The stark simplicity of a life changing stroke story:
One moment I’m up right typing a report, the next I’m on the floor under the table, how did this happen?
My son strolls in, calls Sally, I can’t answer him.
Sally stands holding her phone, ‘I think you’ve had a stroke,’ she exclaims as she raises the phone to her ear.
Don’t be so fucking ridiculous, I thought I said, but the words never came out. I tried to move, nothing happening by left side is dead, I’m flailing like a drunken eel wriggling, but going nowhere.
The ambulance is quick; the paramedic is busy with me.
Onto the trolley out the door, seems like every neighbour is outside, some peering down at me, concerned.
Blue light to the hospital, straight in, two doctors crowd round, I’m wired up, blood is drawn I’m poked and tested.
OW, they’ve catheterized me! Funny the moments you vividly remember! Blue light up the A13 to the Royal London, the only way to travel in this traffic
More tests, no one knows I’m here, its Covid so it’s even more weird.
Sally tracks me down, braves Covid and trains up to see me, delivers my phone and some clothes.
After five days of testing of all kinds, back in the ambulance to Southend for rehab, I was ready this time for the catheter surprise.
Only bed is in the critical ward, most are wired up to an assortment of bleeping and flashing machines, like some mad arcade, especially at night when someone’s machine alarm always seems to go off.
Unfortunately not signalling a jackpot win, but often a race; dashing staff, curtains swished round the winning bed, raised concerned voices, then silence.
Everyone now awake on the ward, some times the result is a free bed next morning, which is quickly filled.
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