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Introduction: The Day I Refused to Die

November 3, 2024. 5:37 PM. The vital signs monitor told a story my body already knew: BP 75/52, HR 117 bpm, O2 93%. Numbers that should have sent any emergency room into crisis mode. Numbers that meant I was dying.

But here's the thing about dying—sometimes you get a say in it. Sometimes, even when your blood pressure drops to numbers that would make a medical textbook blush, even when your heart is literally drowning in its own fluid, you can look death in the eye and say, "Not today."

I'm Kelly Holm, and this is the story of how I spelled "impossible" with an apostrophe—turning it into "I'm possible." It's the story of stage 4 melanoma, two cardiac tamponade events that should have killed me, a healthcare system that tried to send me home to die, and the choice I made to fight not just for my life, but for every patient who comes after me.

This isn't a story about litigation. It's about education. It's about learning to be your own advocate when the system fails you. It's about extra innings—those bonus moments in life when you're supposed to be out, but you refuse to leave the field.

Six weeks after those critical vital signs, I was back in the gym. Six months later, I was back on the baseball diamond, winning championships in three different age divisions in the same year. I have written over fifty songs, preparing for TIL therapy at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center, and sharing this story so that you—or someone you love—might recognize the signs I almost missed.

The doctors wanted to discharge me. My wife Yana refused. Dr. Omid Hamid sent a text message that saved my life—including the instruction "PREDNISONE if necessary." A hospitalist named Dr. Billy listened when others wouldn't. On November 3rd, cardiologist Dr. Timothy performed an emergency pericardiocentesis, draining 210cc of fluid from around my heart. Four days later, on November 7th, I was discharged. Dr. Hamid's text included both prednisone instructions and a recommendation to move up my echo. I got the echo moved to November 11th at his urging. But the local team ignored the prednisone and failed to schedule follow-up monitoring. Ten days later, on November 21st, I was back in the ER—this time they drained 650cc. And somewhere between those ultrasounds that revealed the crises and those life-saving procedures, I made a decision: if I survived this, I would make sure others knew what to watch for.

This is that story. It's messy. It's raw. It's filled with medical jargon I had to learn on the fly and moments of grace I still can't fully explain. It's about a broken healthcare system and the extraordinary individuals within it who still fight for their patients. It's about baseball and songwriting, about being a father and a husband, about choosing hope when hope seems impossible.

Most of all, it's about that apostrophe—that tiny mark that changes everything. Because impossible is just a word until you add that apostrophe. Then it becomes a declaration: I'm possible.

Let me show you how.