We were lucky to catch up with Ali Hallock recently and have shared our conversation below.
Ali, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today We love heartwarming stories – do you have a heartwarming story from your career to share?
My name is Alicia Marie Hallock, Ali to my people. I am a 35-year-old stuck inside a body that thinks it’s 95. I’m married to my high school sweetheart, Brian. Together we have three beautiful children, Brody, Elle, and Emmy. If you and I saw one another on the street, you wouldn’t detect the traumatic journey I’ve been on or the battle I’m currently fighting. It is unlikely that my story will end with my body in complete remission. I don’t say that to be pessimistic or because I lack hope of finding complete remission. I will always have hope for living a life free of these ailments. However, when you have dozens of separate medical diagnoses, each fighting against the other and against your immune system, it, unfortunately, becomes a reality you learn to accept.
Thankfully, I do experience many good days where I flow through my daily rhythm as the wife and mother I have always longed to be. On those days, you would see a healthy and capable young woman, never imagining the depths of suffering I’ve endured. But there are also dark days. It would be impossible to ask you to comprehend how difficult it is on the days when I can barely get out of bed. But when those good days occur, they feed my heart and soul, fill my lungs with deeper breaths, and calm my anxieties. They gift me with space for contentment, just long enough to prepare myself for the next battle ahead, whatever that may be.
I recently wrote and published a book called, “Beautifully Broken: How I Found Beauty on my Journey with Chronic Illness.” My husband wrote the foreword and my mom and three children all have guest chapters from their point of view. My story is far different from the one I thought I’d write. However, it has become a story I am proud to tell. It is one of beautiful chaos. It has become a journey of blood, sweat, and tear, aggressively fighting for my life. It has been rewritten many times over with pages of defeat, followed by numerous pages of triumph. Pages of sadness and anger have been followed by pages overflowing with gratitude and hope. My story has changed who I am in profound ways. It is difficult to resent a story that has given me a unique and otherwise unachievable perspective on life.
Some people experience a singular, life-altering moment; accosted by a situation that immediately changes who they are and the direction their life will take. I imagine that one moment would leave your world shattered into pieces. I often wonder if that would have been easier. To rip the bandaid off all at once and have a singular, distinct moment of clarity. Instead, my story has unfolded slowly, spanning more than a decade from where things began. It is one infused with innumerable health issues, residing mainly in a strange place of limbo speckled with momentary glimpses of clarity. The euphoria from those glimpses would inevitably fade, and I would find myself in the cold helplessness again, picking up those shattered pieces over and over.
It’s also a story marked by a number of life-changing moments, unanswered questions, and countless procedures and surgeries; will pieces of myself being gradually chipped away until one day, I looked in the mirror and no longer recognized the woman staring back.
When I gaze at my reflection, I see the face that has always looked back, except now I feel as though I am a foreigner in my skin, My body is covered in scars, The once strong, athletic woman whose eyes always met mine has been replaced with a fragile, broken body I barely recognize. Yet, even then, I notice hints of courage and beauty. I call to myself, stating aloud that this is an extraordinary individual who I have grown to love, and I swell with pride as I admire the echo of myself through the glass. When I look in that mirror I still see those pieces of brokenness, both physical and emotional, but I also now distinguish a woman that is incredibly strong, beautiful, and brave.
I see a fighter and a survivor, and I marvel at the complexity of she who stands before me. A woman loved fiercely by her family, husband, and three beautiful children. I recognize the worthiness of this remarkable woman and I whisper softly to her, “I love you, I trust you, and you are worthy of this love.”
Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers
When I was 19, I started to realize my body was different. I underwent my first invasive lung surgery after my right lung repeatedly collapsed. The first time my lung collapsed, the doctors frantically made an incision in the ER waiting room and quickly shoved a chest tube in my side. After a few days in the hospital, it eventually re-inflated. When it collapsed a second time just two months later, my lung would not re-inflate. I spent days with an excruciatingly painful chest tube grinding against my rib cage, only to discover I would need exploratory surgery in hopes of finding any answers. Once the surgeon was inside my chest, he discovered a bleb, a small collection of air between the lung and the outer surface of the lung. This particular bleb had ruptured, causing all the air to escape from my lung into the pleural space. According to my surgeon, the only way to fix it was to remove the damaged, ruptured tissue and adhere my lung to the chest wall with talc.
Prior to this point in my life, I had been a competitive athlete as a gymnast and a cheerleader. I could not wrap my head around everything that was happening. It did not make sense for me to be going through such a critical difficulty with my lung as a teenager, especially for being someone as active and healthy as I was. As the months passed and I made it through recovery, I eventually chalked that experience up to a weird and unlucky health fluke.
Years later, following my marriage and trying to start a family, my body would fail me yet again. I found myself on the devastating path of infertility and miscarriages. For two years, I endured months of negative pregnancy tests and three agonizing pregnancy losses. I eventually experienced the joy of motherhood, but that journey would not come easy. All three of my full-term pregnancies came with their unique obstacles. They included: hyperemesis gravidarum, kidney stones, the loss of amniotic fluid, pre-eclampsia, and a life-threatening event with undetected placenta accreta during the delivery of my third child. Her delivery nearly took me from this world. Dumbfounded and confused, I once again considered this a weird series of coincidences, more bad luck with my health.
Since then, we’ve learned most of those issues were part of my collection of rare diseases manifesting themselves more than a decade before I would ever get a diagnosis.
The year following the traumatizing birth of my daughter, I had an alarming pulmonary embolism. That pulmonary embolism led us to the discovery of a rare blood disorder. It busted the doors wide open, and one by one, we would learn about the many conditions that inhabit this fragile body of mine. Progressively, these rare diseases have attacked my tissue and organs, my lungs being the most affected organ thus far. They have been gradually broken down and weakened over the past 15 years. And in 2021, my lungs became so plagued with infection and fungus the tissue itself started to die. No amount of antibiotics or medications could fix the damage or fight the infection. I was suspended in limbo, impatiently waiting to understand what was happening inside my body. While I sat there in this place of limbo, I became a critical care patient and found myself face-to-face with my mortality.
Something was causing my lung tissue to deteriorate and form a cavitary lesion. The lesion worsened no matter how many antibiotics we tried. After seven long months of tirelessly fighting through dozens of oral, inhaled, and intravenous rounds of antibiotics and steroids, it became too much for my body to handle. As a critical care patient actively bleeding in my lung, I was at the tender mercy of my doctors. I needed them to successfully perform a dangerous, subsequent lung surgery to save my life. Because of my various long-term health issues, we weren’t certain my body would be strong enough to survive it. It wasn’t just about removing the upper lobe where the infection was. There was significant risk and concern with detaching my lung from the chest wall because of my previous lung surgery. The talc was like thickened cement holding my lung to my chest wall. The surgeons did not know if it would be possible to remove it safely. After speaking with the surgical team right before the surgery and going over all the risks, I learned my surgeon had to consult with various other surgeons because of the complexity of my case. At that moment, I felt an ominous possibility of dying on that operating room table.
However, if we chose not to do the surgery, they explained I would go home and eventually either drown in my own blood from the worsening hemoptysis or be placed on hospice to be comfortable through my last days. I chose the option that gave me the chance to fight for my life until I couldn’t fight anymore.
As my medical team stood in the pre-op room, they explained the uncertainties of being able to chip away all the talc, and that there was a possibility of bleeding out or having to be left open and packed in the ICU for a few days. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Every ounce of strength I’d been holding onto left me. I immediately called my mom sobbing. I expressed my regret for not having held my kids longer. I apologized to her, feeling incredibly sorry and heartbroken as a mother because she had to watch me go through this. My husband held one of my hands in his, and my nurse held the other. I thought to myself, ‘This is it. I’m going to die today, on my wedding anniversary, while my husband sits alone for hours in the surgical waiting room, holding his breath for every update my surgical team would bring him.’
There wasn’t much time between ending that phone call with my mother and me being swept away for surgery. Everything seemed to move at an accelerated pace. Knowing I was highly anxious and emotional going into surgery, the anesthesiologist administered medication through my PICC line to help calm the nerves. It kicked in quickly, and I began to feel extremely drowsy. I was still exceedingly aware of Brian, and knew he held onto my hand for as long as he could. As soon as they unlocked the hospital bed and began wheeling me into the hallway, his eyes locked with mine, our lips mouthed the words “I love you” to each other, and our hands were now hanging on by just our fingertips, until our hands could no longer reach. I watched his face fade in the distance as they wheeled me down the hallway and into a cold, brightly lit OR room.
As we entered the OR, I could smell the intense scent of rubbing alcohol, even through my face mask. The doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists were beyond kind, each offering words of encouragement and reassuring me that they would do everything within their power to help me get better and make it back to my family. They gently slid my hospital bed against the operating table, parallel to one other. A few of them worked together to smoothly slide me from the hospital bed onto the cold and sterile OR table. They began wrapping me in heated blankets as my lips quivered and teeth chattered from the low temperature that permeated that room. It was the type of cold that went straight through your body, right to the bone, and left goosebumps on every surface of your skin.
The anesthesiologist removed the blanket from my arm and unsnapped the overly-large sleeve of my hospital gown, exposing my PICC line and access ports. I had already spoken with the anesthesia team back in the pre-op room. As he began to sterilize the access ports on my PICC line, he re-explained everything that would take place during surgery. Looking back to that moment, I’m confident everyone in that OR room sensed my fear. The tension was palpable. He told me he would be giving me more medication intravenously that would further help me relax. Then, they would insert a catheter into my back. That catheter would be attached to a pump and used to administer a steady flow of pain medication. It would go directly into the area surrounding the massive surgical incision I would wake up to on the other side of surgery. And once it was time, he would administer the anesthetic. I remember telling everyone thank you and fighting an all-consuming urge to close my eyes. Within seconds of receiving the medication, I must have drifted to sleep, because that was the last thing I recall before I woke up in the ICU.
Miraculously, when my cardiovascular surgical team got inside my chest, they discovered the chest wall and right lung weren’t as talced as they had anticipated and, barring one minor complication, the surgery went better than any of us expected. I woke up to Brian holding my hand, and all I could say was, “I’m still alive. I can’t believe I made it.” I can barely recall that moment because of the anesthesia, but I do remember the second the words came out of my mouth, he began to cry. His crying was the last thing I heard before I fell back asleep. Neither of us expected to have a moment together again.
After weeks of being in the hospital and my lung still not staying inflated on its own, I had a second chest tube placed. It was called a pigtail chest tube, and the name stems from the appearance similar to a pig’s curled-up tail. It was inserted directly into my chest through a small incision a few centimeters below my collarbone, using live CT imaging to guide the tube into the correct position. A few days after the chest tube was placed, I underwent another procedure to help adhere my lung to the chest wall. Instead of using talc this time, they used a betadine solution. A solution they felt would work, but be less problematic and adherent than talc. We were overly cautious and considering the possibilities for any other lung surgery in the future. However, it was a solution that inflicted pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was one of the most miserable days of my entire life. It pushed me to my breaking point.
The process of doing the procedure was the worst pain I’ve ever endured. Once they dropped the chemical solution through my chest tube, to irritate the lung and chest wall, a searing pain washed over me. For the first 20 minutes, I genuinely didn’t think I could do it. I thought I was going to pass out solely from the pain itself. My mom stood next to me, my hand in hers, and although my eyes were scrunched closed in agony, I knew she was crying. I could hear it in her sniffles and her shaky voice as she kept telling me how strong I was, how brave I was, and how well I was doing.
They increased my pain meds and gave me something for nausea. Somehow, the combination of medications slowly started to release my pain, little by little. Slowly, I could feel myself breathing again. I could feel myself relaxing in the hospital bed. And I released my grip that was tightly squeezing my momma’s hand. I pushed through these painful contraction-type episodes, one by one, for two straight hours. I don’t know how I made it through those two horrific hours, but I did. I felt enormous pride in my little weakened body for fighting through each setback and never giving up on me.
Both my doctor and my mom were counting down the minutes, telling me how amazing I was. They held my hands, fed me ice chips, put cool washcloths on my face, and told me to keep fighting for my husband and my kids. For those two miserable hours, they were my lifeline, strength, and motivation to not give up. For those two miserable hours, my world stood still. I’m constantly worried that one of these setbacks will be too much for my body to fight through. It’s been through so much already. I’m in awe of all my body has fought through and survived. Our bodies, even when weakened, broken, and bruised, are still so strong and resilient!
I will forever be grateful to Dr. Ratti, Dr. Waters, and the entire cardiovascular thoracic surgical team at UTSW. They risked doing an extremely complicated surgery to save my life, cheered me on and supported me every step of the way, and continue to help guide me on my journey with bronchiectasis and chronic illness to this day. I will never be able to express how grateful I am to everyone involved in my medical care, and to everyone who has supported us along the way. As burdensome and emotional as this journey has been for me, it’s been equally burdensome and emotional for my husband, our kids, my parents, my sister, my in-laws, and my closest friends. I’ve witnessed the pain and suffering in their eyes, fearing they would lose me. I’ve seen the helplessness, knowing there is nothing they can do to help me. I’ve seen their tears, and I’ve heard them cry. It has been a hard path to walk for all of us. But, it’s also been nothing short of an absolute miracle.
Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?
My third and last pregnancy would also nearly cost me my life. One of the most defining moments for me was waking up in a hospital bed surrounded by my distraught family. I hemorrhaged on the delivery table after I gave birth to my youngest daughter, Emmy. I had undetected placenta accreta, where the placenta adheres itself to the uterine wall. As they tried to scrape out the placenta, chunks of my uterine wall came out with it. I was quickly bleeding out in the delivery room where moments before, I had pushed my beautiful baby girl into this world. In one split second, the euphoria and magic of that first moment of motherhood with Emmy abruptly turned cold and dark.
I felt myself slipping away as I was holding Emmy in my arms. My vision was fading rapidly and I could no longer focus my eyes on anything around me. My eyesight became consumed with darkness and my arms felt incredibly heavy, as though someone had laid bricks on them. Seconds later I could feel myself drifting away. I had just enough time to weakly cry out, “I think I’m going to pass out, someone take the baby.” And that was the last thing I remember before losing consciousness.
Before waking up, I vaguely remember hearing the voices of my doctors and nurses. I knew they were calling out my name, asking if I could hear them. I tried to tell them yes. I desperately wanted to say, ‘I can hear you, but I’m just so tired.’ I struggled to open my eyes and show them I was okay, but I couldn’t move anything. I laid there with my eyes shut and prayed to the universe, to any god that could hear me, “Please protect my family and keep them safe. Just let them be okay. No matter what happens to me today, let them be okay.’ I woke up hours later surrounded by my closely huddled family. I could see tears filling their eyes.
As I lay there confused and somewhat lifeless, my dad reached his hand out and placed it over mine. I felt his familiar rough calluses and could see his perma-greased mechanic’s nails. He looked at me with the same caramel-brown eyes he passed down to me, and I watched as the fear in his eyes faded into relief. I heard my sister also cry out with elation. My family feared they had lost me, and I could see the solace in their eyes the moment I opened mine. I knew in that singular moment how much I mattered to the people in that room. I knew we had been given another chance to experience life together. Life and love felt so fragile and tangible as if I could reach out and grasp them in my hand. And maybe, if I held on tight enough, I could make sure I never had to watch them almost slip away again.
To keep me alive, I received multiple blood transfusions, an emergency D&C, and ultimately an unavoidable hysterectomy. This in many ways was the beginning of the downward spiral in my health. My gift of motherhood was stained with countless surgeries and ushered in a life of chronic illness and pain. Yet, I would not trade this tarnished gift for anything. I feel grateful beyond measure that I was given a second chance to live. I survived a horrific labor and delivery complication, one that many have not walked away from. I still weep when I think how my husband was torn by the decision to stay with me or comfort our new baby girl. Thankfully, my sister never left my side and my adoring father was close at hand.
I owe my life to my incredibly, quick-thinking OBGYN, Dr. Kinghorn, who quite literally saved me. And to the entire labor and delivery medical staff, along with four selfless human beings who had donated their blood. This experience is a daily reminder that I am still here for a reason. No matter how much I continue to go through, my life overflows with endless beauty. It is a gift to be alive.
Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?
Life is not a singular event. It is not one life-altering experience that happens to us. It is a series of numerous experiences, each beautiful and heartbreaking, that ripples outward and touches everyone whose path intertwines with our own. We all experience unbelievable tragedy blended with moments of triumph and euphoria. These moments in time become fragments of our existence fused together to create an imprint we leave in this world. Being a fighter of multiple chronic illnesses and near-death experiences out of my control, I have seen those ripple effects play out firsthand. I have seen my husband suffering alongside me, helplessly watching me struggle. I can see the pain he feels, knowing there is often nothing he can do to help me. I have seen the heartbreak and anguish of my mother. Watching her daughter fight through dark times, knowing she would take them upon herself and relieve me from the pain if she could. I feel her motherly love more vividly because I am a mother, too. I have witnessed my children’s breakdowns on the days when I am incapable of holding them or being there for them in the ways we all wish I could be. These circumstances drastically altered my life and rippled outward, changing the world of everyone around me.
Along with these ripples of anguish and defeat come wavelets of beauty and light. I uniquely feel love and empathy precisely because of the storms I have walked weathered. I see that same seed rooted inside my three strong and beautiful children. Because of everything we have been through, my family has the unique gift of loving deeply. We probably would not have that gift in the capacity we do, without walking down the road we have. Or without feeling the love and compassion from so many people who continually touch our lives throughout this process. While this journey continues to test me mentally and physically, I am repeatedly reminded of all the beauty and joy I have in my life. In various ways, it has given me the ability to look at my life through rose-colored glasses.
Contact Info:
- Instagram: @alihallock @beautifully_broken.ali
- Other: TikTok: @alihallock
Image Credits
Jennifer McHam Photography Ashley Davis