A little late to the party, but I'll share my brush with pulmonary edema:
I went to Peru for three weeks in 1999 with a group of climbers. Our ultimate goal was Huascaran, the tallest mountain in Peru at 22,205', located in the Cordillera Blanca. After spending most of 24 hours flying to Lima (sea level), we immediately took private transportation to Huaraz (10,000'). Two days later we were at the trailhead at the approach for Pisco and spent the night at 12,000'. I took a good hike to photograph the quebrada llanganuco (valley) and probably gained another thousand feet. It was foolish to go up so fast.
The next morning our group of five shouldered enormous packs and started hiking. I'm third from left.
The back story is that the leaders of our group had earned their high altitude experience slogging up Denali. The gear list was extensive and we had too much food. I would guess our packs were over fifty pounds. Halfway up the hike to the next camp I found a 50 soles note (local currency) hanging in a bush and stashed it into my shirt pocket, not knowing it would pay my way back to town, later.
I found myself very fatigued and would fall into a nap at each break. That night at base camp (15,000') it was challenging to get out and walk on level ground. I assumed I would become acclimated soon, but I was wrong.
[I'm already sick, but I don't yet know it]
Somehow I hiked straight up the thousand foot lateral moraine the next day and crossed the glacier to reach moraine camp (16,000') for Pisco Oeste. I barely ate some soup and climbed into my sleeping bag, excited to climb for the summit in the morning. It never came to pass.
[route goes over the moraine, then up and left to snowline where I spent my last night]
I woke up around midnight and heard strange rumblings. I thought I must have heard the glacier, which constantly groans and rumbles. As I laid in my sleeping bag, next to my partner I realized those sounds were coming from inside my chest. For the next half an hour I worked through all the layers of disappointment and denial to acceptance that I was suffering from pulmonary edema. I reluctantly woke my partner who then went to the other tents and awoke the whole camp.
I felt like a trapped animal being up high and knew I had to get down immediately. I had actually read about a guy in his mid-thirties who had died on this mountain due to pulmonary edema. He had refused to go down. I wanted down, now! My team convinced me to wait a few hours for the dawn light. I felt okay, but my arm muscles cramped from simple tasks like compressing my down bag into a stuff sack.
Our team split, and my friend Phil Desjardins gave up his summit bid to escort me back to safety, while another friend carried my pack. I had balance enough to walk over ice covered rock, but felt like I was breathing through a soda straw and was reduced to one step per one breath on any slight incline. We briefly roped me up a class 3 section over the moraine and I made my descent to 15,000'. A group of laborers were bringing in supplies for a refugio. We collapsed onto the grass and watched the women cook potatoes in huge pots for the group. After speaking to the group I was able to hire a husky 14 year old with my 50 soles (~$20USD) to carry my pack down to the trailhead. I had no other money than the note I had found.
Once we reached the road, I was roasting in my expedition underwear and started to strip. Suddenly our porter came running back yelling, "Autobus! Autobus!" The
only bus of the day was coming down the dozens of switchbacks high above. It was a miracle since we had no other way to transport me back to town. We hopped on passing candies around to the local Quechua natives who accepted us. They were dressed in traditional garb. One young woman resumed nursing her baby. The chickens settled down and off we went to Huaraz.
In town, the driver of the bus took us an additional half a mile to our hostel, since I could not carry my own pack and we had no more money. The kindness and good fortune that helped me that day seemed to be aligned. Once back at the climbing hostel, the head guide called a doctor who came with omnipresent black bag. He examined me and gave instructions in Spanish for me to cut back all salt, restrict water and rest for a week.
When one door closes, another opens. I missed my bid to climb Huascaran, but I had always thought it was a slog; a non-technical climb to a high altitude summit. I had lobbied our group to climb Alpamayo, an alpine spire of ice that was once voted the Most Beautiful Mountain in the World. My group left to climb Huascaran while I was recuperating, but failed to summit due to a large crevasse. I met friends and partnered with a guy from Ohio who had spent three seasons climbing in the Cordillera Blanca. He suggested we climb Alpamayo and I jumped for the opportunity. The two of us summitted via the Ferrari Route a week later without incident.
I ditched my SLR after the Pisco misadventure, and bought a Kodak p&s camera in town and shot ektachrome. This is my personal best altitude record at 19,511', just shy of 6,000 meters.