Very gingerly, I opened my eyes for the second time that morning. A couple of hours earlier Suzy, my wife, had kissed me goodbye as she headed out the door to work. I’d mumbled incoherently and gone back to sleep. Daylight was now streaming through the curtains, I squinted as the second worse headache of my life seared through my forehead. I couldn’t see. I wasn’t blind, it was more like someone had smashed the screen on a phone. I attempted to scan my room, as the shards of vision flickered, colours and shapes were in the wrong order. Adrenalin surged as my confused mind searched for explanations. It’s not as bad as the headache I had that time in Swaziland, where I drank too much out-of-date beer and woke up in a house with no running water. Maybe I was just hung-over, my mind suggested unhelpfully. I haven’t drunk for six years I reminded myself, squeezing my eyes shut desperate to see clearly. Maybe I’m just hungry- a moment’s clarity through the uncertainty. I staggered through to the kitchen, my brain still keeping up the pretence that I’d had one too many.
“Porridge” I suddenly said out loud, coaxing myself to stop staring at an empty bowl. I tore the packet open and emptied its contents; the flakes glistened magically like a kaleidoscope. Although everything looked vaguely familiar, I felt disconnected, like I was an explorer from another dimension. Studying the room, flitting between awe and uncertainty, occasionally I’d be interrupted as the pain in my head would rear up like a striking cobra. “I need to make the porridge hot.” Staring into the fridge, unsure how I’d got there or what I was looking for, I smiled realising I didn’t know how. Something’s not right, I allowed myself to finally admit.
Exhaustion engulfed me; I just needed to sleep. Overcome, I dropped onto the floor and pushed my forehead onto the cold kitchen lino.
A baby started to cry. This is the first time I became aware of hearing something other than the thoughts in my head. Perhaps the cold floor inspired some decisiveness. The baby belongs to our neighbours, Haddy is a doctor, she’ll know what’s wrong. I felt silly as I stumbled cautiously down the stairs, having second thoughts: don’t bother them, I’m fine, I just need to go to sleep. Luckily I ignored myself and knocked on the door.
Josh opened and the relief of no longer being alone distorted my voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong, I’m sorry, I can’t see”. Their calmness and reassurance over the next ten minutes until the ambulance arrived set the tone for my entire recovery. This undoubtedly saved my life. Haddy fetched my shoes and coat and explained that the paramedics would take me to A&E. She offered to call Suzy, but I didn’t want to bother her at work. I’d convinced myself I’d be home in a couple of hours.
The eight minutes to hospital were a blur. I felt sick, unsure why I couldn’t answer any questions. The anxious whir of the siren stopped as I held the paramedic’s hand and climbed out of the ambulance.
As we reached the top of the ramp, the sliding doors to the emergency ward opened, and I felt accosted- it was sensory overload. Frantic machines beeping and humming, pure white light reflecting off every surface, more people than I could count talking at each other in code. We had to queue as two other teams of paramedics barked vital information at the overwhelmed doctors and nurses.
“I feel dizzy,” I embarrassingly whispered, trying not to add to the chaos. A nurse looked up at me briefly before ushering us into a side room. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, another conversation in code before the paramedic wished me good luck as she left. I asked the nurse if it was always this busy, she turned and said, “it’s crazy, you’re the fourth stroke we’ve had this morning”. She closed the door and left me in the abrupt silence. It took a few seconds before my brain caught up. I opened my eyes and repeated that word: Stroke.
I had a stroke!
The next few hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, the shock appeared to make time speed up and then slow down. Concerned faces asked impossible questions, administered uncomfortable tests and yucky medications, occasionally silence and I’d be able to get some sleep. I suddenly became aware that someone was standing over me. I opened my eyes as Suzy kissed me on the forehead like she had done a few hours earlier. For a split second it felt like it could have been a dream.
So scary.xx
You write so well about what must have been an extremely frightening time. X
Thanks Cuz, hope all is well with the family. Xx
Wonderful writing – made me feel like I was right there with you. I hope this blog might help you deal with your recovery, it’s made me think that I should write about my own experience even though it happened 5 years ago. Stay strong , you can do it xx
It’s never too late Charlotte. Even though it’s been a struggle, I’ve found it really cathartic. Hope your recovery continues. Xx
A horrifying experience in beautiful writing. I am very glad you are well enough, strong enough and determined enough to write about it. xoxo
Thanks Anna, it means a lot coming from an Author. Hope all is well with you. Xx
Wow! I’m so glad you had neighbours to help you!
xoxo
Me too Helena! Xx
Bro. This is so eloquent and touching. Thank god u had the sense that day bro. ❤️ hope this is cathartic for you x
Thanks Ben! Xx
Thank you so much for sharing your experience. Your writing is so powerful and moving. I’m so glad your neighbours were in and could help you. Xx
Thanks Tam, that very kind. Hope you’re doing well. Xx
Stu
What a wonderful project to undertake – it means so much to be able to hear your story and what you are going through. It is such a terrifying experience that you are helping to make a little less scary for others. It would be interesting to hear from Suzy about her journey alongside you too.
Sending you both lots of love and huggles.
God bless
Love Fr Joe and Aileen
Thanks Father Joe, and what a great idea. I will definitely encourage Suzy to share her thoughts. Hope all is well with you and the family. Xx
Hi Stewart. Just learned of this and read the first episode and wanted to wish you everything of the best for your recovery. With much love from the Jensen family in Amanzimtoti xxxxx
Thanks Aunty Chris, and lots of love to all of you. Xx
Be strong god son we are all thinking of you. Love colin ann carl tarra Martyn. Xxxxx.
Thanks uncle Colin, lots of love to the family. Xx
I’m blown away by this Stewart. What an amazing piece of writing, from an extraordinary, scary experience. Good luck to you in all of your recovery, and I hope that writing and sharing continues to help with that. Best wishes, from Shez.
Thank you Shez, it means a lot coming from an expert wordsmith. Xx
So much love for you and Suzy. Wish I could be there with both of you to support you more. Sending loads of love.
Xxx
Kim
Thanks my love. Xx
Hi Stewart,
I know Kim has been extremely concerned for you, as has our whole family.
So good to hear you’re on the mend.
We partly understand what you’ve been through, especially after our experience with the colloidal cyst that Kim had just before they emigrated to Australia. Praise God she’s doing really well now.
We trust your recovery will be the same as Kim’s has been.
Best wishes to you and Suzy,
Cheers for now,
Ken Norval and family.
Thanks for your kind words Mr Norval. Kim’s strength, resilience and friendship has spurred me on over the last few months. She has been on my mind so often, and I’m grateful for her, and your support. She’s an inspiration and I’m very proud of what she’s achieved during her recovery.
I hope you are keeping well. Stewart
That’s a very powerful account, Stewart, and informative too: what does a stroke feel like? More people need to know this. I hope you’re doing well.
Thanks Sue, I hope people won’t have to find out what it feels like for themselves. But hopefully it shines a light. I hope you’re well. Xx
You had me laughing at the Swaziland memory and in tears by Suzy’s second kiss. Beautiful writing Stew, just incredible. Hope it’s cathartic and helping with your recovery. Love to you both xx
Thanks Jo, I hope you’re well. Xx
devastating, was unaware this had happened.
Thanks aunty Trish, life is very precious, I hope you and the girls are well. Xx
I pray for your full recovery Stu and am SO grateful that you had your neighbours to reach out to, in your hour of need. Your blog was very descriptive and it felt like we were right there experiencing it with you. Sending much love to you and Suzie as you both walk the road to recovery. Lydia
Thanks Aunty Lydia, I really appreciate the love and support. I’m lucky I have such a brilliant role model in bravery and recovery. Kim’s shown me what’s possible if I work hard, and so I’m sure I’ll go from strength to strength. Lots of love. Xx
Stewart, I admire you for finding the strength to tell your horrifying experience in such a beautiful way. Sending you and Suzy a very big hug xx
Thank you Isabella, I hope you and the family are all doing well. It’s been quite a year. Xx
What beautiful writing and yet such a horrific experience Stew. It goes to show that even though you went through such a dark period, you have the right strength and determination take make it through to the other side. Well done Stew! Stay strong, and stay positive and you’ll progress even further.
Thanks Werner, I appreciate it, especially as I know you’ve been there. Hope you’re well. Xx
It takes such strength to write about what you have been through and share it with others Stew. Such great writing, thank you for sharing your journey. Miss you lots.
Thanks Kates, hope all is well in Brisbane? Love to the boys. Xx
So sorry you had to go through this. You articulated it so well here, the irony of the writing being so beautiful, yet what happened was so terrible.
So glad you are on the road to recovery, my friend.