It felt like I had been reset, that I’d had to restart life as an amoeba. I’m sure the morphine had been extra strong that day, but it really felt like somehow the stroke had restarted my brain. The mainframe had been forced to reboot, starting from zero my mind now had to slowly evolve and grow one thought at a time. Thankfully it didn’t take thousands of years. I pictured it as though the stroke was an earthquake that shook the bookshelf of my mind, scattering all the contents across the floor. At first I was only able to put a few items back, leaving me like a single-celled organism, only capable of very simple ideas. Slowly I started picking up the damaged treasures and placing them back on the shelf. I remembered more, followed deeper thoughts and regained more complex pathways. It never felt like a chore, more like a gift, an opportunity to rearrange my life.
A week passed before I was able to leave the high dependency ward; being able to have a proper shower and no longer wee in a cardboard tube raised my spirits immensely. I also immediately started to get more sleep, and the effect on my brain was profound. Aided by morphine, vivid dreams visited the farthest reaches of my subconscious. One night I dreamt I was in a tribe doing ayahuasca with Native Americans. They told me that life needn’t be a struggle, that I worked too hard and that I should prioritise simplicity. Being forced to pause and re-evaluate what was important to me felt like a reward for what I’d just been through. Away from the usual treadmill that was my life, I had time to consider my existence and find some fresh perspective. Dust had been allowed to settle on certain dreams and aspirations, I was now getting to shake them off again. I felt fresh, life started to feel possible again, opportunities appeared from old ideas and memories, a zest I’d long since dampened returned, I felt reawakened. I moved away from trying to understand what had happened, and focused on getting better. It immediately gave me clarity and the sole intention of restarting my life with Suzy.
I had survived, I was so grateful to be alive and felt convinced that I was exactly where I needed to be. I’d been gifted a second chance and I didn’t want to waste it.
The new ward was much more relaxing and I was delighted to be able to open a window again. The natural light was far easier on my eyes so I spent less time closing them. On Suzy’s next visit I stared at her face wishing I could see it more clearly, I was desperate to be reminded of exactly what she looked like. The flickering colours and shapes were still wrong and disfigured; I told her it looked to me like she’d been painted by Salvador Dali. For over seven days I’d been struggling to see, and within the limited world of the high dependency ward, it hadn’t been much of an issue. However I now had to journey down the corridor to use the shower and toilets. By lifting my chin I’d almost be able to see through a small chink in the bottom of my blurred vision. I’d have to squint my eyes, look up and grin to peep through this flickering triangle of clarity. Often I’d bump into hurrying nurses, or other patient’s beds. I’d just smile and apologise. I started to whistle wherever I went to make sure people knew I was coming. Between the squinting, smiling and whistling I cut a jolly special demeanour.
One of the unexpected benefits of not being able to see was music. Suzy had made me a playlist of my favourite songs, and it felt like I was getting to listen to them properly for the first time. They were comfortingly familiar, but somehow brand new at the same time. Nina Simone sang directly into my soul, Edith, Leonard and Ella conjured feelings and emotions I had long since repressed. Even the Bee Gee’s felt fresh. Sound was how I started to reconnect, every song felt like an emotional reawakening. Listening to classical music was exceptionally soothing, and the frequencies often moved me to tears. One afternoon a concerned nurse asked me what was wrong. Weeping I just held up one of my headphones to her ear. “Isn’t it beautiful” I whispered, trying to breathe in every note. Music helped create a very different world to my current restricted reality. More than an escape, it transported me tapping and nodding towards a future full of endless possibilities.
Whether it was the natural light, music, or my three new roommates I can’t say for sure, but I started noticing improvements almost every hour. I was less confused, my memory improved and my eyes finally stopped shaking. Having more people to talk to was fun, although brought its own challenges. I’d temporarily lost my ability to recognise foreign languages and accents; for two days I had to listen for the exact moment Juan Paolo paused so I could time my laugh appropriately. Juan was originally from the Dominican Republic, six foot seven and with a thick handlebar moustache, the only thing thicker was his Spanish accent, and the nurses absolutely loved him. Despite our early communication issues we became really close, he looked out for me, made sure I knew what to order for dinner and described what was going on when I couldn’t see. He always managed to organise another cup of tea, or a few more biscuits, whenever I asked him how, he’d shrug and say, “I’m Juan, the supervisor”. We spent nine days together, which is a really long time in hospital and when we could finally understand each other we had a lot to talk about. Kevin our third amigo less so, he’d had a stroke similar to mine. Apparently he’d been abroad on business when it happened, the medical staff had said he was fine to travel, on the flight home he had two more brain bleeds. His girlfriend told us that he hadn’t spoken for nine months, he was bed bound and fed liquid protein through a tube. She didn’t know if he recognised her, or if he’d ever recover. Again I realised how lucky I had been. Juan and I treated him as part of the family, we always said good morning, and told him he was looking better. It was as much for us as it was for him. For me lying next to what could have been was a daily reminder of how precious life can be. As the week went on, we noticed subtle improvements in Kevin’s health. On my birthday he leaned over and gave me thumbs up, it was the best present I could have ever asked for.
As the blood in my brain was slowly being reabsorbed, the pressure released brought vast improvements to my health and future prospects. It also gave the doctors a better idea of how to proceed. Almost as soon as I met my consultant I fell in love with him, to be fair Suzy did too. It’s hard to imagine anyone being more likeable in these difficult circumstances. He took his time to explain what my options were, answered all of my questions and often popped into my room to see how I was feeling. He kept Suzy updated and made sure we both felt completely supported every step of the way. Because of my age the risk of the AVM bleeding again was extremely high, so it would need to be removed. We basically had three options for this, either Embolisation, Stereotactic Radiation, or a Craniotomy, talk about a Sophie’s choice? Embolisation required more groin-entering needles: the AVM is injected with a glue-like substance, suffocating it by blocking off its supply of oxygen. Eventually, it would need to be surgically removed. Stereotactic Radiation would require my head to be bolted to the table as a high dose of radiation was fired directly into the AVM. The subsequent scarring of the tissue would cause it to eventually die off. However, the process takes three to five years to completely remove the AVM, and until then there are still risks of further bleeds. Choice three is brain surgery. A craniotomy would allow Dr. Kailaya-Vasan to remove the AVM and after recovery I would be completely risk free. Surgery was however the most dangerous option. I was told that there was a ten percent chance of death caused by damage to the surrounding tissue or blood vessels, plus the added risk of anaesthesia, and contracting Covid-19 before surgery would put this risk closer to twenty percent. We were given some time to contemplate the various options. I felt grateful that we lived in a time and place where something could be done. Focusing on the fact that I had options, and that so far everything had gone as well as it could have, allowed me to stay positive. Some of the other patients I met had to travel all the way from Belfast, some had waited for ambulances for hours, and others were facing their thirty-seventh different surgery. The speed at which I arrived at one of the best neurology departments in the country, knowing that I’d somehow had the capacity to drag myself down the stairs, and the fact that the stroke happened while I was at home had made me feel incredibly lucky.
My question now was: is my luck going to run out?