Me and My Damaged Brain

Did you know that when you arrive at A&E by ambulance, it does not mean you progress further up the waiting list? Well, I didn’t until this point. I’d always thought that if you were so unwell that you required an ambulance to the hospital, you’d then be seen quicker. Blue lights and sirens in my mind always scream emergency.

We left my home and raced to A&E. The drive is only 10 minutes, but it felt like a tiny snapshot in time. The roads were empty due to the pandemic, and with the blues and sirens on, any traffic parted for us. We arrived at A&E, and I was handed a face mask. I was supported into the waiting room and sat on a chair alongside one paramedic whilst the other checked me in. After a couple of minutes, the second paramedic came over. He explained that I was now under the care of the A&E team, and that this was where they would leave me. Just like that, I was alone again.

The fear began to creep back in. The pain was horrific; my head felt too small for my brain. It felt like an immense amount of pressure was on my skull, squeezing with each passing minute. I tried to distract myself by taking in the waiting room, where everyone sat alone, masked up and 2 meters apart. No good, it still hurts. I tried my phone, but my motor skills were not back. I attempted to tap at my screen like an elderly person working a smartphone for the first time. No good, frustration is winning, and it still hurts. My final meagre attempt at distraction came from the waiting room screens and TV. BBC News played highlights of Boris Johnson’s speech about gradually easing the lockdown, alongside the daily infection and death figures. The screen next to it circled through the general NHS waiting room notices, as well as the COVID-19 protocols. No good, it still hurt, I let the pain sweep in and take over, I sank into it and allowed it to consume me.

In my bubble of pain on row 2, seat 4, I missed the first time the nurse called. The bubble burst when I heard my name a second time. She was calling me in to be triaged. I slowly made my way to her. I was a bit wobbly and unsteady on my feet, but I did it. This was the first time in 5+ hours that I had walked unassisted. She sat me down and asked me to confirm my name and date of birth. It had been hours since I had attempted to talk. I told myself I had this, I could do it. I managed to slowly force the words out, then the numbers. My brain was still stalling my ability to speak. She then asked me to recount what had happened to me in my own words. Really easy task for someone who is struggling to push each word out. The overwhelming fear returned along with the tears. After what felt like a lifetime, she was satisfied with my story, took some routine obs and sent me back to the waiting room.

After sitting back down, I noticed a new patient had joined the waiting room, in row 1, seat 2. The gentleman was sitting there with his thumb half attached to his hand; the bleeding appeared to have slowed. As I took in the blood-soaked tea towel and pain on his face, I knew I was in for a long night.

Another couple of hours passed in agony. Another nurse then called me in. They explained that they wanted to take some blood tests, a few tubes were taken, and off I went back to the waiting room. At this point, it was approaching roughly 6 hours into being in A&E and 8 hours since the stroke started. I finally plucked up enough courage to ask for some pain relief. I wobbled over to the reception desk, and after struggling to get the words out, it was understood what I was asking for. A member of staff then brought over some paracetamol. Yep, 8 hours of the worst pain of my life, and I’m given paracetamol, it was laughable.

More time passed, and then things started to move more quickly. I was taken into a side room in A&E and given a bed. I was advised to remove my piercings and get ready to be taken for a CT scan. This I could not do. I tried and failed to remove them, but my motor skills still eluded me, and some piercings just would not come out without the tool I had at home. When they came to collect me, I tried to explain this to them. They helped remove what they could and said the others would be fine. Unlike an MRI, the CT was not magnetic, but the image may be affected by the remaining jewellery.

After my CT scan, I was returned to my bed and told that I would be moved as soon as a ward space was available. It must have now been around 1am on the 11th of May. Clumsily and slowly, I changed into the pyjamas that had been packed for me. The relief I felt as I got into bed and got comfy was unreal. 9 hours after my stroke had started and 72+ hours of functioning on nothing more than 8 hours of sleep, I drifted off into an overdue rest.

Then it was 03:44am, I was woken up, handed my bag, and the brakes were unlocked on the bed. They had found me a ward.