Helen Wass - Life is to short

Many Stroke Survivor stories have made me cry over the last couple of years and I think it may be because I've never written down my own. I'm not sure if it will be too painful for me to write, read back or if it fact it will be sad for my many friends and family members to appreciate my side of the events which affected all our lives during 1997.

I read the experience of a 37 year old recently and I thank you, because it is you who has inspired me to write down my own account. Chris, I understand when you say that your life changed for the better following such a catastrophic insult like a Stroke, it's true. In a way we're lucky ( dare I say it !) because we've learnt the very hard way that you only have one crack at life and having a stroke teaches you that life really is too short to play around with.

Many stories I've read have had detailed accounts of what "medically" went wrong, and although I understand that part because of the fantastic medical team I had, for me, it's the emotional side that I need to record on paper.

I had my stroke on holiday in Tenerife in February 1997 following a series of migraines ( that we thought a holiday may offer final recuperation from). I woke on 10th February feeling how I can only describe as odd, a doctor was called and I was sent straight to hospital. Within 24hrs I was completely paralysed down my left side, I was incontinent, my face was affected and therefore my speech was slurred. At this point I was just with my Auntie and to be honest I think we protected everyone in the U.K to a degree by under stating the facts of my condition ( Me, because I was helpless to do otherwise and her, because it must have been so frightening perhaps she thought the nightmare would go away) My husband joined us within a couple of days and I was told I wouldn't be allowed home until I'd had a lumber puncture and MRI scans. As I'm scared of needles (less so now than before ), when a Spanish Consultant described a lumber puncture to me, I think my fear must have been felt in England. It's strange to recollect now because looking back, I realise how incredibly poorly I was but I remember thinking that I wouldn't let myself be really poorly until my Mum and Dad were there to look after me. Someone has told me since, that this family strength has probably assisted my recovery over the last few years and I know I'm inclined to agree. I'm not sure how I survived the flight home in an air ambulance on my own. We flew low altitude for 8 hours and, whilst I medically felt safe, I was so alone and so scared, I wouldn't wish any part of this part of my experience on anyone. I fainted when we landed perhaps more out of relief than anything else.

I was met from the air ambulance by an ambulance and one of my best friends and my younger sister. (We all work at the airport so stings were pulled) The sight of Sally's nails and Donna's red jacket (this must sound strange to those who don't know Sally and Donna !) were probably one of my most significant early memories. I knew I was home when I saw those two things so, subconsciously I guess I knew I could now be poorly. Sally hugged me and I remember wanting to cry but feeling that if I started I wasn't sure how I'd stop. This is a feeling that was to stay with me for a long while but I remember my husband saying to me fairly early on, no matter how much we cried, got angry or asked why, what had happened, had happened and we had to recover from it. Harsh words but incredibly true.

A lot of my memories during the following two months in Hurstwood Park Neurological Hospital are very personal and quite hard for me to think about, like: struggling to stay awake whilst my sister painted my nails; crying because my friend looked normal in her work clothes and I looked crap in my track suit; struggling to understand why I hadn't been offered the magic recovery pill and the nurse turning on the shower harder so noone would hear me cry about it; not being able to squeeze my Dad's finger when I knew it would mean the world to him if I could; having scan after scan but still not being told "why"; getting aggravated with my Mum for stroking my arm too much when at the end of the day all she was doing was the only thing my Physio had said may help; taking my first trip out into the real world and appreciating how long it was going to be before I could be a part of it again; my two year old niece understanding that Auntie Helen's leg was too poorly to jump on.....

But I also remember some good bits too, like: gossiping with the nurses during Coronation Street; laughing with my friends so much we had to be moved to the dayroom; the cards and letters I received every day and the extra string that my sister had to hang to hold them; all the flowers I received from the most unlikely yet caring friends of our family; the kind words of encouragement people sent; the never ending support from the nurses 24hrs a day; the friendship I formed with one of the other patients which I know will last a life time, and above all the endless love I was shown by my family and close friends.....

So how did I get through ? Well, no one ever told me that I wouldn't get better so I honestly assumed I would. This must sound naive but it's honestly how I felt. That and the endless medical and physiotherapy support that I received which to be honest, if I said thank you to the team every day for the rest of my life, would never be enough.

I left hospital at the end of March 1997 and if hospital was scary, returning to my house was more so. I was safe in hospital, I was surrounded by people who knew what to do with me and at home it was more apparent how much I had, and my life had, changed. I was no longer the girl who danced on bar stools, shopped for England, went clubbing and was generally the social centre of attention !! Now I was centre of attention for a different reason that I had to be careful not to resent. When we first got home, I remember my kind neighbours had planted me terracotta flower pots on my doorstep, how thoughtful. Life began to be a routine of: physiotherapy three times a week; initially I couldn't dress myself, bath myself, cook or "pop" anywhere for anything, but, gradually over the months I improved and in October 1997, I returned to work a day a week.

My husband and I have divorced since my stroke. I believe that one of the reasons why is because I realised that life is just too short to not be really, really happy. He supported me through my stroke but we both knew by June 1998, that we didn't love each other enough to stay together. I met someone new at the beginning of the year and I think another reason for writing this down is to try and explain to him a little bit more about something that happened to me, that I consider everyday and, as I said to my Dad a long time ago, I think I'll think about for a long time yet.

I've done fantastically well. Physically there are only a few things I still can't do, like run for a bus, carry a tray of hot drinks and dance on a bar stool !! I have an excellent career that my company helped me to return to over a three month period. I find it hard to believe now that two years ago I was scared to get a train, drive a car, go shopping or visit a pub. I'm a different person now at 27 than I was for my first 25 years of my life. I've had an experience that has changed me, my outlook and the relationship I have with my friends and family. Above all though, I've learnt life really is too short

Helen Wass

Thanks to Helen for sending in her profile. Anyone else who would like to share their story can send it along with a photograph (if you're not shy!)

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