Like A (Blogger) Virgin

Strokes Get The Blokes 

Sardinia, Italy

As I reach the six-month milestone of this 'holiday' Down Under, some may wonder what I do with all this glorious spare time I now have been thrust up my sleeve. The answer = not a lot. Which makes it all the more superb and convenient that I have short-term memory loss, thus rarely being bored. Silver lining! When I do start feeling  again, it shall be a happy day! We sometimes catch myself watching the same intriguing episodes of Embarrassing Bodies or Curb Your Enthusiasm (AKA 'food' for the brain). As if that isn't enough to make myself shake my head in humiliation (for forgetting that I had watched it that day, not because of the genre/quality of TV) and entertain my family and friends alike, I then see that my reaction to these shows is the exact same every time (i.e.: sending a text message about it to someone that is almost word-for-word of a text message sent earlier that day when I originally watched it - thankfully, such supportive souls humour this brain-damaged one). It may surprise some who knew myself before being struck with brain damage, that I currently tend to be quite the recluse and spend most of my time with my darling Mother Duck and my supportive younger sister, although I've slowly been growing more confident and comfortable being around my lifelong friends and doing 'normal' day-time activities. Given I live with my Mum, I'm now rather obsessed with second-hand shopping (she loves it), which was rarely the case just a year ago. Times - they are a changin'!

One of my most dear friends - an ex-manfriend I refer to as my 'high school savouryheart' (for obvious reasons - a noble title I'm preeeetty certain he's awfully proud of) - was one of the (un)lucky recipients of messages every single day for well over a month - some even in the early hours of the day - as I lay in hospital, sometimes with graphic anecdotes of my hospital 'entertainment' (PN: you should never say out loud, 'something smells like sh*t!' when you're in a hospital. Chances are you've hit the nail on the head; that 'something' is just that and you've embarrassed a poor, incontinent patient).  Other times, I'd contact him absolutely petrified about my life and whether or not I was actually living. I thought I was in a coma or dead and even when he'd continually try to reassure me (including with hard pieces of evidence), I suddenly became noble ole Nostradamus and could predict what he was going to say. Yes, predicting my friends/Murse Gilly saying  'you're not in a coma' in response to 'I'm in a coma' , was eerily at the top of my predictions. If only I could channel these skills at the track (previously limited to betting on which horse just did a 'number two').  Thinking you're dead aka The Walking Corpse Syndrome (aka Cotard's Delusion) - although a rare mental illness - an incredibly dangerous assumption as people can starve themselves and/or attempt acts that are likely to kill them, thinking they are immortal and exempt from death. Thank goodness I had open-minded mates who were understanding of my newly acquired anxiety, never judging and always proactive in their attempts to prove I was still alive (i.e.: bringing in daily newspapers with updated news that I hadn't yet read *fresh news was absolutely soothing of the extreme anxiety I encountered for the brain damage could never create that Princess Catherine was experiencing acute morning sickness *aka hypermesis gravidarum - you were just about to ask for its scientific name!* and the controversy that surrounded such - definitely recommend daily news pieces for others while in hospital).

Let's backtrack a tad so we can get a full scope of the 2 (out of 9) lives this Kitty Kat has lost. I had been living in ole London town for a few months, teaching all across the smallest city in the world and its surrounding areas as a relief teacher. Quite an exciting few months followed, being called at 6:30am by teacher recruitment agencies (these guys are a whole other intriguing story!) who offer you a class for a day or a week; whatever it may be - wherever it may be! Never having done much in the way of substitute teaching, it was an important career experience that offered a newfound appreciation of teachers, students, teacher assistants (bless them!), education, technology, London, Great Britain and our world as a whole that I hadn't yet fully acknowledged. One very important lesson I learnt (the hard way) rather early on in GB, was that 'pants' does not mean 'trousers' like it does in Australia, so when you ask students to go change into their PE uniforms, best you avoid the word 'pants' in your instructions, as it means 'underpants' in G.B.. Ah, gone are the days that kids say the darnedest things; it's now the teachers. So it's no surprise that students thought I was the whacky teacher from 'Down Under'. Ah pants or no pants (that doesn't sound right), I loved being their whacky teacher!

Now, one of those very schools that I did some relief teaching for ended up taking a strong liking to me. Hey - I guess I had some pretty impressive jokes to deliver in the staffroom that week (what's new?!) or perhaps I was a decent teacher after all! Plus, my dear Mother Duck is English, so that's got to count for something, right?! It was a dream come true and I was Katrina (and the Waves); walking on sunshine! In late 2011, I commenced teaching the future of GB in the same suburb that Mick Jagger, David Attenborough and Keira Knightly live/d, so quite family friendly clientele with high expectations of their children and especially of their children's education. I hit a goldmine mixed with diamonds, platinum and oil all in one with the school, staff, students and community alike. That annoying friend who absolutely loved their job, had a smile on their dial as I told family and friends - even people standing next to me on the bus - colourful anecdotes from my day.  I believe wholeheartedly that when you truly love your job, you never work a day in your life, so it is no surprise that I left every day with a spring in my step. Annoying Kitty to some.

After 'not working' for a year with my own class in the delightful Richmond Upon Thames borough, organising regular 'Aussie Treats' cooking days, British style of school camping (where you live in your gumboots, I mean, wellington boots and eat 's'mores') and having my very own Mother Duck in for Queen Lizzie II's impressive Diamond Jubilee (MD can be Australia's honorary 'Queen'), I celebrated like a noble teacher should..by going to our end-of-year party a few hours into our much deserved 6-week hiatus. Naturally, pre-party drinks were necessary at my Twickenham colleague's 'summer house' before the official celebrations commenced. I always seem to adore the 'mum' colleagues which I feel is down to my own Mother Duck-sickness. Plus, they truly know how to celebrate an occasion & love hearing my tales about being a single twenty-something in London (please note: never send myself naked/near-naked photos of yourself to try impress me. It won't + I'll show my workmates/friends/ex-manfriends/passers-by - and frequently).

Despite being only a few hours into the 1.5 month well-deserved (no sarcasm) break and surrounded by my adored colleagues with a grand Euro Trip bursting at the seams to commence in coming days, I wasn't feeling too enthusiastic to celebrate. In actual fact, quite the opposite and this was most unusual. Normally, this Kitty Kat exuded energy, had previous tales of winning impromptu table tennis tournaments at a 'Humpday' Olympics Bacardi party or silencing an entire party in order to get their attention to 'hip hip hooray' a visiting friend. Being one of eight children makes myself crave giving and having attention and if you can't work with that, we won't gel. Simple.

However, this particular night, I felt a strong urgency to lie down and just be left alone in the midst of such grand festivities for our school. Being a selfless wonder (for a change), I didn't want my colleagues to stop celebrating all our hard work, so I inadvertently rested my 'little headache' (that was growing in intensity by the minute) away for several hours at the function venue's handy sickbay (please do take this in for yourself - a simple FAST Test would have shown clear symptoms of stroke). There was just an overwhelming feeling of an urgency to lie down; no alarm bells going off at all (I've had many disco naps at parties before - much to the delight of mates who eagerly take photographs of a sleeping feline)! Being our end-of-school-year celebrations, I insisted that my colleagues left me alone whilst they celebrated and I'd hopefully be 'good to go' for the next chapter of the night.  However, after several hours and me looking pretty dodgy (so they tell me!), some of my colleagues took a deteriorating Special K to hospital (naturally, there was a rather 'sexy' Stroke Kitty photo shoot en route), where it was eventually discovered (when the emergency medical staff finally acknowledged my state as serious - thank you ever so much to my supportive colleague 'fan club' for being forthright in such an instance where I was trying to sleep totally unaware of what was actually going on) I had suffered a stroke in my brain's left hemisphere's occipital lobe and had wasted precious hours in the sickbay at our party - it was truly fortunate (for all of you!) that I hadn't died given the delay in stroke treatment. Ah silly Kitty! However, in the immediate days that followed the stroke diagnosis, I was more concerned about moving out of my Clapham room that very weekend and going on my Eurotrip the next week! Life handed me lemons that fateful night in July 2012. Working at Brisbane's Story Bridge Hotel (which won Best Hotel In Australia during my employment - coincidence?! Doubt it, ha!) for a few years, I know that lemons are indeed quite useful, so when life handed me those lemons, I decided to make some mighty fine Amaretto Sours!

How cute are my British colleagues? As cute as cute can be!

You may think that when you have a stroke, you will be able to identify it all by yourself, but the fact is, you are likely to be suffering such rapid neuron loss that you are unable to be effective in much (even simply walking/talking/eating/remembering/thinking) and you/the people around you may just dismiss the clear stroke signs and symptoms - especially if you're in the midst of having fun - and it isn't until billions of neurons have been killed that you (or an attentive person with you) realise simply walking is difficult (i.e.: you just want to lie down or you can't seem to move one of your legs or perhaps even stand upright) and/or sounds and light now cause severe distress and anxiety.
Get to know the FAST Test with its various, yet obvious, symptoms - learn from our (massive) mistake!
These images were taken as the decent stroke was continuing on its destructive path (and we knew I wasn't my usual self, but we soldiered on. In such an instance, it's best to not soldier on).

End-of-school-year party with the brain attack in full flight while with an adored colleague I refer to as 'Queen' - 
'Stroke The Kitty' Style
Richmond, U.K.

July 2012

Being the perfect mix of 'the glass is half full' and 'we need more wine to fill this glass' (optimist/opportunist), I relished the week in hospital - it was just like a decent hotel, with detailed menus for every meal, clean linen and excellent 'service' any time of the day or night (even had a bell that when rung, would promptly/magically bring a nurse to my bedside - talk about bedside manner)! The only difference being that I constantly had invigorating visitors (including a range of therapists who often made me feel like they were more mates than rehab 'employees' - perhaps making patients feel that way is just part of their official + noble role), scrumptious treats and my beautiful school organised thoughtful 'get well' cards from dear students and goodies that were making other patients jealous. No surprises there! Children (+ my dear Klubbers) are absolutely wonderful for your self-esteem, my goodness! 
 

 

Hospital Life - Special K Way!

Stroke #1

Charing Cross Hospital, London

July 2012

 

 

Now, because it was my school's official Summer Holidays, I was missing out on 'crucial' gallivanting around Europe that was planned with a friend who came over from Australia just for our Eurotrip. I couldn't let her down and so, after being in hospital for just a week and passing all discharge exams (probably with honours), I went on my adjusted holiday, only losing one out of the six weeks of the summertime exploration. No biggie in the big scheme of things. Luckily, I always managed to find a 'seeing-eye dog' (/lad) to take the pressure off of the friend. Selfless like that. It was just a minor setback (ignorance!) and I thought the worst was all behind me. My memory and spatial navigation were improving every day and I wasn't at all concerned about going back to school. Thanks to brain rerouting (around the dead occipital lobe) and its magical Neuroplasticity, as well as sheer Kitty-optimism, I could feel progress every single day and wanted to be my 'normal' self as much as I could; control, it's a hell of a thing to lose in your youth.

After 5 weeks of determined Euro exploration, rooster teste consumption and unforgettable (even for me, the recently-forgetful feline!) nights with newfound mates, I was back in ole London town - homeless/squatting at my previous home with understanding ex-roomies - and going back to school the very next day! I was as eager as a 'Larry Emdur' to go back to full-time work in September 2012 without one official sick day and insisted as such. Strokes were not an excuse to miss teaching the future, surely! Initially (and as you'd expect after suffering a massive stroke), school was more demanding than usual, but I was determined to achieve the set goals for myself, my class and my school.  We were a team. I absolutely loved and thrived my career. The slight short term memory loss I suffered after Stroke 1 was a concern as well as general post-stroke fatigue, but I was dealing with such through creative new strategies (ie: writing notes and checklists to serve as reminders in case something slipped my mind), but nothing too drastic that I couldn't deal with. My Dad (yep, 'the' Brumby Bob) used to always tell me, 'life is about aT-Ti-Tude. With a capital T!' and I never really got it when I was a kid. He was just that whacky Brumby Bob, but now upon reflection, you couldn't find more true words. Yoda my Dad was!

Although I wasn't allowed to drive on my summer Euro Trip in the initial weeks following the stroke in July/August 2012 (I had missing peripheral vision *50% loss of eyesight - temporarily depending on Neuroplasticity extent* + spatial navigation concerns), it wasn't an issue in London where the Tuuuube is the main source of transport and I could still read a map with ease (your brain's hippocampus controls spatial navigation - more on 'him' later)! Yes! I considered myself very lucky indeed to be in London and not my former home of Brisbane, Australia where public transport isn't kind to teaching in the 'burbs (a car is a must there). When there were car trips during holidays post stroke, friends had to drive, which was a blessing in disguise for a hungover little Kitty. Fascinatingly, I also had a tingling sensation down my body's RHS (the messages to that part of the body were getting limited signals past the damaged part of brain, so same effect as lying on your hand for an extended amount of time, technically known as Paraesthesia), which was relieved by considerate mates tickling it - and I had plenty of friends offering to tickle me! Heyyyy! But all in all, a stroke wasn't going to control me nor win the war and it was a meaty + intriguing topic to chat about to anyone and everyone.

Fast forward to half-term holiday (the tough life of a teacher in London - a little week off after less than two gruelling months on) in late October 2012 and I'm at a friend's house waking for the day ahead.  They go for a shower and when they come back, I ask them, rather frantically, why I'm at theirs. It was frightening as hell - so frightening in fact that it felt like I was actually dead.  Fortunately, they knew about my stroke in July and called an ambulance promptly (who wrongly assumed I had a virus of the brain). Sadly, I don't recall any of this - they have since told me. No headache, no urgency to lay down (like when my brain went kaboom! in July); in fact, I was alert as ever. Confused - yet still felt somewhat 'normal' (which is a totally different perspective to my concerned mate assessing my frantic state when in hospital) - but acutely aware that something was not right with my sore brain. Cue stroke number two (is this a competition, Kitty?!).

Next thing I know (and have managed to retain!), I am in another hospital utterly confused why I was there, how I got there, why I wasn't at school and whose maroon pants (as in slacks to those Brits who think I'm referring to my underwear!) I was wearing (they were a recent purchase that my brain hadn't recalled). Due to my extreme lack of short term memory, my chat was based around those four queries for the first week or so - much to my visitors' dismay (one said *tongue in cheek*; 'will you shut up about your maroon pants?!' haha ahh so I did - for a few seconds) and then my short-term memory progressed ever so slightly over the coming weeks (which was/is like watching hair grow and I didn't notice it myself). Initially, I had a few seconds' memory retention during the first few weeks (i.e.: if someone came to visit me in the hospital's neuro ward, I'd forget they visited even if they were there for hours within just a few seconds of their departure. Pretty confronting + morbid indeed hence why a notebook was promptly given by considerate mates so that they could write creative notes in it whenever they visited + I'd detail what happened in my days *despite renowned messy/genius handwriting, my writing abilities were fortunately not affected by my particular strokes* to calm my anxiety about being dead/forgetting about their visit  - they seemed to take this in their stride = fortunate Kitty!) and my memory retention continues to grow more every day - as new neural pathways are being generated around the dead brain ('cerebral infarctions') every single second (yet it's still a very slow, agonising ordeal)! Recently, I've been obsessed with the highly addictive mind game of Sudoku and a brain therapy app on my smart phone called 'Lumosity' that encourages fresh neural paths, as well as cooking (with constant adult supervision, alarms and instructions = an incredibly strange sensation upon realising that I was more independent in the kitchen at just 9 years old, making weekly treats for my family *my Mother Duck is just like The Castle's dad, Darryl Kerrigan, as she would even compliment a meal's seasoning! Always supportive!*) and bi-weekly OT + speech & language therapy sessions. It all helps! Give it a go yourself whether your brain is damaged or not - retrain your brain!

Before some of my family members (+ a sister's doting partner) flew to London (by request of the wise medical sorts at London's St George's Hospital after they acknowledged I was going to require around-the-clock care indefinitely with a close guard in case of further strokes and would much prefer to be in the familiar setting of home with my registered nurse mother who has a Master's degree in Mental Health than a young patient in a UK nursing home), I had to have a rather uncomfortable and frightening brain biopsy (to test for CNS Vasculitis which came back as inconclusive - a likely result given the minute mind matter they steal - just 10% of such brain examinations get precise diagnosis from biopsy. Worth it?!) that had the risk of death (incredibly small risk that mates had to 'drill into my mind' *fortunately, figuratively speaking* as I actually thought I was going to die from such, but nonetheless, I've now got a hole in the back of my skull. It's pretty rad), nurse a pseudo broken heart, as well as realise some people that were my 'friends' in the past were sadly/suddenly no longer. Given my memory retention now currently sits at just a few seconds before it's reset and I'm confused (about anything and everything), I also need a tick-list sheet that is always visible for when I have meals (have doubled up before and been physically sick as a result as stomach was overflowing, if you can believe it!) and when it's that 'time of the month', I need alarms on my phone to remember such; a development that generally makes myself giggle. What a unique experience indeed. Given my spatial navigation was taken away, I can't even locate where the car is parked (that others drive as I am not yet allowed due to my sight deficit + extreme lack of crucial spatial navigation and severe short term memory loss concerns) after a quick shop and never recall which bedroom I'm sleeping in when I'm a guest in someone else's home no matter how many nights I stay there. To say it's confronting is an understatement.

My little sister, Jack Attack,

kindly covering the brain biopsy's 'holy' head (F.Y.I. - the surgeons didn't give back the skull they drilled out nor give me a hair extension to cover it!), dissoluble stitches (pretty certain my own registered nurse Mother Duck cut them out of my holy skull's posterior when they hadn't dissolved by themselves! TMI orrrr rather intriguing?!) and shaved skull (technically located at back - friends were a tad disappointed it wasn't my entire head that was shaved and some were entertained to no end at the mere prospect of a bare Kitty head! Boom to support/making my mates laugh!) days following surgery upon her arrival in London all the way from Australia - you can't tell just by looking at all the dressings and labels on this sick Kitty, but I'm pretty, pretty, pretty chuffed at this moment (and so is she - perhaps even more so!).
Unfortunately, on top of stealing parts of the brain + skull, my kind neurosurgeon, old mate, Dr Henry Marsh, did not offer a hair extension (but my optimistic/damaged mind still provided a colourful concoction of such in the brain biopsy's wake, much to my supporters' - even the medical sorts at hospital's *I swear they were laughing!* -  delight!)

St George's Hospital, London

December 2012

As it's currently considered early days in Stroke Rehabilitation, I still have missing peripheral vision (50%) and a constant tingling sensation (varying degrees of intensity) down my body's RHS, which is relieved by people tickling it (alllright). When I lived in London, I had roomies & kind mates lining up to tickle myself to sleep post Stroke 1, but back in Oz, no such luck. The missing eyesight and lack of spatial navigation means I currently can't drive. That was quite convenient on the 2012 Summer Euro Trip when nasty hangovers were a sure thing, but it does, at times, make me feel like a child these days always needing others to execute my desires and to be included in life, which understandably can be a confronting and demoralising (+ hidden) effect. Generally though, I don't mind this development as it is nice being driven around; I feel like a celebrity. I guess I kind of am!

Unfortunately, the brain's progress is currently not what my young neurologist (English lad, of course - he's my stalker, always making me come see him for 'appointments' + him moving Down Under to work!) expected (but it will get better!). The concerning short term memory loss means that I currently couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast (minutes - sometimes even seconds - ago) nor who I spoke to today.  The constant lack of spatial navigation means when I go to a friend's house, I'm completely lost in such simple surroundings (they supply handmade maps of their house plan - which I can still read, hurrah! - and I put my own familiar belongings on door handles as a gentle reminder of which room is the one I'm staying in. 'Queenslander'-style houses that are like open-plan circle mazes are absolute torture for my damaged mind and I'm a Queenslander :() and I can never go out in public alone (at 27 years of age - just imagine that) given the concerning lack of spatial navigation + short-term memory.  You have probably noticed (with the intact hippocampus of your brain) that I've repeated myself on countless occasions (thanks for hanging in there, patient, considerate ones!) and I'm most definitely not allowed to cook without supervision (this takes me back to the early '90s when I'd cook with my mum as a dependent kid - like something you see in a twisted thriller/horror film to revert to relying on my mum). Unsurprisingly, I had to be tested by OTs (love it/them. I go for sessions twice a week) that I was safe in the kitchen and they even came to my home to check that it was well equipped for a stroke survivor! Mother Duck is an award-winning registered nurse (+ a Master of Mental Health, in particular!), so you can imagine how insulted she must have felt. Considering the 180 degree turn of my young, promising life to that of a seriously unwell soul whose life is hanging by a thread, I take a lot (certainly not all) of what is happening in my stride, which surprises myself - and probably also everyone around me - immensely. 

To help retain that friends had in fact visited, I'd take photos with my phone (<<thank goodness for this smart invention!) of them during our relaxing rooftop hangs (at the London hospital in July = living!).

I simply craved their company (+ jokes) and they knew it brought an unwell, fearing/nearing death Kitty Kat immense joy and comfort (^^check out the mate's own level of comfort on the hospital rooftop during London's peak summer night, above ha)!

As friends had left work early in time to see their ill Kitty Kat during the hospital's strict visiting hours, many had to continue with work commitments as they were chatting and filling me up with the rad vibes.

No biggie - they could have the same two-minute conversation with a brain-damaged Kitty and I would be none the wiser (poor things probably did)! Much appreciated, you legends.

Charing Cross Hospital, London

July 2012

The memory is currently lacking so much that I still keep a notepad by my side to write down the events of each day. Admittedly, I write less these days, which I like to regard as a positive development. When I was in hospital, one (anonymous) friend would call after her day at work (something I was envious of! To work again - what a dream!) and tell me about her love life (I suddenly had to live vicariously through friends - a recent development!), which basically entailed asking her for a rating on the date itself and them kindly answering with such (have we just created a handy new phone app?!). Deflection - just what I needed when reality was initially far too raw. When friends and family would visit the locked ward in hospital, I'd take countless photos of them on my helpful phone as they talked about their life in the 'real' world. It started because I'd forget people had visited, then they'd say (in a text message, for example) that they had and because there was absolutely no recollection on my part nor 'hard evidence', I thought I was in a coma or even no longer living (Cotard's Syndrome, a rare effect of brain damage, described as 'one who thinks they're dead' - it was truly petrifying, for all of us). To add to this extreme anxiety, I also recorded friends' voices on my iPhone - which morbidly sounded like mine so I'd panic again and then need sleeping tablets to rest my racing, damaged mind. Rather scary paranoia.  Such distress and confusion is gradually subsiding and my friends and family don't have to deal with such anguish as frequently (<<operative word). YES!

Given the effects of brain damage and the inflamed blood vessels, I was convinced I was in a coma or dead. Pretty horrific (for all).
Friends took countless photographs - and the sillier, the better (as I'd least expect those shots so I was less paranoid given I didn't predict a mate's facial expression, below) to ensure I could look at such whenever I was anxious - including one clever mate using their initiative and wisdom to take Polaroid photographs of my *updated* birthday 'party' at the café opposite the hospital (how lucky was I?! Decent mates and decent celebrations!). When I was in photos (for months after Stroke 2), it was an eerie sensation looking at them later on, as I couldn't recall being at such an event, yet I clearly was in the thick of it in the pics (kind of like your biggest night 'on the turps' being recalled only through the assistance of photos which is due to your brain's hippocampus being compromised *but not completely killed like this Special K's* during such sessions - welcome to my world, darling compassionate, boozy supporters)! Friends generally took it in their stride because they're wise souls who rolled with my life's punches. 

Thank you buddies - you are AMAZING!

St George's Hospital, London

November 2012

Above: Even boring ole shots like this - 

of a friend talking to PJ-clad me (<<legs pictured - totally relaxed and in my element while in the hospital's Neuro Ward!) about something I would have forgotten about two seconds (no exaggeration) later (I was always so humbled that they'd still tell myself regardless! Thank you!) - 

helped soothe my extreme anxiety in those early weeks in hospital post Stroke 2 and its killing of the memory-forming, hippocampus

St George's Hospital, London

November 2012

Do you know what (<<kid lingo 101)?! I'm not that special having a stroke. Jessie J, Sharon Stone (who has also made growing older her goal - yes!) and an ex-flame's sister, have all had strokes in their prime years too. See the pattern? Witty, extraordinary and alluring ladies have strokes, amiright (although so has a Kitty sporting favourite, Mr Rod Laver, together with The Streets' talented Mike Skinner to name just a few impressive males living with the effects of stroke)?! It does take a pretty special Kitty to have two!  Eventually, I may even try to write a book (as I have books and books of notes + emails galore) upon reflection of this painful/insightful life chapter (not life sentence!). It will be aptly titled - Strokes Get The Blokes (verbal irony at its best - or have I hit the nail on the head?!). It'll be quite the inspirational + educational read. People tend to think 'stroke' means your face/body/abilities/intelligence change, you can no longer be considered a valued part of society nor function the way you used to as an independent person, but it depends on the part of brain that it happened, how swiftly you acknowledged the stroke, appropriately Acted FAST with effective medical intervention, your particular attitude, dedication and neuro therapy in the aftermath + the consistent support network you have during the essential Rehabilitation Stage. Being a teacher, the book would ultimately be an education and of course, it will have the usual witty Kitty spin.

My own Jessie J serving up standard hospital food ('twas delicious!) in the initial days after Stroke 1 when my visual field suddenly sat at a pathetic 50% (so I couldn't properly see what I was eating, right?!).

Thank you, dear PUMP!

Charing Cross Hospital, London

August 2012

Sincere apologies if I have repeated myself in any way. Please do regard it as an endearing part of my (current) nature. As my hard-working brain develops new routes around the damaged sections (maybe they ought to put them up for auction when I pass away! Perhaps they can be considered the new 'diamond in the rough'!), my short term memory retention & spatial navigation is steadily growing (yippee!), the vast range of challenging effects (visible & more concerning, invisible) are reducing and life as a real adult is indeed (albeit gradually) returning! It hopefully won't be long before I'm back, baby (ala George Costanza style)!

Watch this space in the meantime.

I hate having short term memory loss; it's fantastic.