My Story.....

Paul Lister

My name is Paul Anthony Lister. I am 43 years old and until April of last year I considered myself to be a very able, capable and active individual. Someone who had never struggled physically with anything in particular. Emotional turmoil, certainly, life has certainly emptied its bursting bowels upon me from time to time and I have endured severe, prolonged and intense emotional turmoil sure, but nil physical difficulties. Divorced, living alone and enjoying life, I have had a career as an I.T professional, in many different industries and across many different disciplines.

Saturday April 23rd 2005, my expectation was nothing more than to meet a friend at the local rowing club where we would at all costs avoid rowing and instead amuse ourselves at the bar which enjoys a seaside balcony with lovely views across the English Channel. After a couple of pints and a few more smiles, I returned home to my beautiful apartment upon the Leas Cliff-top in Folkestone where I had planned to cook a chilli prepared with Pork mince and chopped garlic, tomatoes and chick peas.

The mince added to a large frying pan, I selected the largest, most succulent onion available and started chopping into the finest possible slices. I dropped the onion. Whoops! I dropped the bloody onion! Why did I drop the bloody onion? I bent down, picked up the onion from the floor and resumed chopping but then again, I dropped the bloody onion. Am I drunk? Am I stupid? Once again and again I resumed chopping. The mince now sizzling succulently, the chilli frying pan begged to be hushed with the accumulating pile of freshly chopped, fuming onions. I turned down the gas ring with a slight turn and lowering of the head to the side to catch a view of the dimming gas ring. I dropped the bloody onion! Why could I not hold the bloody onion! A creeping, crawling awareness shrouded me as I realised that my left side was becoming increasingly weak. I could no longer stand and I consciously, carefully, gradually, lowered myself to the kitchen floor and sat in silent disbelief at the horrifying realisation that I was having a stroke. God bless Holby city or bloody Crossroads or any number of dramas that I must have witnessed through my 40 years of Television spectatorship, I knew it was a stroke and I sat in silence in horrified disbelief.

My overwhelming desire was to sleep, to find my bed, lay myself down and sleep, what stupidity this instinct! I lay curled in the foetal position and pondered the route along the narrow corridor to bed. It never occurred to me to reach for a phone, a mobile, a radio; it never occurred to me that I was in grave danger. It never even occurred to me to turn off the gas and save the chilli. My overwhelming desire was to go to bed and to sleep.

I crawled, digging my knees, elbows and toes, heels into the pile of the carpet. My chin scraping along the floor, I crawled and fought with all my might to reach the bedroom, I rolled and gouged and gritting my teeth, I shoved myself along the narrow hall and with painstaking progress, reached the bedroom. I do believe that I wet my pants along the way. Now at the foot of the double bed I attempted again and again to the point of exhaustion to get into the bed. Accepting the Impossibility of the situation, I lay myself down and Sleep; finally relieved me of any further grief or effort, sleep, arrived and took me away.

My recollection of the next episode is rather grey but I do recall the fear, the awful daunting, dawning of the realisation of this dilemma. Alone, on the carpeted floor, aware of the distant, distinct, acrid whiff of burning mince, Sunday morning with nil physical strength, deeply uncomfortable, without communication and without expectation of arrival of event nor being. I knew that I must communicate.

Banging on the floor with my foot, Banging my head against the wall, I shout HELP, HELP, HELP! HELP ME ! Feeling the rising panic instilled by the resonance of these words, my voice pitch increases and I remember Penelope Pitstop HELP I cry HELP ME!! Grasping for tools, a clock, a candle, an aerial, I took the base of the aerial and started to tap the tip of it against the window pane. This produced a high-pitched 'tap'. No danger of breaking the window. I heard distant voices of people passing, their comments perhaps drawing attention at the noise but then silence. The day passed to night and I slept in relief, in exhaustion, in disgust, (I wet myself again and took dark pleasure at the warm feeling and relief that this gave). In fear I slept. Morning and the ground-hog like realisation that my dilemma was ever-present.

Once again I spent hour after hour after eternal hour banging, banging, head, foot, window, floor, bang bang, Shouting, Crying HELP ME !! My face now dripping with blood from the wounds imposed by repeatedly banging my head against the wooden post of the bed. The phone rings, If only...My mobile bleats with the arrival of messages. I can not respond. Bang bang bang. Bloody cigarettes, I need a cigarette.

Eventually, at around Five pm the following day, I hear voices outside the front door, this being perhaps 20 feet from my position on the floor. An anonymous but warm voice that, I am informed, is that of my neighbour shouts 'Paul' - Are you Ok? NO!! 'Paul - Can you open the door?' NO!! PLEASE CALL THE POLICE; I THINK I HAVE HAD A STROKE. ME? Paul Lister ? A Stroke?! The Police arrive and start the process of 'Gaining entry' this being the cue for my absolute relief and tears. Please turn the chilli off; it's a little overdone by now.

I see myself as if from a distance, the view of a passing stranger, being tended to, being lifted into the Ambulance, what fuss, how embarrassing, what trouble I seem to have caused. Wires, a mask, the hiss of gas, pads, Bloody pressure monitors, objects of a world entirely foreign to me.

I was taken to the William Harvey Hospital in Ashford and early the following day transferred by ambulance to Kings College Hospital in London. My memory of the next few days seem vague now, some 6 months later but the memories that have stayed with me include an overwhelming desire to leave this hospital. I was far from home, seen by wide variety of Doctors, specialists, given an MRI scan, an Angiogram.

Thirst, I remember thirst. Nil by Mouth.
You may not drink anything until you have been examined. Really? Christ !!! Why ?? In case you are unable to swallow I am told. But I can swallow - look ! If I could not swallow then I would be swimming in spit and this little lump in my throat would not go up and down. Here look. Please let me have a drink. Well, I can wet your lips but nothing to drink. A 'sponge' the size of a cotton bud is passed over my lips producing no relief whatsoever. Well, I found relief in the darkness of the night when a bottle of orange Fanta found its way into my reach (Thanks Dad !). The relief was such that I poured much of the bottle down my front and thus revealed the fractured rules for all to see. The nursing staff were not amused.

The doctors and assorted staff performed a series on tests upon me in an attempt to assess my abilities and the extent of the damage caused by the stroke. Could I count, count backwards, see out of the corner of my eyes, follow an object from one side of my field of vision to the other. My blood pressure, temperature and blood cell count, together, more formally known as my 'SATS' were taken every hour. Little need then for much distraction with such a level of attention. Each bed was equipped with a screen which offered 'Internet access', TV and Radio - all very expensive but what value did I place upon money in this new world ? I was thoroughly uncomfortable, hot and fed-up, I was obnoxious, inquisitive, demanding and bored. My observations of people, patients, staff, standards and procedures could only perpetuate and exacerbate my poor state.

The guy opposite me would repeatedly press his buzzer triggering a horrific and incessant drone of an alarm which seemed to drone day and night. I am certain that this constant drone became part of the environment, as much a part of the ward as the paint upon the walls. No wonder then that it was generally ignored by the staff. My own experience of pressing the buzzer was not pleasant. What the alarm summoned was an extremely miserable and short tempered 'nurse' who would demand "Whah did ye press da buzza ?" in a quasi-Rastafarian, neo-Clapham tongue "Because I wanted your attention!" I responded. She leant over me and pressed the Red reset button and shuffled off again down the ward without further ado. "Excuse Me! I spat. She ignored me and I fell silent in astonishment.

Deeply unhappy, I demanded to be 'seen'. Unwilling to play a cameo role in this circus. I wanted to understand what had happened, what was happening and what would happen next, though it appeared that these were privileges that could be withdrawn at any time if one did not cooperate by being silent and 'walking in the prescribed direction around the pole' as in Midnight Express.

With such activity around it was difficult to reflect upon the experience and consider my position, my feelings. Thankfully, I was told that I was soon to be transferred back to the William Harvey Hospital in Ashford. My journey by ambulance was conducted by Mick the Geordie driver and Rick the Jock attendant. We passed through the streets of London on a Saturday night and my view of people drinking in the innumerable Bars that we passed was surreal. As if I had entered another world. Happily, Mick lit a cigarette and Rick appeared to be sipping from a concealed four-pack of what smelt remarkably like lager. 'Gis a fag mate, I mumbled. Blue light whirling, head spinning, London rocking, we made our way through the streets of Saturday night London.

I am returned to the William Harvey Hospital and it is with great relief that I take my place amidst the sick and infirm of an anonymous ward. The guy opposite me seems to have had quite an adventure. Wheelchair bound he keeps wheeling out of the room to the nearby car-park. The smell of his passing on his return is seductive. The smell of cigarettes.

I am examined, ad-infinitum by a procession of doctors, nurses, students gather around my bed and take notes. Can I count? What day is it? What is the name of the Queen? Where am I? A procession of questions are directed at me and I respond readily, eager to know if I can respond! "I can count backwards in French if you like" I say. Can you? said the junior officer. That's a relief he says because it is quite common for stroke victims to either lose or gain a second language !! Christ I think! All that bloody work. That investment, that effort I put into developing a comprehensive French vocabulary! Has it gone? I dribble a random sentence that includes 'Putain de merde' and I do not recognise the disgraceful noise produced by my vocal chords, delivered in an inept fashion by my mouth. Bollocks I mumble.

Days pass, a week perhaps, the routine brings a form of comfort. Breakfast, sleep, lunch, sleep, dinner, sleep, until one fine day the people with the requisite authority to break this dreamy monotony arrive. The Physiotherapists. One to the front, two to the rear I am lifted into a sitting position from which I immediately return to the horizontal. I have nil balance and nil strength to maintain an upright position and this I find most distressing, depressing and frustrating.

The day arrives when I am permitted to sit in the chair next to my bed. A rare treat and I am actually excited. I will then be allowed to wash myself and shave. So, I shave. I look directly into a chrome swivel shaving mirror and I shave using my prized Bic and a plastic bowl. I shave and I am proud, I feel good. The nurse (Julie) pushes her angelic face through the drawn curtains and I am gleeful . Look - Look here - that feels so much better. Err, Paul, Um she says, look here and she passes me the mirror, look, 'You have forgotten the left side of your face'. There it was, the left side of my face still smothered in white foamy shaving cream. THIS I find incredulous. I am visibly shocked, static, mouth gaping. My damaged brain has actually chosen to ignore the left side of my face. I slip slowly but surely and helplessly out of the chair and onto the floor sparking panic upon the ward. It will be many days before I am permitted out of my bed again. The next seven weeks are spent enjoying:

I finally insist upon leaving hospital on Friday 9th June 2005, shortly before my 44th birthday.

Today, this fine day in August 2006 I am well, as well as I can expect to be. My ham-strings have recently started working again and I can walk with a profound wobble but I can walk about 5 miles without problem. I have recently been offered as job and I start on 29th August. I have more or less come to terms with the epilepsy with which I have been afflicted since the stroke. There are few things that I can not do alone. I have a fabulous Pashley Tricycle which gives me great liberty.
To be continued...( Perhaps)
I wish you all great strength, determination and patience to help you overcome this most challenging situation.

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Thanks to Paul 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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