Real life: A flesh eating bacteria nearly killed me

Adrian Nandapi, 45, from Reservoir, Victoria, shares his unlucky true life story;

WARNING: Graphic images below

Splashing around in the pool, I threw the inflatable ball to my kids.

It was the second-last day of our family trip to Fiji and we were playing water volleyball.

My children, Siena, 14, Sebastian, 12, and Lucas, 10, cheered as the other team missed, granting us a point.

The next point would win the match before we’d all head off to the resort’s restaurant for lunch.

The ball curved over the net, just outside of my reach. I lunged for it, throwing my body into the shallow water.

Suddenly, I felt a whack on my shin. I’d crashed into the pool’s step, but thankfully, my hand managed to tap the ball to Siena, who slammed it over the net.

The kids whooped and whistled while I took a second to examine my wound.

It was just a little scratch, but my shin was throbbing from the impact.

I sat on the pool’s edge for a second before the kids dragged me off to eat. By the time we’d finished our meal, I’d completely forgotten about it.

The next day my leg started to ache.

“Let’s dress it just in case,” said my wife, Enza, 46, putting some Betadine and a Band-Aid on the tiny cut.

But by the next day, I was struggling to walk.

I tried to push the pain to the back of my mind. “Maybe we should get it checked out,” Enza said, worried.

“We’ll be home in a few hours. I’m a big boy, I can deal with a scratch,” I joked, zipping up my suitcase.

From all the fun and games, Siena had broken her toe and Lucas had an abrasion on his leg.

If my kids could deal with their injuries, I could cope with this.

By the time we boarded the plane, my leg was aching.

I took some Panadol and tried to sleep.

An hour later, I woke to see my leg had ballooned. Thinking it was deep vein thrombosis from the flight, I hobbled around the aisles, but the swelling only got worse.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked a flight attendant, looking at my bright red, swollen leg.

I nodded, but felt incredibly ill.

The flight attendant kindly propped me up in the emergency seat, elevating my leg.

When we got off the flight a few hours later, I could hardly walk.

Thankfully, the airline had a wheelchair waiting.

It was late, so we dropped the kids straight home and then drove five minutes to the hospital.

I limped into the waiting room, collapsing onto the chair with a sigh. How could a scratch be so painful?

A nurse cleaned the wound with saline and bandaged it while I waited to see a doctor.

The emergency room was buzzing with people and I didn’t see a doctor until the early hours of the morning.

I felt like a truck had hit me.

The doc put me on antibiotics and kept me in overnight.

But 48 hours after scratching my leg, I’d developed septic shock, a serious blood infection.

I felt hazy as doctors swarmed around me, putting in needles and tubes all over my body.

Enza and the kids came in to visit, worried looks written all over their faces.

Sebastian had tears in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” I told him groggily. “If you can bounce back from two broken arms without a tear, I can do this.”

I watched them leave, then everything went black.

Blinking my eyes open, I squinted at the bright lights above me. Enza was by my side.

“Thank God you’re okay,” she exclaimed, kissing my forehead.

“What happened?” I asked, confused.

My blood ran cold as she explained that the little scratch on my leg had developed into a flesh-eating infection called necrotising fasciitis.

It was deadly and killed one in every three people that caught it.

As the disease rapidly ate away at my leg, the septic shock had caused my kidneys to fail, too.

The docs put me in an induced coma for three days and said there was a possibility that they’d have to amputate my leg.

“They told us to prepare for the worst,” said Enza tearfully. I couldn’t believe how serious it all was.

“I promise I’ll be okay,” I told her.

Over the next two days I had three surgeries to clean my wound and remove the affected skin, as well as four rounds of dialysis.

Recovery was hard, and I could barely move without using up all of my energy.

Twice a day, the nurses would come to hook me up to a vacuum machine.

Placing a black sponge over the gaping wound, they’d bandage me up so the machine could suck out the bad protein and bring blood back to the surface.

After three weeks, I was discharged as a home patient, where a nurse would come to visit me every morning.

Now, several months later, I’m on the mend.

My wound and my kidneys have almost completely healed, but I still need regular check-ups.

Because of the trauma my body has been through, doctors say I’m not allowed to be as active as I used to be for the next 18 months.

But next year, when I’m fit and healthy, I can’t wait to run in a marathon.

Without the passion and empathy of the Northern Hospital doctors and nurses I wouldn’t be here today.

It may have been a little scratch, but it almost cost me my life.