I have a good excuse for the hiatus in this blog. Firstly, my Dad went and died. Not a great surprise (he was 94 years old), but he was my loyalest fan. He thought this blog was great. Then I had a stroke, which sounds alarming, and for a while, it was.
Mainly, “a stroke” turned out to be banal. I got out of bed as per usual and could not stand up on my own. Next thing I could not talk very well. And so it went on. No headache, no flash, no fire like the ads and certainly no tunnels of light or spiritual experiences that might disturb me. Apart from my acting weird, all was normal. Or so it seemed. I waited for it to go away, as most things do, but it did not. I did watched an abysmal Cup FinaI, but by Sunday I was lying flat on my back, I could not move the right side of my body, and I could not make myself understood with any ease. If I had come to hospital quickly, I would have been in the thrombolytic envelope according to the young neurologist. Instead, I waited for improvement. After 22 hours, thrombolysis did not come. ‘Outside the thrombolytic envelope’ was not desperately helpful information that I had wilfully missed the deadline. So it came to pass that I lay helplessly in bed, hemiplegic and dysarthric (not dysphasic…never!) and decided to get better. It was a question of either get better or a future of severe dependency on others, or worse, death. Slowly but surely, I am recovering. Symmetrical, mobile and recovering.
I am not a stranger to the patient experience, but this by far the illest I have been. At least from the point of view of disability. Depression 30 years ago was worse. At first, I was on the so called ‘ultra-acute unit for stroke’. Nothing much happened. A bit of physio, that helped. Boredom. Especially at night.
After a few days, I moved to the stroke rehabilitation unit. I was allegedly medically fit for discharge. I am not sure what this means…I had improved in the days that followed a fair bit, thanks to physio, but I was far from independent then.
Although one patient continuously shouted, the staff were incredibly nice, but stretched very thinly, owing to inevitable staff shortages. They were mostly migrants. The only thing I can say against them was that they were risk averse, which slowed me up. They were worried I would fall and break something. I stayed for the two longest weeks of my life. Now I am home, still me, but still not quite able to play piano like I used to. No aids (put in the garage by me). Well, an attenuated version of me. Maybe that is good at 68, I am not sure. I am more the boring old bloke I should be, obsessed with my health. 16 weeks alcohol-,and mostly caffeine-, free. This is my idea, a type of medical superstition.
Four months after the stroke, I am 90% better, but changed. I have lost well over 2 stone in weight, I am mobile, I am a good guitarist again (as opposed to very good before) and I have been assessed and deemed fit to drive. None of this came easy, and somewhere along the line, my indestructible confidence disappeared. I have followed a strict regime of austerity, walking, upper torso exercises, weights and lots and lots of very frustrating instrument practice. The latter is a regime I have followed since I was 15, but relearning stuff I know I can play is hard work. In all of this, I was quite previously an interesting person. I now have a single, much duller topic of conversation but then again, I do definitely want to live. I am beginning to wish I had never smoked.