Joseph Williams

I am a baby boomer, a scooter-driving, flower-power , 'Love, Man!' psychedelic child of the sixties. Towards the end of 1999, at the age of 52, I had a routine medical for an Insurance policy. I failed it. The nurse said my blood pressure was much too high, and I should see my GP. After being snatched from primary school for a traumatic visit to the chest hospital for part of my lung to be whipped out, I have always felt very nervous of the medical profession. I did go to the doctor, though . After a tense Christmas and several further tests, I agreed the numbers were too high, and started on beta-blockers.

Three months later, just before Easter, I was celebrating a 'windfall' from a Building Society demutualisation, and booked a surprise hotel break for myself and my wife Carol, with lots to drink and an extravagant meal. A couple of days after we had got back, as I was walking up the hill to our house I had a strange experience. In the middle of my field of vision appeared a shimmering pool of light, like looking through the ripples on a crystal clear lake. It was beautiful. The effect was only in my left eye - the other was unaffected. I mentioned it to Carol, but was not particularly worried. By the time we reached home, it had gone. TIA number one, I now suspect.

Two nights later, I awoke with a start. My heart was pounding, and I had a feeling of dread, as if something awful was about to happen. The room was spinning and I couldn't breathe. I stumbled out of bed to the window and flung it open to gulp in the cold Pennine air. Gradually I recovered, and half an hour later returned to bed. TIA number two.

The main event happened in the greenhouse, when I was transplanting some tomato seedlings. After squatting down a couple of times to move the trays around, I started to get dizzy. Feeling silly, I sat, or more correctly crumpled onto the floor. The world was gyrating so violently that I had to lay my head on the brick floor. Carol was in the house, but upstairs and the side away from the garden. I needed to get indoors.

I had no inkling of what was happening. I started to crawl on my belly over the door-step of the greenhouse, and up the slope of the lawn. It was as if I was on a ship in a storm, spread-eagled on the grassy deck for maximum traction. Puzzlingly, I had the taste of salted peanuts, and was retching with motion sickness. After fifteen minutes or so, I made it to the kitchen. I called Carol, and continued my commando-style slither to the sofa, pulled myself on to it, and passed out. It was dark when I woke up. Amazingly, I stood up, saying that I still did not feel well, and walked up the stairs to bed. That was the last time I walked for a while.

The ambulance arrived to take me to hospital a few hours later, when my deteriorating condition made it certain there was a major problem. A burly paramedic said cheerfully that it was not a heart attack, and he and the female driver got me downstairs, and into the NHS. Things are pretty hazy for the next few days, a blur of trolleys, probing examinations, changing wards and being sick.

I had had an unusual stroke, a clot lodged in the cerebellum, rather than the more common left or right cerebrum. The good news is such damage (infarct) doesn't cause paralysis - this part of the brain processes information, rather than controlling muscles. The bad news is that if a critical function like breathing or heartbeat is destroyed, it is 'end of story'. I had completely lost my sense of balance, which is derived from the sensory output of the middle ear, and acquired a dynamo whine of tinnitus, by way of compensation. I also felt an overpowering sense of anxiety, as if something worse was about to happen; something unspeakable and unimaginable - but imminent.

A week after my admission, I was discharged from hospital. There was no support. Carol arrived at noon and was left to find a wheelchair, push me to the car, and help me clamber in. I did not enjoy the drive home much. I stared resolutely at the floor, but each bend and curve felt like we were being hurled around in some mad fairground ride. The street where we lived seemed unfamiliar and out of proportion, somehow changed in the few days I'd been away. The next few weeks were spent in the bedroom. There is an en-suite bathroom, which I could reach by working my way along the wall for support like a Saturday-night drunk.

I started to recover my balance, so long as my eyes could tell up from down. As soon as my vision was cut off, I was on the floor. A spray of water in the shower, pulling on a sweater, turning off the light-switch at night - I ended up in a heap. I did try to practise some exercises a physio had given me, which helped. The tinnitus I grew used too. (It has not changed from the time I first became aware of it to the present. It only intrudes at night when there are no other sounds to distract, but I can always hear it whistling away). The biggest problem was the frightening anxiety that kept bursting into my mind. It helped to find something complicated to think about. I would play games of chess on a computerised board, or imagine rotating odd shapes in my mind.

Rock bottom for me came after about a month at home. It was a Sunday afternoon, the sun beaming through the open windows, the curtains lifting in a warm breeze. The noises in my head had risen to a crescendo - the more I listened to them, the louder they got, round and round. I had a panic attack that left me thrashing about on the bed against - what? Could things be worse? I dressed, made my way downstairs, and announced to a startled family that I was going to mow the lawn. I did. It took some time, but amazingly I felt better afterward. Almost normal - for a while. I had been assuming that the best treatment was to act as if I'd had flu, to rest in bed and wait for a recovery. It turned out to be the opposite. Physical effort was rewarded with a lessening of problems.

Two and a half years later I am outwardly normal and healthy. I lost 3 stone in weight, and have built up my fitness to 40 Km bicycle rides and 10 Km walks. I take a daily mix of tablets; warfarin to counter a lupus anticoagulant problem, two to keep down the blood pressure, a statin to lower cholesterol and one to help reduce mad dreams. I have always set store by taking enjoyment today, rather than saving it up for the future - now even more so. The meaning of life is the day- to-day living of it. You only get one chance for each 24 hours. Sleep is critical. I need 10 hours at night to keep a clear head during a routine day. If there is something special happening, I start to feel edgy and tense by early evening, unless I have bagged a nap after lunch. My balance is pretty good, though I have become used to feeling faint when I stand-up after squatting down. I still get the anxiety attacks, mostly in the middle of the night. I have taken to holding my leg a few inches above the bed, until the muscles are trembling with the effort. It seems to act as a diversion.

I would recommend to other stroke victims with similar problems the wonderful effect of exercise - whatever you can do. It distracts from feelings of anxiety and depression, and leaves a 'glow' of satisfaction when you have finished. Don't rest it - use it.

Thanks to Joseph for sending in his 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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