How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned.
(Eloise to Abelard - Alexander Pope)
During my month-long vacation at St George’s Hospital in London, I was constantly whisked away for all kinds of tests. It made me feel rather like a Very Important Kitty (VIK in layman’s terms). I welcomed such attention; it was a bit of action for my otherwise uneventful birthmonth and the only instance it frustrated me was when I missed out on meals. No biggie – I could do with a diet after being told by an insensitive colleague that I had put on weight (‘...but at least you’re healthy’ was the rest of that confronting comment that turned out to be cursed). Furthermore, it also meant I had a little eye candy for the normally dull life in my unisex hospital ward (on top of my favourite murse, Gilly that is). I never said much to the caring young gentlemen, but I’m sure they were thinking strokes get the blokes indeed. I mean, they were always visiting me, having a helpful chat about where I needed to go, forcing me to wear a cheeky revealing hospital gown and they were rather eager to whisk me away from my posse.
As I stated before, my favourite test was done by my Spanish old mate/medical professional, (call me) Angelo, who gave me a little heart massage, although, many of the other tests were rather disturbing, confronting and downright intrusive. Reflecting, I didn’t overly mind having them as I understood their purpose and as usual, friends were always visiting to make light of the situation. One mate enjoyed the fact that I couldn’t have an endoscopy (aka: swallow a cute camera for ‘lunch’) whilst alert, which was a surprise considering the only person I’ve known to have a bigger mouth than me is my younger sister. Potato Lover apologised in the midst of laughing at such a surprising inability, although I am sure most people would see the funny side when receiving a text that read ‘turns out I don’t like big things in my mouth’.
One rather eerie test was the MRI, which basically felt like I had my body in a tiny capsule with heavy construction going on just centimetres away from me (that I couldn’t see as it was dark) whilst trying to blur out the haunting sounds with a little Phil Collins (of course my bruised brain retained the tunes played! Important). It was during these raw moments I was relieved that I had short-term memory loss as it was a rather daunting test that made you feel like you were in a coffin being buried alive by a bunch of (seemingly) incompetent people who kept hitting your coffin with their shovels! Ah, how convenient it only felt like a few seconds to this little Dory; silver lining! It took me a while to forget the angiogram test which intention was to show any clogged blood vessels throughout my body, as such a test made me feel like I was uncontrollably peeing whilst lying on a bed in front of several strangers who continually assured me it was ‘normal’! It was a strange sensation that was hard to take in your stride (I just wanted to find the nearest bathroom), but in hindsight, how very intriguing. It must be fun for the medical professionals to watch the patients' varied reactions!
Given the complexities of stroke and the human mind as a whole, there were some tests that I had - and still have - no idea what the purpose of them were, but I guess it is better to be safe than sorry when you're clinging to life after a few brain attacks. There was the rather intrusive lumbar puncture that entailed a huuuuuge needle used to extract fluid from my spine, which Mother Duck now tells me was to assess the pressure to check I didn’t have an infection and also used as an indication of brain activity. Huh?! I still don’t fully understand its purpose but I assume it was due to the initial misdiagnosis. Can you imagine how concerned I made loved ones when I texted them that I had an infection of the brain (followed by ‘I’ll be fine. Give it a week.’)?! Initially, I was just frustrated being back in hospital, especially during my mid-term break. I wasn’t worried about my situation until someone messaged back asking if I had meningitis, another infection of the brain and symptoms that were similar (i.e. confusion). As you'd expect, I was overly familiar with meningitis due to well-documented fatalities in the media, so naturally, I thought this was it for Kitty. What did I want at that moment? Easy; my Mum and my little sister, Jack Attack, who were still Down Under, writing me What’s App messages so frequently, I deduce they slept (+ worked!) less than I did. I’d demand photos of themselves, what they were currently looking at (a shot of a computer screen has never been so welcomed when you don't feel alive or at the very least, conscious) or of their pet pooch posing just for me (thanks, Wally Shih Tzu!).
Whilst I understood the purpose of the brain biopsy, I didn’t understand why I needed to have an x-ray of my lungs or an electroencephalogram test which measured brain electrical activity (I wasn't having seizures) nor did I understand the brain biopsy's results being 'inconclusive' was a step in the right direction like those around me had deduced. Although there was a test almost every day during my month+ vacay at hospital, I never complained about all the tests. I generally just went with the flow and was incredibly appreciative of National Health Service as I assume such thorough medical analysis came at quite the cost especially when I had such a massive appetite after!
After copious tests, you’d think there would be some indication of abnormalities, however there was no evidence of such. They had committed immense time, expertise, money and effort into my cause and it all came back as healthy. A healthy Kitty - what a crying shame! Fortunately, they weren’t all pointless; I was told by one (I imagine - competent, wise and knowledgeable) doctor that I had the 'perfect anatomy', which unsurprisingly went straight into my long-term-memory bank. Although I’d forget I had told someone that my anatomy was so wonderful seven times in the previous minute and the doc’s passing comment also forced me to be overly carefree whilst eating Twirls for breakfast. No more perfect anatomy for Kitty.
'I don’t know why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down. You might think we would lie there and rest for a while.'
Yes indeed, Mike Skinner (ala musical genius, The Streets), who is also a fellow stroke recipient. Strokes get the musical blokes too.
