pair of gloves. “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

I laughed as he gathered his tools and examined the vein in my wrist. I warned him that other nurses had tried there, but that particular vein tends to roll. I looked away in anticipation.

“No worries,” he said calmly. “I even have a fun Band-Aid for you.” He waved a “Paw Patrol” Band-Aid in the air, and we both laughed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m allergic to most bandages, but I’d take it off when he left.

As he worked, he hummed a song I hadn’t heard in years. I couldn’t remember the name, but I did recognize it. Still, my thoughts were cloudy, I couldn’t focus, and I was falling asleep, although it felt like I was blacking out. It was really late, so I just assumed I was tired.

“I don’t feel good,” I remember saying before my eyes closed.

I woke up two hours later when the next phlebotomist arrived. I rubbed my eyes and told her that someone had already come at 2 a.m. She looked confused and asked my nurse about it.

“The older guy, Donovan, came to get blood. Oh, and he was able to use my wrist! I didn’t feel anything. I even fell asleep before he finished,” I explained.

My nurse looked even more confused. “Who’s Donovan?”

I described him and our conversation, finally realizing what song he was humming. It was the musical score from one of my favorite obscure and underrated movies, “Eve’s Bayou.” The nurse was checking my chart while I spoke.

“There were no lab requests, no doctor’s orders, and no one named Donovan,” she finally said.

Then I lifted my arm from under my blanket and saw the “Paw Patrol” Band-Aid. “See? Here’s the Band-Aid he gave me.”

I’d forgotten it until that moment, but there it was. I’d been in the ICU for over three weeks and had no access to bandages. None of us could explain it.

To this day, I have no idea who drew my blood. The hospital checked the cameras, and I wholeheartedly expected to see some mysterious man laughing like Vincent Price at the end of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. But no one had entered my room until after 4 a.m.

Oddly enough, I’ve seen several similar stories on social media, all from other young kidney patients. So I pose the question: Was it ICU delirium or a ghost nurse?

Note: aHUS News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of aHUS News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to aHUS.