part V - the thank yous and other bits

I owe a great deal of thanks for my recovery to not only the NHS, but also to Abi and our children and both our families.

My love and huge thanks to Abi for being my rock, for having the courage to allow me to get pissed off and frustrated, cry, whinge, feel despondent, and for being empathetic and compassionate; for visiting every day and telling the nurses that you’ll refuse to abide by the set visiting hours; who, when together, we laughed and cried, mainly laughed (oddly); for not saying silly things like, “oh, it’s just am arm, you’ve got another one! Pick yourself up and carry on! * It’s just a brain, you’ve got another, oh...”; and whose love, support and encouragement during the tumultuous ups and downs of this calamity made it survivable. I can't imagine how difficult it's been for you, too.

* This drives me nuts, and it's telling that fully-abled people are seemingly the ones to tell a person with a disabilty what's best for them, or what they think or believe a disabled person can or cannot do, but they really don't know what it's like to be in such a situation (I was told by a fully-abled person that I don't have a disabilty). It's mental as much as it is physical. The emotional turmoil, the cognitive fog and speech loss, the limitations to try and overcome all culminate into the mourning for the loss of the person I once was. But hearing that I need to get over the loss of my old self is not helpful in any way. If people spoke the truth, that tragedy comes for us all, that sometimes life is random and cruel and painful and beyond comprehension, I'd feel slightly better - I'd view that as more helpful because it lends itself to acceptance. But they don’t. Instead, they offer empty platitudes or adopt a 'get a grip' attitude. And which ever one they choose, none comfort the person who is injured; they exist to comfort the person on the other side, the witness to the injury. Now, I consider myself fortunate, but I don't consider myself lucky. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have had an ABI, but I’m fortunate because I’m a survivor, as the outcome could have been so much worse. Yet I'm aware that the road ahead remains long and arduous. On most days there's some kind of struggle or an obstacle or two to overcome and adapt to. Nevertheless, I take enormous strength from my determination and perseverance, and especially my family.

My love and huge thanks to my children, for your patience, humour, generosity and kindness; for asking whether I'd be sticking to swear words going forward, for giving me words to practice, and for wondering when I would be coming home; whose attention was understandably focused more on the adjustable hospital bed on which they played than anything else; and whose optimism has always driven my enthusiasm to be the best me I can be, and hopefully be the father you need me to be.

Thanks and love to my late father for visiting me in hospital at really crap times almost every day (it was often dinner time, but I was glad he was there); to my brother for his support, who visited repeatedly with increasing irregularity (Sunday, Thursday, Saturday - and I love him for that!); and to both of them for being on the other end of the phone on which I had enormous difficulty speaking, therefore encouraging me to speak. To my late mum, who missed the whole catastrophe and would have been deliriously distraught!

Thanks to Abi's mum for looking after our children while Abi was at my side (that was an enormous help); and thanks for all the best wishes from friends and relatives.

Thanks to the police officer, who kind of took charge in the beginning.

Thanks to the best wishes and flowers given to my family from my colleagues, some of whom I was sadly instructed to have their login accounts disabled not long after my return to work.

And finally, a huge thanks to the ever so brilliant NHS for allowing me to survive, and the physiotherapists and occupational therapists whose work seemed like magic and sorcery.

other

I have got only two photos of my time in hospital. They were taken by Abi and show my brother watching my walking with a stick. My right arm is a dead weight in the photos, completely lifeless, impotent, paralysed. Truly flaccid. I started walking with a stick on Thursday 18th, the photos were taken on Friday 19th, I left the hospital on Thursday 25th.

kit

I’m in no way affiliated with the kit below. It’s just that it helped me retain my god-like status in my recovery.

SaeboFlex and SaeboGlove. One of my OTs said that I might be a good candidate to get one so he proceeded to arrange it. By the end of August 2017, I was having the SaeboFlex adjusted to fit. I tried the SaeboGlove in October but my it wasn’t suitable for my needs. The idea behind the SaeboFlex is to build strength in the fingers, using springs as a form of resistance. For my use it was a case of building strength and trying to get my thumb involved by positioning it accordingly, allowing me to pinch forefinger and thumb together. But, unfortunately, there is atrophy in my right hand between my thumb and forefinger that seemingly prevents the pinching movement, and I’m unable to build up the first dorsal interosseous muscle that controls this move. The exercise to build up this muscle involves moving the index finder side-to-side, preferably with resistance such as a rubber band placed over all the fingers, but no finger on my right hand moves side-to-side. It seems that my brain is obviously not sending necessary messages to the required muscles in my hand. Upon my handing back the mitts in October 2018, I was told that I should return to physio if I felt the need to.

I also found the general purpose gripping aid from active hands useful. It’s a wrap-around glove. I have used it for kayaking (twice – which led to shoulder subluxation) and presently use it to build strength when gripping light weights (I can’t accidentally drop them as they’re strapped and fastened to my hand), mainly to try and thwart atrophy and build up strength in my upper arm (although overhead exercises are a no no). I bought a pink one because I'm not a monster (at the time the firm were making donations to breast cancer).

sign off

This website has been somewhat cathartic and has seemingly helped with the healing process. It’s been a long time coming too, as I began jotting down notes as best I could on my laptop as soon as I could (although my spelling was atrocous atroceous really bad at the time). Admittedly, I occasionally regret not taking many photos or videos of my experience as sometimes I'd like to show how far I've come to the cynical and sceptical, but at the time I didn’t want to have a record of it because I didn’t want to be reminded of the struggles, setbacks and hardships at a later time – I didn’t want to reflect and look back on this particularly tough time of my life and how vulnerable I felt (I still feel vulnerable). Maybe I’ve done this blog as a way for me to finally accept what happened, to emerge from the shadows. It certainly feels like a release, that’s for sure. At least I don’t have to try and mask it any longer.