Ian Thorpe

I am a stroke survivor, although whether I am young (51) is debatable. I was extremely lucky in that my perception and communications abilities were not impaired. It took about six weeks to stop feeling ill and start thinking about having the future (for a while there was some doubt about whether I had a future). By that time I could sit up unaided and move the tip of my thumb about a quarter of an inch. Paralysis to the left side of my face made me sound slightly drunk when speaking but I was still able to articulate my thoughts (and use words big enough to make doctors ask what I meant - they hate that!). As for movement, everything on my left side had gone. I had no balance because there was no feedback from the muscles in my left side. After being told repeatedly that I should face up to the possibility of spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair I was beginning to believe it.

Then one day my faith healer walked into the ward where I was lying counting the ceiling tiles for the millionth time. A tall, beautiful blonde figure stood at the end of my bed bathed in the sunlight that poured through the window. "Is it an angel or is it Julian Clary?" I thought. The figure spoke. "Hi, I'm Kelly Bryant. I'd like you to answer a few questions to help us decide if a spell in rehabilitation will be right for you. Do you feel like talking?" At once I knew it was an angel. Julian Clary does not have a Lancashire accent. Kelly was Senior Sister in charge of the unit's rehabilitation nursing team and the first medical professional who was not terribly, gushingly sympathetic about the awful thing that had happened to me. We liked each other straight away and joked our way through the questions. This was my first evidence of the "surge of recovery" I had heard so much about. In six weeks I had progressed from flirting with death to flirting with nurses.

Shortly after that I was moved to Rehabilitation; the Young (I liked that) Disabled Unit. The specialized care and therapy did wonders in the early stages. Very soon after my haemorrhage I had decided the most important thing was to hold on to my sense of humour and try to laugh at my situation. The unit's staff responded to me in this and we soon established a rapport. One of the Physios was a great giggler like me. While I was being coaxed to stand on two feet one day she was flicking my left buttock quite hard with her fingers. "I know a lot of businessmen who would pay good money for that," I quipped. That was the first time of several we would end up in a heap on the floor, laughing hysterically.

As well as the therapists I built a good working relationship with the nurses and was in demand for my cooking. Cooking was encouraged as therapy but the usual kitchen repertoire, scones, raspberry buns, bacon sandwiches for lunch etc. was of no interest. Jamaican Jerk Pork, Cajun Chicken and Thai Coconut Beef were more in my line. There were whinges from the unit management about cost, but Teri, my wife bought ingredients for me so I guessed the manager's face pulling was because "stroke patients" were not expected to be adventurous.

Recreation arrangements gave me a big problem. During my seven months in rehab I discovered for myself that mental stimulation was vital to recovery. Throughout the entire period the quality of recreational activities on offer, (playing with dough was a favourite) was appalling. Like all patients I had the standard lecture from the consultant about the importance of being positive and not brooding. Words are meaningless unless backed up by action. I asked why more effort was not put into encouraging people to take up recreation projects. The response was that I should leave questions like that to professionals. During my career as a Project Leader or consultant I had been known as a motivator and I could see that there was little motivation to recover. People had too much time to sit and brood. The unit's job was to help us "achieve the best quality of life possible"

I believe in looking for something good in every situation. I was never totally happy as an Information Technology professional although the money and the lifestyle it gave me was enviable. I had wanted to get off the corporate treadmill for some time and the burst artery enabled me to do that, even though it did literally cost me an arm and a leg (groan!!!). So, in a perverse way, it was a lucky break. If it had not happened I would have been running around the world telling people how to run their businesses until I retired.

Back to rehab. Initially the unit was brilliant for me. I progressed rapidly and as well as feeding my nurses and fellow patients I entertained them with the stories and humorous poems. Soon it was time to try walking again. My first attempts were promising. My physios, Sara and Cathy volunteered to be human zimmer frames. Holding the waist of an attractive girl was much more fun than using a metal frame (I was never THAT ill).

Being too clever for my own good, I put a lot of effort into my five and ten yard walks and in a few weeks progressed to a walking stick. Then it all went pear shaped. I'm not a big bloke, about five feet six, and the men of the Thorpe clan tend to have thick set bodies bodies and shortish legs (there must be some Pit Pony in our genome). The stick I was given would have been about right for a person of seven feet. The explanation was that an overlong stick would discourage me from using my right side so promoting recovery in the left the "something or other" technique). It did not work; it was never going to. My left leg could not support my weight, I had no balance in it and the movement I had regained was being driven by an effort of will. I was walking with my right side and the stick was just getting in the way (on the other hand I would not have gone more than one step without it). Unfortunately I could walk. I was strong enough to be able, even with my right shoulder raised way above its natural position, to put as much weight as I needed to on my stick. It was uncomfortable, it was slow, it looked bizarre, but it was moving me around.

Through various conversations I gradually drew the conclusion that much of the problem was due to my having recovered far more and far more rapidly than anybody expected. The therapists were saying "Ian needs...." but the doctor was saying "no, that would be beyond his capabilities." He never examined and seldom spoke to me. Every time I have seen the consultant in charge of the unit, from the day I was admitted rehab to the last time I bothered to turn up for a review, I have been told "you will not recover much more now," yet while in residence I surprised many experienced carers.

Since I discharged myself I have, by learning as much as I could about my condition, working out an exercise schedule for myself and progressively shortening my stick, recovered most of the use in my arm, regained my hip and knee (the foot is being difficult) and built up my walking to regular half mile strolls. I still need the stick, perhaps I always will. I also use a light splint on my ankle. This too was refused in rehab because it was "policy" to try to promote recovery. "For how long," I asked? In the absence of an answer I can only assume forever.

Words like "never", "can't" and "impossible" have never been in my lexicon. All I can say to anybody finding they are in a similar situation is "keep fighting," you are not alone. THE FORCE IS WITH US.

Ian Thorpe

See our Book List for details of Ian's book "A Stroke of Luck" The full length memoir of Ian's recovery can be downloaded for free from Ian's Website

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