Kurt Paul

A carpenter. A musician.
A man with a story to tell.

For nearly 30 years, I made my living with my hands. Then I nearly lost my life—and the hardest work I would ever face was learning how to live again.

My name is Kurt. I was a carpenter who worked long days and a musician who loved to play. By the time I became critically ill, Karen and I had already shared 20 years of life together. Days at the beach with her, music, time in the garden—those were the things that made my life mine. I had someone I loved and a life I wanted to keep living. Then Crohn’s disease brought me to the edge of losing all of it. Suddenly, getting back to another ordinary day with Karen meant fighting for my life.

What followed was a fight to stay alive. It began in late 2021, while COVID was still turning the world upside down. I spent about six and a half months between Elliot and Lahey hospitals. Early on, I was told I was going to die.

Sepsis. A coma. Respiratory failure three times. Severe blood loss and more than twenty blood transfusions. Seven lifesaving surgeries. My weight dropped from 165 pounds to 80. I went from working long days as a carpenter to being unable to walk.

And coming home didn’t mean it was over. Visiting nurses from the VNA came every day, and Karen helped keep me alive between those visits. I needed nutrition through an IV for a year and a half. There was an ostomy, a deep pressure wound, and a body that had to learn how to do ordinary things again. Walking. Eventually, playing music. Recovery took far longer than the hospital stay.

I’m writing about what happened, what I remember, and what it took to keep going. I want to bring you into those moments as I remember them—what it really felt like, what I saw, and what I heard. The pain. The fear. The sounds of the machines, and the voices that helped me through.

Some of these descriptions will be graphic. There will be photographs, too, including images of what my body went through. Parts may be hard to read or look at. They’re part of telling this story honestly, and helping you understand what it took to survive and find my way back. And knowing me, there will still be some sarcasm along the way.

Dreams. Terror.
And questions about God.

I was on the brink of death for so long. While the doctors and nurses fought to keep my body alive, I was having experiences I’m still trying to understand. Dreams. Nightmares. What I describe as drug-induced night terrors. And experiences I think of as near-death experiences—NDEs. Some were terrifying.

In some of those moments, it felt as though I was in a battle, and what happened next mattered to whether I would survive. The fear was real to me. Even now, I struggle to find words for it.

Was I fighting to change my fate?

I don’t know. Were these nightmares, the effects of medication and critical illness, something spiritual, or some combination I may never fully understand? I can tell you what I remember and how it felt. I can’t honestly tell you that I know what every experience meant.

And the dreams haven’t ended. I still have recurring, lucid dreams—dreams where I know I’m dreaming. Some keep progressing, returning and moving forward instead of simply repeating. They remain part of my life, long after leaving the hospital.

God, Jesus, and spirituality belong in this story, without tying it to any particular religion. So do fear, doubt, and questions that don’t have easy answers. Being that close to death left me asking about life, about God, and about what I experienced when I wasn’t sure I would ever make it home.

The people beside the bed.

Karen was my caregiver, my partner, and the person who kept showing up. The doctors, nurses, and visiting nurses who cared for me are part of this story, too. So are the people who loved me while they waited and worried.

I want this book to make room for their experience as well as mine. If you’re sick, caring for someone, or working in medicine, I hope you’ll find something here that feels familiar—and a reason to keep going.

There are other people I want to make room for in this story, too—the patients around me. Throughout my hospital stay, I heard people suffering. Cries for help. Cries of pain. While I was fighting for my own life, other people were fighting for theirs. Many of them never made it home.

I think about those who had nobody beside their bed. I’m sorry there wasn’t someone they loved there to hold their hand. I’m sorry they died alone. Their suffering is part of what I remember, too, and I want to acknowledge them here.

The memoir is still being written, drawing on my medical records, personal memories, and the long road home. This page is the beginning.