Today, 3rd March 2019 is just
an ordinary day for many people. But for me this has been a distinguishable
date of anticipation over the last couple of years. So much so I have made a
point of over indulging in pleasurable activities on this particular weekend.
This time last year, I was on the slopes tackling my first ever (after memory
loss) ski lesson - in the words of my dad ‘it was like a duck taking to water’.
This time two years ago, I was filled with anxiety prepping for a masquerade
charity ball (blog to follow!) I had organised in order to raise funds for The
Brain & Spine foundation. And this time three years ago, well this was the
inevitable. The day I stopped living...
Let’s rewind back to that day three years ago so I can somewhat
explain where this story began. For me this is a difficult blog to post, not
only due to the emotional turmoil it causes but also because I try my best to
be honest with anybody reading this. I must admit I have self-diagnosed myself
with PTSD meaning my memory recall may not be veracious. And I can only
apologise for this. But as you read this recollection of events, I want you not
to question everything I am saying but to question what you would have said,
dealt and felt, if you were in my position...
It is funny isn’t it, how scientist believes there is only a three-step
process to the memory. Yet one traumatic event can do so much unexplainable
damage.
The 3rd March 2016:
An average day, combined with the typical commute into London
Holborn from Billericay, Essex. Bish was due to have the day off work, as he
needed a recovery day from the ski trip he had just returned from. There was
nothing ominous about that Thursday. But fate apparently lay on my side that
day and Bish was required in the office. At 7.18 we boarded our first train
into London Liverpool Street; other than the normal grouchiness of the early
morning, everything appeared to be conventional. At 8.05 we departed on the
central line toward Holborn. Somewhere during the 7-minute journey, one (or
more) abnormal electrical signals occurred in the temporal or frontal lobe of
my brain. Unaware and unsure of the signs and symptoms Bish held me up on the
packed out rush of the tube. Still to this day we have no answer as to why this
occurred or if it was a generalised or focal seizure.
Bish got me to our office and appropriately phoned through to
my parents. At this time we were oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
Now, this is where I cannot lie to you, I am/have dissociated to
the hours that follow. I know from evidential fact that my mum and dad arrived
mid morning and immediately took control of the situation as they realised the
severity of the seizure aftermath. They directed a cab straight to Queen’s
Square hospital (at the time I was an outpatient) to only be sent away as their
policy is ‘appointment only.’ On the cab journey I remember looking out the
window, unbeknown to me I was looking directly at my reflection, this had no
association to me nor did it bring me any comfort. I coward away from the world
and away from my parents. The people that so wanted to help and protect me yet
I was so fearful of them. I remember no dialog in the cab other than my mum’
reassuring words and attempts at showing me images of us together. I remember
showing apathetic behaviour. I was truly lost.
The Hospital Part One: 3rd March 2016
After the clear rejection from Queens Square, my mum took the decision
to take me to St Thomas’s (I was one a paediatric outpatient here) the
following questions by a neurologist are all that I recollect:
What is the date? I am unable to give an answer.
What is the day? I am unable to give an answer.
Who runs our country? I am unable to give an answer.
What year was World War 2? I am unable to give an answer.
Where are you? St Thomas’s. (My mum directed that I had already
been advised where I was multiple times) At least my short-term memory was
still intact!
Because there was no obvious sign of injury and there was no
swelling nor impact to the brain, I was sent home the exact same day with the
reliable statement that this is not unusual after a seizure and a sleep should
relax the brain and repair and reverse any damage done.
The Hospital Part 2: 8th March - 13th March 2016
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| Must admit the EEG isn't the most flattering. |
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| No veins left in my arm so they revert to much more uncomfy places. |
Again dissociation plays a key role from the 4th-7th March 2016.
These days just seem to blur into one. Bish was with me on the Friday whilst my
parents grafted hard to get an immediate appointment with my neurologist to
seek urgent care. Their efforts came through as after a screaming match with an
epilepsy nurse (whom didn’t recognise the extremity of my situation) on Tuesday
8th March (5 days after the incident) I was admitted with exigency to Queen’s
Square hospital neurology ward and attached to 20+ small electrodes and one
camera monitor for the duration of six days. Whilst here, I underwent
psychiatric and psychological evaluations that came through with results of
normal practise.
Understandably a doctor’s work is based on investigation and
evidence rather than circumstantial. And because no hard evidence occurred
within the time on the ward, I was sent away with a follow up appointment of
four months with the promise that the memory would return in this duration.
The weeks to follow:
With very little contact with my neurologist and withdrawal
symptoms from my anti-convulsion meds I began to question everything. Was I
crazy? Why couldn’t I remember? What should I do now? How am I meant to cope?
Undoubtedly I was to fall into a cycle of minor depression. A life
I had once lived had now been deleted, as quickly as we erase a message or
image from our phones.
My job informed my parents they did not want me back, my family
and friends struggled to cope with dealing with the diagnosis, (and rightly so)
and my health was deteriorating both mental state and seizure wise. (Blog post
to follow how I ripped out of the self-pity cycle)
What I failed to grasp the context of was that the clock continues
to tick even when we take the batteries out.
The weeks/months/year went by and I was no closer to getting any
answers. I cannot fault our NHS system, however I do believe they let me down
immensely. Along with a lot of other people. However with these weaknesses and
rejections I wouldn’t have come to realise my own strength.
I would be interested to know how others would have dealt in this
situation. I have held back on details of how utterly scared, demonised,
worried, angry and anxious I was because I feel this cannot be portrayed
correctly across my writing. The experience was not one that can be expressed
through communication, only through emotion and feeling. I hope that as you
read this you can try to understand.
Present day: 3rd March 2019
I now choose not to let that day define me. It happened and I
recognise that, but I cannot change past events nor can I future. I can just
learn from them. I hope this is conveyed in my character. Like you, I have
decided that the 3rd of March is just like any other day for me now; neither
significance nor anniversary needs to be dwelled on.
