What Exactly Is Short-Term Memory Loss? Two-Time Stroke Recipient, Kitty, Can't Remember

“It’s great. Everybody suddenly rates my good strokes as outstanding and my poorer strokes as almost outstanding.” 

Tennis God, Roger Federer’s response when asked in 2004 what it was like to be World Number 1, which is a mighty decent pun to use upon reflection of my own strokes - they have also both indeed been outstanding (good stroke *#2*) and almost outstanding (poorer stroke *#1*).  Turns out Rogey (term of endearment for my dear kindred spirit) and I truly are the perfect match (yet another pun intended - mmmhmm this Kitty does love a pun!), even after all these years (...apart/having yet to meet each other).

There is a reason why people say 'I was going to be a nurse, but I didn't have the patients/patience' and I'm it!  In order to investigate what the underlying reason was for the two cute bloke-luring strokes, London's St George's Hospital had a team of world-class surgeons (Special K at your service!) cut a rough diamond-shaped, approximately 3cm length x 1.5cm width, piece of skull out (P.N.: a part of my body's make-up which has never been seen again by this Kitty! Perhaps they sold it on eBay for five bucks!) and then stole a piece of my brain that wouldn't affect any of my abilities/attributes (typically referred to in the expert medical world as a brain biopsy).  Primarily, it was taken to try identify why my otherwise-thriving brain kept having strokes and secondarily, to check how clever and witty I was (incredibly for both attributes, riiight?!).  Now, don't let the brain biopsy's surgery-performed-under-general-anaesthetic aspect fool you; this extreme ordeal was absolutely petrifying.  There was a 1%-chance-of-death risk that I had to acknowledge and accept a few weeks post Stroke #2 - all before my family had even arrived in Great Britain from Australia  - and something that had me crying into the bosom of my ever supportive girlfriends and any offering woman in the Neurology Department (exclusively female-only ward) of St George's Hospital and frantically discussing my options + the justifications for such with the gentle hospital staff and Klubbers, which due to my short-term-memory loss, were most likely discussed (including diagrams and logic for 'scary' biopsy, as well as entertaining shaved-head jokes in my notebook for easy reference) several times an hour, every hour.  The patience my dear beautiful Klubbers had to have when dealing with this extremely forgetful-&-anxious Special K would be more than that of a saint. Glory to be!

The very first moments my wise little sister, Jacky Jacky, arrived in the neuro ward at St George's Hospital to collect her (suddenly) brain-damaged big sister (to go back Down Under for optimal rehab). Before Jack Attack's arrival, she had been sending messages of support, perspective & humour non-stop about what was going on in 'our' (layman's) terms to help the broken brain more efficiently lodge all the new information + make sense of it all and she even promised she would do my hair (something she never did prior! Make-up too! Now she's my beauty artist, what an angel!) to cover the bare-&-blatant shaved spot.

As you can clearly see, 'Little Treasure' ain't a liar - within minutes of arriving at St G's she was all over it!

YEAH JACK ATTACK!
The last time we had seen each other was in the first few hours of January 1st 2012 - at a NYE party - and now she had travelled across to the opposite side of the world to pick up her ghastly unwell BIG sister. How strange this chapter must have been on her. 
What an Aussie Battler!

St George's Hospital, neuro ward

December 2012

The rather efficient-and-competent surgeons briefly explained (to all of us as my diligent, patient visitors would then repeat such important information every couple of minutes when I'd swiftly forget/record in the notebook I always had right by my side recording every moment in anticipation of forgetting) prior to the standard brain operation what they were going to do to my very important thinking/being device in a matter-of-fact way over a few short minutes and this was done as if they were just popping by to have a quick chat with a colleague about an everyday occurrence (well it was indeed normal for them!) - it was almost like how make-up artists talk to you about how they are going to do your make-up for an upcoming event (you know what I'm saying, gentlemen?!) - and they only briefly saw this Special K once post-surgery to see how I was travelling. Naturally, I expressed my genuine gratitude for their competent brain biopsy and thanked them for the operation that I magically survived (99% chance I would do so - one magical Kitty as per usual!), as well as giving a cute East-London inspired haircut/shave to my hair 'katalogue', a blatant 5cm incision scar, stealing a piece of my sacred thinking tool and leaving a sexy peephole in my little skull (unfortunately, the bone will eventually grow over. I'll live *PI*).
*Please Note: No sarcasm here - the brain biopsy surely beat another option of going on certain drugs that meant I'd go through menopause at 30 (being proactive upon hearing this option, I had swiftly organised my younger sister to make me some babies in the future! May still use that card because her particular genes are better *evidently*) and alllllso, the brain biopsy 'twas also quite the conversation starter with friends and family alike - still is! 

Below: Scars get the fell-as!

Above: Fascinating insight into the damaged Special-K mind.

The brain's occipital and temporal lobes have been affected by the two strokes with a clear chunk of damage (/dead brain) in the bottom-LHS visible in the top shot & RHS-'seahorse' in the other shot also showcasing dead brain from the second brain attack = a stroke per hemisphere, fair!).

On top of showing my utmost appreciation for not killing me, I - like I'm sure most of my generation - desperately wanted to quote to St George's world-class surgeons upon surviving the brain surgery's biopsy, 'dammit Smithers! This isn't rocket science; it's brain surgery!'. However (and it brings me deep regret to say this), the clever surgeons had run a mile by the time I got the inconclusive results! Given their specialty, I'm sure they were rather relieved to have a day off from The Simpsons' reference, even if the Kitty wit is a shame to miss.

So it was in fact, my patient nurses and doting Kitty Kat Klubbers that I turned to for clarity, support (I even started thinking/fretting about my Will and had to do it once I came home!) and optimism during such confusion and sadness in my life. Poor/Lucky Nurse Gilly even had to be ordered to our neuro ward one night when he was elsewhere (how dare he abandon me - his favourite/funniest patient!) because I wouldn't/couldn't calm down without his specific reassurance. In hindsight, I hope such a close connection to Gilly (despite having short-term memory loss so new people were promptly forgotten in 99% of cases, not our memorable Gilly though!) made him feel as immensely important and valued as he truly is. Thank goodness for Gilly!

Above: One of my many new besties whilst at hospital - a little elderly lady we all knew as 'Mary'. My Klubbers loved her too and they didn't even 'get' to listen to her tales late at night nor did she give them as many cookies! One amazing Scot! LOVED my hospital buddies.

November 2012

Some Klubbers were rather confused that I could retain new people in my life that were the supportive/entertaining staff at St George's Hospital, my Italian big spoon (a fellow patient), or the adorable wee Scottish lady named Mary (aww I love Mary! There most definitely is something about her) who was also a patient at St George's neurology department who'd offer her biscuits (I enjoyed simply looking at her. She had that calming, endorphin-releasing effect on me! I snuck many many, MANY iPhone shots as I sat across from her every day. Unbeknown to her hehe - and myself five minutes later when my memory was reset hence the extensive collection!), seeing as those particular people were just recently put into my brain's memory bank.  However, given my firsthand (+ newfound) expertise in neurology (I'm more or less a neurologist now, riiiiiight?!), I have discovered that short-term memory doesn't necessarily mean information/people/events retained from recent times; it is defined information/people/events that your brain deems as unimportant in the long run.  So it is no wonder I was able to retain that Catherine, Prince William's missus, was experiencing hyperemesis gravidarum (aka: acute morning sickness for those who aren't familiar with the technical term *me*) in the weeks I was at St George's Hospital (p.n.:  pretty, pretty, pre-tty certain she named little Georgie boy in honour of my hospital vacation in a long-winded/far-fetched kinda way!) & I was also able to list every single name of my dear 4L's students for the 2012 - 2013 school year, despite both being relatively new pieces of information (they were obviously very important hence the long-term-memory banking!).  

Above: These supportive words were from my dear British students who I missed to the extent I'd cry at the mere mention of them (for many months post strokes), so colleagues would have to give their individualised cards and art pieces when I was mentally prepared, as a simple drawing (that was the best!) caused massive breakdowns. An expected reaction to someone who values their career as much as I do! Why wouldn't I when one student misspelled my last name as 'Laid' to which entertained my somewhat-supportive buddies (+ myself) tenfold?! How I love these little people forevermore!

It was an extremely challenging Kitty Chapter, to be brain damaged, at St George's Hospital (all the way out in Ldn's Zone 3! Sorry to the pricey venture, supporters!), with strangers spooning me every night (they insisted!) and others forcing myself to do countless procedures and surgeries that I didn't quite understand the reasoning for (whyyyy must I have a camera shoved down my throat for a brain issue?! Whyyyy are you shaving my head if I could die/results may *and did* come back inconclusive?! Why are you taking so much of my pee alllll the time - what has it got to do with my brain, you sickos?!), missing out on booked holidays abroad with mates (upcoming Amsterdam and Bulgaria trips were instantly lost - and that was just what was booked when Stroke #2 hit in October 2012) and generally living my normal youthful life, worrying about what had happened/was happening to my Special K brain and as a result, unable to teach, nursing a pseudo broken heart, missing my dear 4L immensely (which caused crying as if I was Ben Stiller in There's Something About Mary), as well as the endorphins and sense of purpose the daily grind gives you.  As you'd expect, I was so completely traumatised by the whole experience (when not distracted by food) that I needed regular evening spoons with my dear visitors as well as with my beautiful Italian co-patient who was also in my ward. A woman I had only met during my 2012 birthmonth in 'pital, but someone I couldn't possibly imagine my hospital life, nor maintaining my sanity during such a challenging life chapter, without.  As anyone who is dealing with such tragedy, denial was indeed first and all my focus was on longing for my dear family from Down Under to just come be with me, refusing to accept what all my Klubbers, nurses, occupational therapists and doctors were insisting had happened to my ole brain (what would they know?!), yet all the while, unable to retain more than a few seconds (that grew more in retention every day - still is!) worth of my life (and that of others) at a time each day.  An inability which made myself totally aware of such a newfound deficit.  Quite a confronting situation for this Kitty to not be able to use my typically well-oiled machine that is the brain in my prime years.  When I wasn't thinking about 4L, my pseudo broken heart, delicious English chocolate or where I got my 'new' maroon pants, I'd be worrying about the daily surgeries and/or investigations I was having. In particular, the birthmonth's brain biopsy, which had a slim (yet distinct) chance of death.  Admittedly, the actual likelihood of dying from such a surgery was extremely small, but this Kitty wasn't exactly feeling overly confident in my abilities at life.

Just a few days post brain surgery and I'm relishing in all the attention! 

Check out the sweet scar and shaved head! Knowing what surgery one could need when strokes hit, this one is absolutely minor. 
Plus, it's pretty rad.

December 2012

In the end, such a morbid concern turned out to be a fruitless, simple-yet-petrifying ordeal - with the aim to elucidate the pattern of my blood-vessel inflammation - when the brain biopsy's results came back inconclusive and I survived (evidently)! Everyone wants a piece of the Kitty-Brain-pie!  Fortunately, my darling medical gurus used a cerebral angiogram (x-ray test of the brain's blood vessels where the docs used a certain dye that gives you the sensation of going to the toilet as it goes through your veins. Keep calm and carry on *peeing*, Kitty! It was almost a fun test! Almost being the operative word there) to identify characteristic patterns of inflammation in my affected blood vessels, where they then deduced (not officially identified) a nervous-system disorder known as vasculitis as possibly the cause for my two massive strokes.  An extremely rare (and special) disorder that lists stroke as one of its many symptoms amongst other health concerns (it all makes sense now, right Klubbers?!). As we some have bear witness to, the (redundant) brain biopsy means I do now look rather sexy-chic with a cute little shaved spot (+ my skull's blatant sexy peephole) at the back of my head, with friends making clever jokes about such a new (perhaps improved) Kitty look within hours of the operation (I wouldn't expect any less).  One even made light of such a confronting haircut (just like a typical Australian sort would!) by asking if I looked like Natalie Portman's shaved-head style, to which my response was that I was more likely channelling Bill Murray (....well I am quite enjoyable to look at. A hoot too!). 

Above: Mere minutes after waking from brain surgery, friends are already mocking me (& I was quick to join them!). 

LOVE it.

St George's Hospital London U.K.

November 2012

The above conversation where a thoughtful mate likened an ordeal that was utterly frightening to me to the most attractive women that have sported shaved heads (to which I replied with perhaps the most handsome balding man), in the initial moments after waking post the live-or-die brain surgery, is a perfect example of the Klubbers' unique humour that has continuously engulfed my life (+ theirs!) during such immense confusion, sadness and suffering, to which I truly regard as the ultimate positive sign of the special (K) sort of person I am and how I'm (/we're) going to actively and successfully combat such a disorder with a smile on my/our dial (95% of the time).  Furthermore, I had one lovely colleague hang out with me at hospital and later, after he had left, send me a message suggesting I reconsider my stay at St George's Hospital upon seeing the cemetery across the road (location, location, location!) was full to capacity (in the event you do not get the Kitty-stab, he was implying the hospital was not doing a very good job at saving lives)!  Of course, I absolutely loved receiving such a morbid message (my kind of humour after all!) and knew that an Englishman being able to make a quality joke about the dead centre of town when I was so petrified about death myself, having just made it through two strokes (assumedly) caused by the little ole vasculitis - a serious disease which more-likely-than-not is fatal - meant that the two strokes I suffered did indeed serve a purpose!  Englishman, although heavily reliant on dry-and-dark humour, proves himself to be funny - quite the lasting effect there, Miss Laird!

It was an incredibly confronting situation for this Kitty, to be facing the idea of death at 26 years old without my immediate family by my side, in a cold country on the opposite side/end of the world, absolutely confused & bewildered about what was going on in my life, yet it was just an everyday occurrence for the surgeons - after all, it was their day job.  The superb surgeons at St George's Hospital only had to listen to my angst for a few minutes before knocking me out (perhaps it was a tad kill-two-birds-with-one-stone scenario for the surgeons when I was unconscious and therefore unable to offer them my usual chitty chat to them during the brain biopsy!).  However, the doting staff had to constantly put up with my chin wagging and if they weren't working, I'd ask after them (just the lucky ones that were put into my long-term-memory bank - i.e. sweeeeet ole GILLY-O!) because I missed the kind way they spoke about the scary brain operation and the countless other invasive, traumatising procedures performed on this Kitty, sat next to my bed well into the lonely nights offering graphic tales and anecdotes about their lives outside of hospital and/or helped calm me in regards to my memory-loss concerns when I thought I was going to be stuck as Special K forevermore ('I'll get you some pudding to help you calm down'/'I've seen worse than you get better. Get over it Kitty Kat!'). 

My doting nurses/employees would tell me the following day that I had asked after them when they weren't working (how dare they abandon me/have a day off!), offering congratulations on the short-term memory progress as well as trying to imply that they were my favourite St George's Hospital staff member as remembering them was quite the feat.  Of course my response was always, 'you ought to be flattered I even remember you at all!' (such true words, Kitty!). Always a believer in your profession's ultimate rewards coming from your direct positive effect on others, I knew that Gilly was absolutely chuffed at my ability to retain him then - and even now - yet the leader of our Commonwealth had eluded me.  

Occasionally, the good St G staff had to remind me that I hadn't yet had a shower for that day (implying to do so, dirty Kitty!), but I always reflected on this memory deficiency with optimism; at least they didn't have to shower me themselves, like stroke patients do so often require.  They only had to step in with the friendly reminder (& they always were ever-so friendly!) and I'd be off with some freshly-washed/new PJs (gifted by mates!) + familiar-smelling hair/body products that the support network had so lovingly brought in for me (there's only so much chocolate they could gift after all!).  Of course, the ten minutes spent having a shower meant the short-term memory had been reset, so when I'd come back to my room (I'd recognise my room by peaking in various ones until I recognised, say, my Italian Big Spoon, Gilly and/or my darling 4L students' art work that was on display - long-term memory guides!), I'd be utterly confused about exactly which bed was mine. The patients who shared my ward were awfully understanding of my confusion + memory deficit, steering me in the right direction and when I'd occasionally get into another patient's bed (that was empty at the time! I'm not that brain damaged! C'mon!), thinking it was mine, we'd laugh at my Special-K ways.  You must find the humour aspect in such a unique (and frequent) occasion for the life of a brain-damaged soul!   It also helped that Mother Duck was/is a mental-health registered nurse who would tell me she had seen worse (probably referring to my younger sister in the mornings, eyyy) and explained why my brain was having such a hard time at remembering, whilst also calling St George's Hospital straight after such chats to ask/tell them to up my calming drugs.  I knew there was a reason why I had chosen Mother Duck to be my mummy for more than just her unique travel buddy abilities!

Hospital Life - Kitty Style 

Friends Galore (& all the while, in a onesie)

St George's Hospital, London 

November 2012

The psyche as a person with brain damage was in such an unfamiliar-+-bizarre place in the first few months post Stroke #2, that on top of my frequent misconception that I was definitely in a coma, I kept asking my nurses, fellow patients/spoon buddies and my daily visitors/Klubbers if they liked my hair extension because I honestly thought I had been given a vanity saviour after my brain biopsy to prevent me looking like a better-looking/funnier version of my brothers.  Klubbers were at first concerned at how crazy I seemed, but then I was so adamant that I had a hair extension to cover the distinct hole in my skull and flicked my hair (...that apparently covered the cute shaved spot) with such confidence, that it became quite the joke at my expense by family, friends and even St-G buddy, Gilly - with even myself joining in on such an entertaining Kitty-roast in the end ('twas really just trying to make them laugh!).  Upon reflection, it makes perfect sense that I should have had a hair extension to cover the blatant shaved spot! Now, I have accepted such an East-London look and insist all of my loved ones (+ acquaintances/anybody) stroke the hole in my skull (with skin stitched back up so it is technically covered up), with most finding it rather disgusting, morbid and disturbing. Surprisingly, I've grown quite attached to it and am often tapping the spot (of course, the hair has grown back, but the bone has yet to completely) and when I do these slight taps, I get slight tingling spasms in different parts of my head/neck, which feels as if the inside of my head is hollow!  Perhaps it is - it would make an awful lot of sense! Unfortunately, I have been informed that the bone will grow back eventually, so if you are wanting to feel such a 'gateway to my brain', get in (the hole) quick! Clever hole-in-one jokes are most welcome.

Being a teacher, I am forever a learner and this brain injury (to the power of two) is no exception.  Not only have I learned how truly fascinating our brains are with their abilities to re-route despite major damage, but I have also experienced firsthand, the change in my Kitty-persona, as well as my logic, priorities & life's endeavours, whilst also understanding more about the dear kind souls that make up my world, the vast range of people within our world, the role they both play in my growth as a human being and how important they, particularly, my Klubbers, are to my own life's goals and its ultimate happiness.  Whilst this is an extremely challenging life experience & one I do not recommend nor glorify by any means, it has offered immense knowledge + appreciation of the human body and of life itself.  

The brain is truly fascinating. Each hemisphere (left + right) has its own unique functions, abilities and strengths. 

Mesmerising minds!

Above: Using this guide, identify whether you celebrate your left or right hemisphere of the brain. Try celebrating the other one more tomorrow - he/she needs the love!

Due to my (recently-acquired) firsthand experience of just what constitutes short-term memory loss, I have found that it doesn't necessarily mean knowledge and/or memories you recently acquired like so often presumed to be so (that is partly naughties'-film 50-First-Dates' fault with its inaccurate portrayal of such).  Even though I met the superb Gilly at hospital in early November 2012, I retained his glorious self almost immediately (he was indeed honoured every day when I'd greet him with a warm, eager smile and for instance, comment on his haircut *that showcased short-termmemory* because he was that big a deal to my mind!) and I will remember him forevermore because he was a special and vital person in my hospital holiday, hence his place in my long-term memory bank as of November 2012. When we take information in, our brains process such information instantaneously into categories - of course, there's the well-known and valued long-term memory (with information split into explicit, implicit and autobiographical categories) and then there's also the ever troublesome short-term memory (aka the conscious mind according to Dr Sigmund Freud - I do love my uni days', penis-envy theorist, dear Dr Freudy!), which comes from paying attention to our sensory memories. Even though they are similar, our short-term-memory bank is different to our working memory bank, which would be used to store information periodically and rid such unnecessary brain clogging a few minutes later (i.e.: the colour of the man's shoes next to you at the chemist) - although I doubt I'd have much going on in either memory banks! Unsurprisingly, this unique Kitty life experience has made me realise that my brain is quite the fascinating organ (so is yours!) and even though the two strokes were out of my control, before we (/St George's doting neurologists) finally discovered I had a rare (/special) disease (that can be fatal - Kitty has dodged two bullets thus far! No biggie!) - which was (according to experts in GB - although my doctor Down Under has his doubts) the cause for the 2012 strokes - my life and the direction it takes and with whom I choose to share my future experiences with, is.  

My supporters have truly been remarkable in their consideration by say, for example, insisting on planning their visits to our hometown (where I'm currently residing with Mother Duck) with Kitty quality time ensured and/or acting like a doting, selfless nurse when I stay with them in a foreign city (even Brisbane - where I went to university and commenced my career is now foreign to this brain-damaged soul!).  My dear seven siblings, Sarah, Daniel, Simon, Aaron, Brent and Curt and Jack Attack (even JA's significant others, Mark, and Walter-Woo!), care for me like the Special K I am.  Even a nephew and niece have to partake in caring for this brain-damaged Kitty by taking me to events and helping me get around the unfamiliar cities (that were once utterly familiar to me) when I visit them!  Furthermore, one Good (/Great) friend missed out on a booked weekend in Amsterdam with our dear Dutch/Canadian buddies just to be with me at hospital during my birth-weekend in 2012 just after the second stroke struck and I have had other friends cancel events in their social calendar, weekends spent sleeping in, going on dates (sorry gentlemen, Kitty holds priority!) and/or enjoying a typically-normal life in order to support/spoon this inflamed blood vessels/dead pieces of brain Special K.  Obviously, I know this is not the norm for a brain-damaged person/non-brain-damaged person and it is not only a reflection of the selfless sort of people they are, but also who I choose to have in my life and how valuable I must be to them (i.e.: I constantly receive 'please send me your cheese jokes, Kitty!' style messages. Still a valuable Kitty over 'ere!). Having discovered the hard way, being unwell when you're young means many fellow young people have turned their back, not wanting to have to be confronted with someone who is a) unwell and b) mentally challenged. I know this is a reflection of their naive nature and ignorance more than anything else. Because of the little strokes, I adore my loved ones more than I possibly ever could have and just thinking about them makes me instantly smile and brings back the spring in my step.  Yet another positive to this life chapter. 

Always the most popular patient on the ward - check out my buddies (who brought in Aussie treats sent express from Down Under from Mother Duck & Jack Attack! PB ate most of it). 

They have been spectacular sorts!

Charing Cross Hospital

London U.K.

July 2012

One of my mates helping to create a 'memory board' of birthday celebrations at 'pital to ensure the effort the beauties of this world put in was not lost on their Special K (as I'd get anxious about forgetting such and that it hadn't really happened).  It was freezing as well as miserable and a weekend that was meant to be spent in Amsterdam with this incredible woman, yet we had such a lovely day with everyone. Sweet, sweet people. 

St George's Hospital

London UK

November 2012

Always one to be a self-advocator, I take responsibility of my own life as a 27-year-old brain-damaged Kitty Kat and actively seek ways to improve this little, newly-found endeavour of mine despite the extreme challenges I now face and how I may be affected by my decisions. As you may be aware, I am actively seeking ways to improve my restricted life that was pushed onto me when strokes struck at 26 through the decisions I make (still have some choices despite the sheer extent of control in my life = hurrah!) and these are clearly evident with my regular volunteer stint at a nearby supportive primary school (with hours continually growing yesssssss), occupational + speech-&-language therapy - that I was once doing two mornings a week and now also no longer require due to the improvement in my particular memory retention, the progress in decision making and articulation from such self-advocating measures and also from a range of daily at-home brain exercises (i.e.: cooking *with full-time supervision*, various brain tasks orchestrated by dear Nurse Mother Duck, puzzles, sudoku and even iPhone apps) and regular rehabilitation with OTs away from hospital who specialise in stroke survivors. Furthermore, I do believe in the power of perseverance alone and this tenacious attitude is further enhanced by ensuring I have a strong, positive support network through my dear Kitty Kat Klubbers.  Ultimately, my objective here is to improve the quality of my life (+ my loved ones'  lives too - one day they won't have to look after me as much!) and get the ole brain back to its old, hilarious (your words) self where I have true purpose in life by teaching again and being independent (I have a dream).  The docs all have faith in this Aussie battler!

It all starts now with acknowledging such a life-changing event (squared) with optimism, perseverance, humour & a little pun (naturally) - the two strokes have been just like Roger Federer said his tennis strokes were/are; outstanding.

Hospital Life for Kitty

(& for our Queen, the noble foot tickler, former British roomies, former hospital roomie/bestie and two mates that picked myself up when I was down, entertaining to no end)

LOVE!

St George's Hospital, London

November - December 2012

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

'Sometimes on the way to your dream, you get lost and find a better one,'

- an entrepreneur to aspire to be, Lisa Hammond

Above: Do learn the most common symptoms of stroke. 

Both strokes I suffered were initially ignored - one for days - by educated medical professionals. You may just be a sensational stroke hero for someone suffering from a devastating fire in the brain.

The day has come. My alter ego, Miss Laird, has officially been welcomed back into the haven that is the mighty-familiar classroom! Yesssss *insert a few air fist pumps right here*. Perhaps a little mix of Dangerous Minds and School of Rock meets Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind & 50 First Dates with a little touch of everyone's favourite Kitty comparison - Finding Nemo. Would you look at that?! Amnesia looks to be quite the profitable theme in Hollywood. Well, us who are lacking memory are mighty entertaining + unique souls (occasionally modest too)! It is rather intriguing to acknowledge the extensive range of entertainment that is dedicated to the trials and tribulations of those suffering from memory loss. Some are light-hearted and entertaining ala The Hangover, whilst others are tormenting, depressing and downright confronting.  Think Fight Club, The Iron Lady, Still Alice and The Notebook (...where is my Ryan Gosling?) to grasp the negative elements to losing the part of your brain that processes memories. Some do wonder and yes, I do still have the damaged part of brain (to the power of two) hanging around in there - they are just out of action, retired, have put out their detour sign.  There are various intriguing causes of strokes which are based around a lack of blood flow to the brain (it constantly needs the oxygen in your blood to feed its hungry neurons in order for them to survive + thrive!).  However, the particular cause of 2012's strokes has been deduced as a rather rare case (in other words, I'm special! Just ask Mother Duck).

The clever docs in UK deduced (& not officially identified as all tests indicated there was no official cause with perfect results all around) that I lost part of my brain due to its blood vessels deciding to become inflamed (aka vasculitis), first in July 2012 in the first few hours of my 6-week summer holidays - whilst at our school's staff party - & then again during an official week's half-term break from school while waking for the day on the morning in late October 2012. As far as I know (/have been told), I was awake for just a few minutes before Stroke #2 struck and it didn't hurt like the first stroke nor was there a loud brain explosion or even Kitty-tears of agony. Admittedly, I was far too ignorant & confused to realise the severity of my situation at the time and I honestly thought everyone else was being odd about what was happening; not myself who couldn't retain why I was at my friend's house on a 'school night' (there was no school on that week which I was obviously aware of the night before, phewwww) nor where I had gotten my strange & unfamiliar maroon pants worn into hospital that fateful morning. Without an ounce of exaggeration, it was mere seconds before my memory was swiftly wiped, instantly reset to my life of yesteryear. Essentially, I was living in the past and could not retain 99.9% of new information. Indeed, I was a serious danger to society and especially to my profession, but mostly to myself. If I had escaped from hospital (a guarded, locked ward made this near impossible), I would have forgotten within seconds what I was doing as soon as I stepped out onto the street and with a severe lack of spatial navigation as a result of the strokes, it would make for a concerning situation (to put it lightly). 

Even when I was at St George's Hospital for six weeks after Stroke 2 (while the medical superstars maintained my vulnerable blood vessels to help ensure no further strokes + extensively trying to find a clear cause of the two strokes), I continued to downplay what we all initially thought was a concerning virus and because I couldn't recall my Internet-banking details or my bank card's pin, I had to organise a dear (+ generous!) friend to pay my upcoming month's rent plus a planned Christmas ski trip, as well as constantly being shouted Happy Meals whenever a loved one would visit and they'd also bring in clean/brand-new clothing, Twirl/Ripple chocolate bars and fresh notebooks to write in to refer to where memory failed, as well as my laptop for the week I envisioned I'd be in bed bored (FYI I was never bored for the entire month+ I was in 'pital. Yet another superb positive to short-term memory loss!). As you'd expect after being told you had a virus (not another stroke), I casually told my colleagues (mostly via text message!) that I'd be back at school in a week and most of my concern lay with my class and letting my school spectacularly down by being unwell with a 'virus' to the extent I was often in tears (cue newfound patient-mates offering soothing spoons, cuddles & more English chocolate).

Today, I make a distinct acknowledgement of my health's dismal situation and take full responsibility of combating my shortcomings by whole-heartedly trying to generate new routes around the two cerebral infarctions (aka - dead-brain chunks) that are causing all the distress, with tasks as simple as a 300-piece African-safari puzzle (we got it for all the kitty kats) and a Lumosity iPhone app (for specific memory-loss-aimed brain games), to more complex tasks such as offering my expertise in my older sister's classroom when I visit Brisbane and most recently, my newly-acquired regular volunteer stint at a school in my neighbourhood for a few mornings (currently at two hours each day before brain absolutely burns out) every week. Believe it or not, I was so thrilled to venture back into the classroom that I even insisted on purchasing a few classroom-appropriate pieces (I have left most of my clothing in London with the vain hope I'd be back before end of July. Hmm time flies when you're having strokes). My aim is simple - to help in any way I can, whether it be through guided reading or assisting a student with encouraging the use of particular numeracy strategies I taught during my teaching stint in London that have stood their ground in my compromised mind. Hopefully, this will encourage those desired neural paths to be regenerated around the cerebral massacre, as well as regain my confidence and of course, offer students someone who is not only going to facilitate and encourage their learning, but also entertain them so much they get sore cheeks!

On top of the daily cocktail of steroids (to prevent further strokes and not to take you back to your former abilities, those 'magic' pills do not exist, yet), I also have some optional drugs for this little brain of mine.  Once back home Down Under, thoughtful friends also regularly send anti-melting-agent-free chocolate all the way from ole London town, just so I don't go through withdrawals #medicine. It gets even better; I generally no longer feel ghastly queasy post-meal consumption, which was the case after every single piece of food I consumed initially. My brain is goin' places and there ain't much dead brain left in sight!

It's not always my brain's fault for such fascinating shortcomings. The daily steroids offer a cute (not cute) child-like chubby face and they also affect my skin's reaction to the endorphin-releasing, vitamin-D-infused little light of ours called the Sun. If I stay exposed to the elements on a hot Aussie day for more than a mere 30 minutes, I get chronic sunburn. The kind you can't even bend your knees with as a result without immense pain and you constantly have a rather fetching 'watch *lobster-red* tan' like you're a busy tradie. Sunscreen just doesn't work in this instance. So apart from the memory lapses, every day I am affected with grossly sensitive skin, 50% visual field loss, steroid-induced chubby face, pseudo pins & needles down my torso's RHS and feeling lethargic after most meals (the list goes on). Quite a testing time for this Kitty - and I'm mostly talking about my family + friends who have to deal with my constant (because I continually forget I've mentioned it just a minute later) whinging about such frustrations. The good news is it's no big deal in the real scheme of life and the fat steroid face means I haven't felt the desire to break any hearts lately. Lucky lads.

Due to a distinct sight defect (that is slowly decreasing thanks to fresh neural pathways being paved - it was once 50% missing and is now sitting at about 25% deficit, I can see clearly now the rain has gone!), I'm still not permitted to drive (as I'd end up in Alice Springs and wonder why/how I drove there), so I have to rely on loved ones assisting constantly. As you are aware, I am no longer in London; I am back living with my Mother Duck in Australia's North Queensland, with everything in the city spread out and public transport lacking + inconvenient, so I have no independence and always need a chauffeured car to get from A to B. Imagine how this must feel being 27 years old and feeling more constraint than when you were 16 wanting to go to a party your mum didn't like the sounds of. Occasionally, my brain finds new paths around the damaged parts (to the power of two) & it is quite the celebrated event. In terms of eyesight, it is a distinct improvement as when those messages finally get through after all those months being denied access, what I see is similar to when you are walking under a tree and the sunshine is flickering through the branches & leaves, which make your eyelids flutter at the frequent contrast in sunlight and shade. A feeling that once caused a swift search for my sunglasses in order to swiftly dismiss the distracting eye flicker is instead now celebrated as my brain doing a good job at re-routing. If I was in my classroom as a student, that achievement would get a green brick or a Class Dojo! Something to brag about, without a doubt!  Furthermore, I may just use this missing-eyesight card when hungover to ensure others perform the tedious task of driving to the Sunday breakfast spot. Kitty is makin' the most of what she has got!

You may regard this li'l stroke tale as a debilitating life experience and something that is challenging for a 27-year-old woman in her (otherwise) prime and at times, it is rather confronting and devastating, but in the big scheme of instant, life-altering events such as strokes and just what has struck, I have come out on top. Quite simply, it is all thanks largely to science, medical pros, my devoted support network and also the particular attitude to persevere despite such enormous obstacles, loss and setbacks.  Furthermore, after continuing to survive after two substantial strokes, that is one major feat - it has been a vital building of my Kitty-character. Although strokes are more common for women (due to birth control pills, pregnancy, history of preeclampsia/eclampsia or gestational diabetes and post-menopausal hormone therapy), there are many men who have also experienced such extreme torment with their health.  Recently, I was truly moved to my core upon learning about 90s French Elle Magazine editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who at first, could only move his left eye after he had a stroke.  Fascinatingly, Bauby then wrote the captivating book, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (you know how much I like my butterfly analogies!), to shed some light on such an unfamiliar-+-adverse life experience that is stroke and so often if one survives such a serious brain attack, its harsh aftermath. 

When I discover people like Bauby, it honestly puts my own situation into perspective and I am utterly grateful for the range of capabilities my little Kitty-brain still has in its possession (after two fierce attacks) that strive for growth every single day. Constantly, I am (+ my large contingent of super-duper supporters are too) being surprised & impressed by its particular optimism, perseverance and plasticity that is continuously being showcased. After I received high level results in a numeracy IQ test (/obviously genius level pre-strokes *read in jest*) at rehabilitation, I have now acknowledged that I must have inherited my father's mathematical mind (he was a teacher and an electrician before our family's horse trail-rides business) and together with my Mother Duck's wise nursing & neurological skills (she is a Master of Mental Health, after all!), it won't be long before I am again teaching the times tables through a catchy rap complete with suave dance moves.

Never a dull moment with Miss Laird in charge! Strokes certainly won't affect my entertainment value. Ever - that's a promise.

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 Twirl choccie bars 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 behind The Streets), brilliant idea.

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.