Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

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 the month-long vacation at St George’s Hospital in London, I was constantly whisked away for all kinds of extravagant tests. Upon reflection, it did make me feel rather like a Very Important Kitty (VIK in layman’s terms). Of course, I welcomed such attention; it was a bit of action for the now-uneventful birthmonth & the only instance it frustrated me was when I missed out on meals. Those particular steroids I was initially on to help prevent further strokes made me more ravenous than I had ever been before in my life and yet the moment I did eat the smallest amount, I'd promptly feel sick + full after just a few bites (which I'd repeat that I was full and felt ill about it every couple of seconds given memory loss, poor souls in my company!) so it was a bizarre experience that was made light by constantly jokes about me being like a dodgy athlete taking steroids (that weren't in fact helping my physique in the slightest, unfortunately).

As I stated before, the most intriguing test was done by Spanish old mate/medical professional, Dr ('call me') Angelo, who gave me a little heart massage, although so many of the other tests were 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. Upon reflection, it must be fun for the medical professionals to watch the patients' varied reactions!

Given the vast 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 barrage of brain attacks. There was the rather intrusive lumbar puncture that entailed a huuuuuge needle used to extract spinal 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 half-term break. Initially, I wasn’t worried about my situation until a concerned friend messaged back asking if I had meningitis, another infection of the brain, particularly its membrane surrounding 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 & little sister, Jack Attack, who were still Down Under, sending messages (I promptly forgot calls altogether within seconds & then would get in a state about forgetting despite the phone clearly stating we had spoken for an hour just five minutes earlier) 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 initially understand that the brain biopsy's results being 'inconclusive' was a step in the right direction like those around me had (fortunately) deduced. Although there was a test almost every day during the month+ vacay at hospital, I never complained about them all. Generally speaking, I just went with the flow (while still wanting to leave hospital, so brain damaged I didn't realise its actual severity and just how long & intense the rehab road ahead entailed) & was incredibly appreciative of UK's National Health Service as I assume such a thorough medical analysis came at quite the cost especially when I had such a massive appetite after (let's blame the steroids, okay?!)!

After copious advanced 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 (we can deduce - competent, wise & knowledgeable) doctor that I had the 'perfect anatomy', which unsurprisingly went straight into my long-term memory bank. Although, I’d then forget I had told someone that my anatomy was declared to be wonderful seven times in the previous minute & 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.

A Testing Time

One major benefit of short-term memory loss (there's many, I guarantee you) is reliving past experiences as if for the first time.  You tend to appreciate what you have lived and also realise just how extraordinary your life - and merely being alive - is.  Understandably (after losing roughly a baboon's worth of neurons), my sense of identity was pulled into question after both strokes, which made me quite anxious suddenly not knowing who I was (and made many run a mile at such insecurities! Keep on running) nor the impact I have had on others. Talking to fellow stroke survivors, I know this confronting loss of identity is a common effect for one to experience when struck by considerable brain damage and I am here to say to newer stroke survivors, it (your sense of identity) does improve - not only because your familiar ole self comes to say g'day by ensuring you win Trivial Pursuit against your brain-intact peers (shame on you, Rusty!) and/or your abilities at cooking a (simple) meal without assistance. Alarms galore for this particular brain-damaged kid i.e.: roast dinners drive me absolutely crazy with 2+hours of going back and forth in/to the kitchen with countless alarms (otherwise the house may get burned down - wise 21st-century tactic and another reason why I greatly appreciate my helpful little smart phone)! Hence why I prefer risottos that I can completely make all in one go using little 'mind' long-term memory alarms and instinct, whilst also altering and enhancing the neural pathways.

 Confusion about and questioning of your sense of identity is a common effect of strokes and the brain damage they ensue that may not be all that familiar to present society. Luckily for Miss Laird, my dear British students were quick to offer reassurance (whilst in hospital and post - still to this day!) of the impact I made on them with the most individual, kindest and cherished words an unwell little soul could ever receive. These were read every single day whilst in hospital (there for six weeks in total post second stroke) - so much so, there were other patients who must have teased/pitied me. As you can see from the above supportive words, they gave me inspiration, hope and determination to fight the disease which caused the brain damage and its harsh effects (from two strokes) so that I could get back to pumping up the students (and their learning/attitude to learning). 

Children = AMAZING. 

Missing my students and processing all that I had lost in my professional life and its progression was why I cried in hospital every single day.

St George's Hospital, London

November 2012

During the month-long stay at St George’s Hospital/Hotel, I had a guest rota to ensure I didn’t think I was in a coma too often. One mate would endlessly offer entertainment by complaining about the few extra pounds it cost them to get to London's Zone 4 where the hospital was located and then they would insist he had any chocolate I was given by others as payment – and I always had a plentiful supply. When I did run out of chocolate (the heartbreak), other patients would kindly offer me theirs. I never gave them any of mine though (there’s that one-of-eight-children mantra for you!), but I guess my roomies enjoyed the graphic tales (compensation). Quirky friends ensured 2012's strokes were made light of from the very start; drawing inappropriate (amusing) cartoon appendages on my body chart (even nurses appreciated such creative work), teasing the guys they were dating whilst my love life was lacking (‘Daryl’ only has to be said for me to now instantly smile), even the (pseudo) broken heart eventually became entertaining. My dear work colleagues visited regularly with cards and goodies from my class and my head teacher (principal in Aussie terms) even gave me a hug! Not even two brain injuries will stop that being lodged into the long-term memory bank, he should be proud!

HOSPITAL LIVING - KITTY STYLE!

This dear friend would come in every couple of days purely to ensure NHS was serving quality meals. Quality Control Guy also paid all my bills, holiday payments and monthly rent (as when you're brain damaged, suffering from short-term memory loss and afraid you're about to die/already dead, not only are pins/passwords et al incredibly taxing on your mind, but the least of your concern).

Just the 'bare essentials' - my potato-loving KTG's (as seen below - in the background, writing in the infamous Special-K Notepad that every 'guest' kindly contributed to so that I could refer to as a memory prompt of the goings on in my life and I did indeed refer, every couple of minutes given memory loss!) idea of vegetables, fruit, 'protein' (she put those 

inverted commas on purpose because she's a creep) and dairy. 

What a truly extraordinary (+ creative) soul!

Below is KG's supportive message (and other friiiiends) after checking in on my day's planned surgery, which involved having a 'little' ('twas not!) camera shoved down your throat (see images below for visuals). In the end, I had to be sedated because although I couldn't care for myself, I still knew that this HUGE camera was trying to make its way down into my stomach via my mouth (they tried spraying my tense throat with a numbing agent too! No deal) by a bunch of medical sorts!

Did the description above (regarding an invasive endoscopy performed for goodness knows why! They even want to do another one for good measure!) make you picture this (above) kitty in some serious blood vessel footage?! Me too! 

The diagram (below) is how the endoscopy actually involves. 

Below:  How supportive friends reacted to the many surgeries and procedures performed in late 2012. Just the way I want them to treat an unwell Kitty - normal and with plenty of humour! 
Do take on board if you have someone in your life who is severely unwell - especially if they are young. Bring on the jokes please!

Supportive words from friends during hospital living, procedures and anxiety. 

November - December 2012

Would you believe that I was asked for 'urine samples' as often as I got hot meals, every bloody day. WHY?!?! Wrong end, docs!

How about we turn this apple into a pudding?*

Hospital food - UK Style

*No actual complaints from Kitty!

...Especially when friends would regularly bring in Happy Meals and more chocolate than Augustus Gloop could handle

November 2012

Some supportive words

from my dear British students

November 2012

Being in my twenties, I certainly didn’t want others to feel sorry for me - perhaps the odd occasion when I needed a spoon after some confronting news or felt anxious about being dead – but for the most part, when I had visitors, I’d insist we spoke about anything but strokes. Just hearing one recite exactly what they did that day was enough for me to feel at ease (i.e.: ‘I hit the snooze button three times this morning, before getting ready in eight minutes. Then when I got to the station, there were limited services, so I had to catch the 318 bus. You'll never guess who I saw on the bus...’ = Soothing music to my ears). 

A little buddy making fun of the 'props' at St George's Hospital

December 2012

Although I had a fair amount of crying in hospital, there was ten times more laughing. It honestly was a lovely, warm and comfortable (except for some tests) experience – I would do it again (a few aspects exempt)! Friends would come straight from the airport to tell me all about their holidays abroad (with their luggage in tow straight from the airport to see me!), some came in on Saturday nights with their laptops for a Saturday-night-at-the-‘movies’ date or we’d have a Happy Meal bite together (heaven!).  One friend even missed out on a holiday to Amsterdam to instead spend the weekend with me (GREAT woman). 

One of my darling British roomies, Oli, brushing my hair (to hide my recently-shaved head and 'holy' skull)

November 2012

At St George's Hospital, I also was offered cups of tea more often than if I were at a teahouse and the hospital staff loved me so much (don’t laugh – it’s true) they’d give me extra cookies + cuppas for my guests too. Due to my lack of short-term memory, I would lose my toothbrush constantly and the kind nurses would give me a brand-spanking-new one every single time! If that was my mum (the tough mental-health registered nurse), she’d tell me to use the bushman’s toothbrush (aka: index finger) and get over it. As expected in hospital, monitors and drips were constantly attached to me, which would raise an alarm to get the attention of the nurses when finished the task, who weren’t always nearby, so I’d be quite distraught - all alone with an alarm going off - at 4 am. Despite such severe short-term memory loss, I can recall one nurse not being able to come to my aid promptly, so when they eventually did, I was extremely relieved and they then told me the next day, that I mumbled to them with my eyes still shut, ‘thanks for looking after me’ – I know what you’re thinking; a fiesty Kitty Kat being nice when barely conscious is a surprise to me too.

Whilst in hospital, I had to have many tests and operations for anything and everything with the most frightening one being the brain biopsy that had the (minuscule) risk of death. The medical pros even gave me a free massage to ‘check’ that my veins weren’t clogged (thanks mate), threw a camera down my throat to be sure everything looked healthy inside (I had to be sedated for that one), made me wear a heart monitor for several days (FYI heart’s perfect. No surprises there), placed sticky electrodes on my scalp to check my mind's electrical activity (EEG - head massage = so lovely) and one naive nurse even gave me a pregnancy test (that lucky kid would be getting fed every two minutes from this Dory!) when I first was admitted (more as a standard precaution for upcoming tests). While the brain biopsy gave me the cute hole in the skull and a blatant shaved spot (/sexy shaved spot), the most interesting test was done by a Spanish doctor who insisted I called him Angelo (you've probably noticed I talk about him countless times - get used to it).  Angelo’s job was to ‘massage my heart’ (/bare chest) to check it was as incompetent as little ole brain (a dodgy heart - that you may not even realise you have beforehand - can and does cause strokes). 

Because I had to have an excessive amount of tests, including a daily blood-sugar-level one where a nurse would first prick my finger to check (which I basically had nightmares about in mere anticipation, so gave me a newfound respect for people who require daily needles) and blood tests for whatever they felt like testing that day, I made light of the dismal situation, by insisting the nurses met me halfway. That 'halfway' was to humour me in the midst of taking my sacred blood by saying in a Dracula-influenced accent 'I want/vant to take your blood'. One rather coy nurse was unsure, but when he eventually said it, he enjoyed it. I swear - he told me (you would too)! I’m no medical expert, but I feel it was a far better way to prepare patients for a needle without any jelly beans as a reward like in Australia. 

It may be extremely surprising to hear that hospital can be a nice place, but it honestly was such a lovely, warm experience in London (for 5-6 weeks with short-term memory loss, at least). The caring staff; the little old senile ladies with hearts of gold; spoons with beautiful fellow patients and mates as well; dear loved ones constantly visiting every day (some wonderful ones even came straight from the airport and brought their laptops for movie dates during their weekends) and being spoiled with Happy Meals, Twirls (as well as the hospital's decent meals, cuppas, bickies and puddings!) + entertaining anecdotes from the outside world, all made me feel rather jolly (for the most part).  When it was a special occasion (i.e.: a little visit to the shops across the road from the hospital with mates or therapists or my birthday, two weeks into the vacation), I’d wear the exact outfit I wore when Stroke #2 struck (all other clothing items whilst in hospital were pyjamas) which made for a kind of Groundhog-Day vibe, but Klubbers didn’t care; they simply wanted to be in my company and support their Special K through such an awful experience (or come to eat my chocolate treats ala Patrick) and I couldn’t have been more humbled and grateful to have such beautiful people in my world. Lucky I reciprocated all their hard work and dedication with jokes and Kitty anecdotes. Even Steven! 

Above: How most of my (& many dear mates') evenings looked for 1.5 months.

Two friends are helping to create a memory Polaroid-photo collage of my birthday celebrations to ensure I didn't get upset due to short-term memory loss meaning I'd forget that we had just celebrated my birthday (that was meant to be living the high life in 'Dam).

What innovative, considerate PUMPS!

St George's Hospital (+ little Kitty party with favourites at the café across the road - boom!).

November 2012

A HUMONGOUS Kitty Kat hug that hurts and thank you tickle to all the Kitty Klubbers who spooned me, brought in chocolate + Happy Meals + PJs/undies/toiletries & shared their recent colourful anecdotes of life out of hospital during my 'birthmonth'.

 You are the Kitty Kat’s Meowwww ow ow.