In 2015, my cousin Peter was bitten by a Cape Cobra. Since many people wanted to know the story at the time, I offered to write it as he told it to me. Only this week he sent it to me again as he was cleaning out his in-box. The story was shared widely with family and friends, so it’s not new. But Peter agreed I could share it here; maybe it has a message for you too.
I received so many wonderful messages, prayers and visits from my wonderful family and friends after I was bitten by a cape cobra. I wanted to share my experience with those of you who may not have been close enough to get the inside story. So, with some help from my cousin Andrew who stayed here for a few weeks, here it is.
It’s my wife Lexi’s birthday. The sun has just set, it’s about 8pm. I am at the fowl run catching a chicken that escaped up onto the packed stone wall behind the chicken run. As I grab it, I feel a sharp sting on my left forearm.
I must have scraped my arm on the thorn tree. But as I suck the wound – as one often does when it itches – I get a very strange taste in my mouth. The cobra was lying against the wall, and I simply didn’t see it in the almost dark. I later found he had bitten me with a full load of venom reserved for his chicken dinner. I literally snatched it away from him. And I got bitten.
‘I think I have been bitten by a snake’ I tell Tertius, a friend who lives on our farm and whose cottage is closest to the chickens. I see he has guests for supper, but he jumps up to take a look.
‘Ya Peter, that is definitely a snake bite’
‘Lex!’ I call as I go into our house ‘I have been bitten by a snake’.
‘We need to go to casualty, now!’ she says grabbing her keys.
‘I can’t go like this, I’ve been farming the whole day, and I need a shower
first.’
And standing under the water I remember the many warnings we hand out to others and our many reminders to each other be careful. And now I have been bitten by one of our most venomous snakes. I am not experiencing severe pain; this is not like a bee sting or a scorpion that is sharp and stinging. But my hand is swelling and will soon be difficult to use.
I hear a shot. Tertius has by now, extremely carefully, found the snake under a sack behind the chicken coop and shot it once. He curses loudly as the round gets stuck in the chamber and returns with a revolver and takes three more shots. The snake’s new home becomes a bucket, but the snake is not dead as he would find out later.
‘Don’t drive too fast Lex’
‘No, fine’ she says, now doing 200km/hr on the Bultfontein Road to Mediclinic in Bloemfontein passing four trucks.’
We arrive at the hospital and the casualty team are expecting us.
‘Who’s the patient?’ they ask.
‘Me’ I say walking in on my own.
‘And where is the snake?’
‘On its way’ I say.
Unbeknown to me Tertius is about to leave the farm with the dead snake only to find it climbing out of the bucket. I remember with relief that we were going to put the snake in the back of the car!
And so after a few more rounds with the revolver at the farm, the snake arrives dead at casualty.
‘Is that a geelslang?’ I hear someone ask. ‘Mmm, could be’ ‘Phone the poison centre…’ ‘But he is not showing symptoms…’ ‘Yes, this is definitely a geelslang (cobra)’ ‘But he must get the anti-venom!’ ‘We can’t just inject anti-venom, he is not displaying typical symptoms; like drooping eye lids, trouble breathing.’
And so I rest on the hard trolley as we all wait for the symptoms to show themselves.
I realised that just producing a snake doesn’t mean that one bit me or bit me sufficiently to invite a full dose of anti-venom that could kill me rather than the snake.
I learned later that cobras have three different bites.
The first is a scratch. You are in the way and the snake is not happy. The scratch may have some venom in it, but this is simply a warning and is not likely to be life threatening. If you leave it alone it simply slithers off into a corner where it will have time to fill its venom tanks and give you serious poison if you threaten it.
The second kind of bite is when you catch it unawares. You get a serious bite but the cobra has not been expecting it and so may not have a fully loaded tank of venom.
But there is a third bite. The cobra is out looking for dinner. In this case he was on his way to Kentucky and already at the counter, my wall. It’s been a long hard hungry day and there is chicken in sight. The venom is stocked, the snake is at the order counter, and someone gets in the way. And whoever does get the full load of venom. That was me.
Yet here in casualty I have no clear symptoms. Is this just me fighting it and resting the venom?
Then suddenly I can’t open my eyes. My eyelids are so heavy I can’t hold them up.
‘Give him the anti-venom’ I hear. ‘Two out of five people are allergic to the anti- venom’ I hear through my eyelids. And amidst the noise around me and conversations about the possibility of my reaction to it, the anti-venom starts flowing into my system.
The room is now spinning, and my head is exploding. My body is on fire. I have never experienced such pain, even when I broke my back a few years ago. The pain goes directly to my back, and I manage to say ‘Daar’s fout – there is something wrong’.
Stop, stop! Adrenalin! Adrenalin’ I hear before everything goes black and I don’t hear another word.
I had gone into anaphylactic shock, not that I knew what that was then. I now know that is a serious, life- threatening allergic response.
The doctor had already inserted a tube into the vein that goes directly to my heart so that medication can be administered directly.
And when I am aware again of where I am it is 14 hours since the bite. I am in ICU, but not sure if it is day or night. I am conscious and I can talk but breathing heavily.
‘That rifle action for Joe is in my top drawer at home’ I tell Lexi. ‘I promised it for Saturday, make sure he gets it’.
I have no idea what happened the rest of Friday.
Saturday was a critical day. That morning I seemed to be swimming between life and death. I later heard that my heart stopped that morning, and then of its own accord started again and even then, its rhythm was spiked and irregular. The poison had finally reached my heart. It really felt to me that I was on my way out and I was quite at peace to go. I saw no pearly gates if that’s what a near death experience is about, but I had a great sense of peace and timelessness.
I was unable to communicate through tubes and sedation, yet I was aware of every person around me, the messages they read, the touch on the arm.
I remember Lexi being there all the time. And I wanted her to be there so I could support her, since there was nothing she could do for me.
I remember my brother TJ talking to me. I remember my Mom saying, ‘This is Ma’ and squeezing her hand. I heard the messages others read but was not always sure who was reading them. But the messages themselves were crystal clear.
I was also aware of all those who were thinking of me, praying for me or sending me messages. Yet there was no sense of time. I realise now that time, as we know it, is a construct of man. Our memory as we know it is based on when things happened. My memory here was a stream of love and support, but with no clock.
I was intubated to get enough oxygen to my lungs as I could no longer breathe on my own. I was also receiving adrenalin to keep my heart pumping. I was aware of my discomfort, yet had no pain.
The Saturday night I believe I was at my most critical. Two pipes in my mouth, one giving me oxygen, the other draining the lungs of mucous. I have five lines of medication streaming in through thin pipes, another in my right arm.
All my doctors and family were praying for was a turnaround during the night.
My left arm where the bite happened cannot be touched. My hand is twice its size and it seems that every nerve ending is sensitive.
The most painful thing to do is to touch my arm.
Sunday morning and I have a sense my cousin Andrew is standing at my head. Around my bed were others, but was only aware of him there. My wife Lexi and friend Kevin had brought elders from his church to pray for me and anoint me with oil. At the same time Reid and Lynn in Cape Town had arranged a prayer meeting at their church. Our friend Hymie had interrupted the Bishop in Thaba N’chu to pray for me in their service. I have since heard of many others who did the same.
It is now two hours later and I am trying to say something by moving my right index finger. Making small circles in the air was clearly not communicating anything useful. Andrew puts his hand across my belly and I have his lower arm as a blackboard. I write the first letter. ‘D’ he says. I grunt for that is all I can do. I write the second letter. ‘A’ he says. I grunt again. ‘T’, then ‘E’.
Only later did I realise the significance of wanting to know the date. I wanted to know how long I had been here, what time it was. I breathed for myself that morning with some assistance. Only twice did I apparently forget to breathe. That afternoon I breathed for myself without assistance.
I remember being read a message from a cousin in England who reminded me to think of positive things in my life. Now since rifle shooting is my sport and a positive place for me, I returned to the Commonwealth Games at Bisley in England in 2002. David Dodds was coaching me, and I replayed the entire match, shot for shot. It was like doing it all over again.
One of the frustrations was not being able to communicate. Somewhere that day or the next I saw a dear friend arrive, but the nurses turned him away and I become quite frantic. I started to move my hand and say call him – I indicated I wanted to write something, so they passed me a clipboard. But by the time I had managed to make it clear I wanted to see him, it was too late. And I remember crying from disappointment and frustration. Just a two minute ‘hello’ would have meant so much.
It is interesting that my body is struggling but my mind is perfectly clear. On the Monday, day 4, I wrote a message ‘Happy Anniversary’ on my cousin’s arm. I was showing signs not only of recovery but a sense of date and time and the people in my life.
But the most critical part of this journey was breathing on my own again.
‘We need to take the pipe out so you can breathe on your own’ announced the doctor on the 8th day. I was surprised how scary that was. Was I really able to do this without the oxygen flow I have been on for almost a week? ‘First breathe in deeply, and then say it’s a beautiful day’. I breathed in as instructed and out came ‘It’s a beautiful day’. And when I looked the pipe was out and I took my first breath on my own.
I remember asking the doctor ‘Why is it so difficult to die? ‘It’s not difficult to die’ said the doctor ‘people were praying for you – and so was I’.
I am so conscious now that every breath we take on our own is a miracle. And that to be able to breathe on our own is something we take for granted.
It is now Christmas day, and I have been in ICU since the 17th of December, this is day 8.
Being in hospital on Christmas may not sound like fun, but I can honestly say it was the most special Christmas I have ever had. There was no tree, no decorations. Dr Seuss said ‘Christmas doesn’t come from a store’ maybe Christmas means a little more…’ It certainly meant so much more to me surrounded by angels; nurses that wanted to be there, who cared and looked after those of us with such care and love. Christmas took on a specialness I have not experienced before.
My best Christmas gift was a pinch on the toe from a doctor who said ‘Happy Christmas, Mr Bramley you are going to be just fine!’ How do I explain encouragement and what an immense gift that was? It was bigger than all the gifts I have received wrapped in Christmas paper.
The sincerity and the caring I experienced that day will always stay with me. I was so appreciative all I wanted to do was give something back, but all I could do was hold their arms. And when you reach out the pain is halved. A squeeze on the toe reduced pain. How do I put that into words? How do you explain that this day was the true spirit of Christmas?
I got a message from the son of a friend of mine, his name is Benjamin. I of course only read it once I got out of hospital, but I have re-read it many times and realised again that what someone says or writes has meaning and a force of its own. Geseende Kersfees vir Oom!!! Om vandag in die hospital to wees kan nie lekker wees nie so strerkte en geniet dit!! Ons bid vir die gesond word so oom moet net vasbyt!! [A very Blessed Christmas to you Uncle!!! To be in hospital today can’t be nice, so strength to you and enjoy it! We are praying for your recovery so you must hang in there!!]
The sincerity of that and other messages I received touched me and continue to do so whenever I read them. Perhaps just a reminder as you care for others who are ill. Send the message. Write the note. Send the prayer. Pass on the message. You may never know how special your message was to the patient even if they couldn’t acknowledge it.
On Boxing Day I was allowed to move to the general ward, and by late afternoon my doctor said he could no longer justify me staying in hospital.
‘Do you want to go home Peter?’
‘If you think I can, I’ll go’
I had been told I would be in ICU for 10 days and hospital for up to 6 weeks and now I was going home.
And so to the squealing and excitement of my dogs running in circles I was back in my own bed after 9 days, having been to heaven and back again. My sister Gillian spent the new few mornings looking after me at home so that Lexi could get back to running the farm without having to watch me every minute.
I realised then that though this was a trauma for those around me, and the events themselves were traumatic for my body, it was not a trauma for me. It was a part of my life journey and I see it as a gift of experience and a blessing in so many ways. At home I am lying in my bedroom. The heat is oppressive and the drought continues.
‘Why did I come back?’ I wonder. Surely there is no drought in heaven. Friends say I have been sent back for a purpose and I wonder what that is. Was this a gift? A lesson? A peace about leaving this life for the next? A blessing through the wonderful people that cared for me? I am still working with that.
But I am under strict instructions for my stay at home.
‘Now Peter’ you have to realise you are in the same position as someone who has had a major heart attack. No physical exercise. Do not go into the sun. And don’t put on any weight while you are inactive. No carbs which meant no bread, no sugar, cakes or biscuits. One potato on a Sunday and an extra one every two weeks.’
I thought the home run would be simply recovering on the quiet, but I was wrong. The journey of healing is a long one and the six weeks of healing and the poison working through my system was only just beginning.
But it’s now two weeks since I was bitten. I am sleeping at every opportunity. I am so blessed by the many visitors who sit with mugs of cold drinks, ice to the brim, in the excessive heat. The temperatures are between 38 and 41 degrees on our stoep where we sit. The fans are on all day.
The people who have visited are keen to encourage me and also to hear my story. I so wanted them to know the gifts that came with it also. I also hold no grudge toward snakes. They do a wonderful job, but they are not to
be messed with.
Even though I have been good for an hour or more, my arm is still painful. Poison is still being released in short bursts. Under my arm. Then a severe itch on the other side. Then a sharp pain in my hand. Then in my feet. And then suddenly without any warning while I am eating supper my eye lids are heavy from the poison and I need to rest again.
‘I feel fine’ I say one morning. I think I’ll take the bakkie that is air conditioned and go and check that broken crib where the sheep drink. But the next minute I lie down and wake up two hours later.
It’s now just over three weeks and the poison is still busy in my system. The worst times of day are 2.30 in the morning and when I wake up in the morning.
It’s Sunday morning I am feeling almost the worst I have since coming home. My throat is sore, my arm pains, I feel like I have flu without the classic symptoms or temperature. I have a sense my heart is still not as regular as
it needs to be. My arm is re-bandaged each day and I am told it will form an abscess that can be removed later. Perhaps that’s why it still has pain.
But I also know the mornings aren’t the best, maybe I will feel better during the day. And so after some Bovril toast and rooibos tea I am ready to return to my bed and rest.
As I reflect on the past few weeks, I am grateful for so much. Sister Lané Rossouw, who cared for me in ICU over those critical days was described by my wife Lexi as giving the best nursing care she had seen. She nursed me through my worst days and knew she was there all the time. Her only focus was me and she was kind and also tough when I wanted to pull out a tube, not that I had the strength to do so.
The many other nurses in the ward delivered nursing care at the top end, not just clinically but in their absolute dedication and kindness to me and those who came to see me.
My wife Lexi was a constant presence alongside me, even when she wasn’t there physically. She stayed close to every doctor and every change in my condition. She also took charge of our farm between visits. She continues to watch my every move. When I am awake at night, so is she. And when I sleep, she does her best to do the same, but I know those first few nights she stayed awake to make sure I was breathing.
I loved the conversations with many friends who sat on our stoep the last few weeks and the many messages and calls I have received since I got home. Sometimes it takes a snake bite to remember again what is important and what love really means.
Mark Vernon said that ‘All great wisdom traditions teach that it’s possible to know death without fear; as part of flourishing and being alive’.
I can honestly say that as I faced death that Saturday morning, there was no fear, no dread, but a wonderful peace that this was simply the next part of my journey.
The healing is not done. I am told it will take six weeks for the poison to work out of my system.
It’s five weeks tomorrow. I was in hospital again the last few days to check my lungs and heart as I was feeling extremely unwell on Sunday. There they discovered three small clots had found their way to the lungs, called I discover pulmonary emboli. With some injections around my navel to thin the blood that seems to be sorted. I also had a heart sonar and was given the OK confirmed by a session on the treadmill.
I am still very tired but realise I have lying down for many weeks. I want to start moving around to get my system going but will take it very slowly.
I know the journey is not done, but then I guess none of ours are.
Love to you all,
Peter.