Attack! Attack!
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: Thoughts on recovery from a stroke.
_____________________________________________________________________
As you get older, you tend to become cynical: if the government is behind some piece of advice or guidance your cynicism is redoubled! So when I read the propaganda about stroke awareness, I was deeply sceptical – until the morning of Sunday 5th September 2010 when I woke up with no control over my left hand – the one I write with.
An hour later, I was being assessed in our local A&E and by midday I was in a specialist stroke unit. Over the next few days I was the subject of a large number of sophisticated and, I have no doubt, expensive tests. On the day I arrived I was given a CT scan which showed that there was no bleeding in or around the brain. Next day an MRI scan showed that I had indeed had a stroke with the death of part of my brain. The Americans call it a ’brain attack’.
So far so good. I was already recovering some control over my hand as other brain cells stepped in to replace the dead area; I could walk about provided I avoided a tendency to drift off a straight course. I could speak fairly clearly with care and there was some debate between my family and the medical team about whether my face was slightly drooped to one side – the consensus was that I had always been a bit lop-sided!
It was not until the Tuesday that an ultrasonic scan of my carotid arteries set alarm bells ringing. The arteries were partly blocked but the big danger was that the clots were highly unstable. Flakes of plaque were waving back and forward in the blood flow like seaweed in a tidal stream.
At that point my future was not bright: any exertion could have discharged a flake of clotted material that could have killed me or maimed me. I was immediately immobilised and started on an infusion of a chemical, heparin, to thin my blood to reduce the risk of clotting and to stabilise the existing clots.
I was infused day and night for ten days gradually being allowed more and more freedom of movement as the drug stabilised the muck in my artery. In the end I was towing my chemical dispenser about the ward – even into the shower and along the corridors to meet my visitors.
I had read somewhere that we only use half our brains, so I pictured idle brain cells being retrained to take the place of their suffocated fellows. By watching my left foot onto the floor before I put any weight on it, I was able to walk.
I used a similar technique on my hand. I placed a pen on the hospital tray in front of me and used my eyes to direct my shoulder to move my hand over the pen. At that point I willed my fingers to close. It took days of tiring and frustrating effort but before I was discharged, ten days after the stroke, I could write a few words. An impartial observer would, I think, have recognised the script as Roman but he might have struggled to figure out that the language was English!
So all the propaganda is correct: if you have a stroke get help quickly. All over the country there are dedicated teams that can restore your future, although I find it hard to believe that any other group can equal, far less surpass, Dr Ali and his team at Diana Princess of Wales Hospital, Grimsby.
And I do mean all of the team from the consultant through the whole hierarchy of doctors, the nursing staff and the ancillary staff like cleaners and phlebotomists on the ward as well as the specialists running CT, MRI and ultrasound scanners. All of them have different degrees of expertise and involvement but the thing they all had in common was that they treated me throughout as an individual who happened to have an illness.
I was treated with respect as well as with care and that helped to preserve my personality when my ego was very fragile indeed.
Before they let me out, I was put on a heart monitor for twenty-four hours followed by an ultrasound examination of my heart valves and blood flow. When I was taken off the infuser I was stabilised on warfarin to keep my blood thin. Finally, after one more ultrasound scan of the arteries in my neck, I left the protection of the ward and re-joined the outside world.
I was hardly in the door when I had a first visit from the after-stroke team for our part of Lincolnshire. They made daily visits until they were satisfied that I could look after myself and they continued to keep a friendly eye on my progress for a couple of weeks. My confidence was very low: my body had let me down once and I was waiting for it to attack me again. I had a visit from a representative of the Stroke Association but she was very fully occupied in helping others much less fortunate than I.
I read the leaflets provided by the Stroke Association with great interest – literally, with vital interest. It was very obvious that a number of changes in my life were required. Clearly, I would have to religiously follow the advice of doctors and keep taking the tablets on time every time. I say 'clearly' but I did read recently that up to a third of patients stop taking their medication when they feel better.
Back home, my care passed to my GP and her team. My blood clotting was checked every week – more frequently at first – by the practice phlebotomist or nurses. Their attentions were, of course, quietly professional but they were also encouraging and supportive. Beyond the trained medical help, there were three things that were entirely in my control: stress, diet and exercise.
The after-stroke team taught me how to relax. I can now go through much of the process pretty well any time I want but at first I had to lie flat in a quiet room without distractions. I start with my feet and concentrate on letting them feel heavy then I move up my body waiting until the heaviness is established before finishing with my neck and head. To avoid the build up of stress, I have started telling my family my worries as they arise instead of bottling them up as I used to do.
My diet was fairly good to start with and it needed very little change to bring it close to Stroke Association targets – no more than close because I indulge myself with the odd chocolate biscuit. I cook from raw, fresh ingredients, trying to fit into my daily intake five portions of fruit and vegetables. I use salt very sparingly – the two-hundred gram pack in the kitchen is more than a year old and is still half full!
The after-stroke ladies put me in touch with a group called 'Heelers'. They weighed me, assessed me and sent me off to get fit. In particular, they sent me to Mablethorpe Leisure Centre where a personal trainer supervised my recovery through twenty free sessions. When they concluded, I was offered half-price membership of the gym so I have continued to improve: the trainer is still available if I need advice on my progress but he mostly leaves me to progress at my own pace.
Heelers also introduced me to an over-45's club organised by the local council. There I developed from carpet bowls and new age curling to badminton – sadly I play no better than I did when I last lifted a racquet a matter of forty years ago! Between the gym and the club I was exercising my body and socialising – two essentials, we are told, for older citizens fit or well. The organiser of the over-45's also organises gentle walks around the town and surrounding countryside; more talk than walk but the more enjoyable for that!
Six months after my stroke, I was fitter than I had been for years. Thanks to the geriatric Olympics (oops, I mean the over-45's club) I have a wide circle of new friends. Gym twice a week, over-45's twice a week and, a spin off from that, helping out at a local nature reserve once a week mean that I reach the weekend knackered and needing a rest – endorphins are another urban myth in my opinion!
Then the roof fell in. If I was in the habit of shooting the messenger there would be bullet holes in the ultrasound unit at Grimsby Hospital. An ultrasound check on my carotid arteries showed one reasonably clear and the other more than seventy-five percent blocked. The first I knew of this was a letter inviting me to attend the cardiovascular clinic.
I was first seen by a deputy surgeon but my hard work in the gym promoted me. Mr Souka, the consultant considered that I was fit enough to benefit from surgery so he offered to perform the operation to open up and clear out my right carotid artery. I was given such an early date that I was unable to get myself sorted out in time to accept but the operation was only delayed by two weeks.
I was warned that there was a one in twenty chance that I would have a stroke during the operation. Good odds, I considered, when success would allow me to continue to live a full life.
Once again I was treated to an absolutely wonderful team effort. The surgical unit in the Diana Princess of Wales Hospital is every bit as competent and caring as the stroke unit. I walked in on a Monday evening, walked to the theatre on Tuesday and walked out and went home on the Thursday.
After the operation I woke up in intensive care – a routine arrangement I had been told about – and the staff there was just as good, even although I think I got a bit stroppy with them. I like to pretend that it was the effect of the anaesthetic but I suspect that I was just showing my true nature!
Three weeks after the operation I was walking the dog, swimming twice a week and I was back with the over 45's although I had to wait another couple of weeks before I started badminton again. It may be my imagination, but I think that my peripheral vision is better than before the stroke. Six weeks after surgery I went back to the gym with the personal trainer all geared up to get me back to full fitness.
When I first had the stroke I cursed my luck but most of all I felt betrayed by my body. Now I realise that it is not the body but the mind that is to blame. I let myself down by being unfit and (slightly) badly nourished. Of course all of my efforts cannot eliminate the possibility of another stroke but I have improved the odds. Perhaps even more important is the fact that, if I do have another brain attack, my fitness will greatly increase my chances of recovery.
The other important lesson I learned was that, while governments, health boards and local councils fund the services I received; it is individuals – real people – who implement the decisions. I was given the best possible care by dedicated, committed experts who routinely go far beyond the duties they are paid to fulfil.
I know that I am prejudiced but I think all their effort was a good investment!
Swearwords: None.
Description: Thoughts on recovery from a stroke.
_____________________________________________________________________
As you get older, you tend to become cynical: if the government is behind some piece of advice or guidance your cynicism is redoubled! So when I read the propaganda about stroke awareness, I was deeply sceptical – until the morning of Sunday 5th September 2010 when I woke up with no control over my left hand – the one I write with.
An hour later, I was being assessed in our local A&E and by midday I was in a specialist stroke unit. Over the next few days I was the subject of a large number of sophisticated and, I have no doubt, expensive tests. On the day I arrived I was given a CT scan which showed that there was no bleeding in or around the brain. Next day an MRI scan showed that I had indeed had a stroke with the death of part of my brain. The Americans call it a ’brain attack’.
So far so good. I was already recovering some control over my hand as other brain cells stepped in to replace the dead area; I could walk about provided I avoided a tendency to drift off a straight course. I could speak fairly clearly with care and there was some debate between my family and the medical team about whether my face was slightly drooped to one side – the consensus was that I had always been a bit lop-sided!
It was not until the Tuesday that an ultrasonic scan of my carotid arteries set alarm bells ringing. The arteries were partly blocked but the big danger was that the clots were highly unstable. Flakes of plaque were waving back and forward in the blood flow like seaweed in a tidal stream.
At that point my future was not bright: any exertion could have discharged a flake of clotted material that could have killed me or maimed me. I was immediately immobilised and started on an infusion of a chemical, heparin, to thin my blood to reduce the risk of clotting and to stabilise the existing clots.
I was infused day and night for ten days gradually being allowed more and more freedom of movement as the drug stabilised the muck in my artery. In the end I was towing my chemical dispenser about the ward – even into the shower and along the corridors to meet my visitors.
I had read somewhere that we only use half our brains, so I pictured idle brain cells being retrained to take the place of their suffocated fellows. By watching my left foot onto the floor before I put any weight on it, I was able to walk.
I used a similar technique on my hand. I placed a pen on the hospital tray in front of me and used my eyes to direct my shoulder to move my hand over the pen. At that point I willed my fingers to close. It took days of tiring and frustrating effort but before I was discharged, ten days after the stroke, I could write a few words. An impartial observer would, I think, have recognised the script as Roman but he might have struggled to figure out that the language was English!
So all the propaganda is correct: if you have a stroke get help quickly. All over the country there are dedicated teams that can restore your future, although I find it hard to believe that any other group can equal, far less surpass, Dr Ali and his team at Diana Princess of Wales Hospital, Grimsby.
And I do mean all of the team from the consultant through the whole hierarchy of doctors, the nursing staff and the ancillary staff like cleaners and phlebotomists on the ward as well as the specialists running CT, MRI and ultrasound scanners. All of them have different degrees of expertise and involvement but the thing they all had in common was that they treated me throughout as an individual who happened to have an illness.
I was treated with respect as well as with care and that helped to preserve my personality when my ego was very fragile indeed.
Before they let me out, I was put on a heart monitor for twenty-four hours followed by an ultrasound examination of my heart valves and blood flow. When I was taken off the infuser I was stabilised on warfarin to keep my blood thin. Finally, after one more ultrasound scan of the arteries in my neck, I left the protection of the ward and re-joined the outside world.
I was hardly in the door when I had a first visit from the after-stroke team for our part of Lincolnshire. They made daily visits until they were satisfied that I could look after myself and they continued to keep a friendly eye on my progress for a couple of weeks. My confidence was very low: my body had let me down once and I was waiting for it to attack me again. I had a visit from a representative of the Stroke Association but she was very fully occupied in helping others much less fortunate than I.
I read the leaflets provided by the Stroke Association with great interest – literally, with vital interest. It was very obvious that a number of changes in my life were required. Clearly, I would have to religiously follow the advice of doctors and keep taking the tablets on time every time. I say 'clearly' but I did read recently that up to a third of patients stop taking their medication when they feel better.
Back home, my care passed to my GP and her team. My blood clotting was checked every week – more frequently at first – by the practice phlebotomist or nurses. Their attentions were, of course, quietly professional but they were also encouraging and supportive. Beyond the trained medical help, there were three things that were entirely in my control: stress, diet and exercise.
The after-stroke team taught me how to relax. I can now go through much of the process pretty well any time I want but at first I had to lie flat in a quiet room without distractions. I start with my feet and concentrate on letting them feel heavy then I move up my body waiting until the heaviness is established before finishing with my neck and head. To avoid the build up of stress, I have started telling my family my worries as they arise instead of bottling them up as I used to do.
My diet was fairly good to start with and it needed very little change to bring it close to Stroke Association targets – no more than close because I indulge myself with the odd chocolate biscuit. I cook from raw, fresh ingredients, trying to fit into my daily intake five portions of fruit and vegetables. I use salt very sparingly – the two-hundred gram pack in the kitchen is more than a year old and is still half full!
The after-stroke ladies put me in touch with a group called 'Heelers'. They weighed me, assessed me and sent me off to get fit. In particular, they sent me to Mablethorpe Leisure Centre where a personal trainer supervised my recovery through twenty free sessions. When they concluded, I was offered half-price membership of the gym so I have continued to improve: the trainer is still available if I need advice on my progress but he mostly leaves me to progress at my own pace.
Heelers also introduced me to an over-45's club organised by the local council. There I developed from carpet bowls and new age curling to badminton – sadly I play no better than I did when I last lifted a racquet a matter of forty years ago! Between the gym and the club I was exercising my body and socialising – two essentials, we are told, for older citizens fit or well. The organiser of the over-45's also organises gentle walks around the town and surrounding countryside; more talk than walk but the more enjoyable for that!
Six months after my stroke, I was fitter than I had been for years. Thanks to the geriatric Olympics (oops, I mean the over-45's club) I have a wide circle of new friends. Gym twice a week, over-45's twice a week and, a spin off from that, helping out at a local nature reserve once a week mean that I reach the weekend knackered and needing a rest – endorphins are another urban myth in my opinion!
Then the roof fell in. If I was in the habit of shooting the messenger there would be bullet holes in the ultrasound unit at Grimsby Hospital. An ultrasound check on my carotid arteries showed one reasonably clear and the other more than seventy-five percent blocked. The first I knew of this was a letter inviting me to attend the cardiovascular clinic.
I was first seen by a deputy surgeon but my hard work in the gym promoted me. Mr Souka, the consultant considered that I was fit enough to benefit from surgery so he offered to perform the operation to open up and clear out my right carotid artery. I was given such an early date that I was unable to get myself sorted out in time to accept but the operation was only delayed by two weeks.
I was warned that there was a one in twenty chance that I would have a stroke during the operation. Good odds, I considered, when success would allow me to continue to live a full life.
Once again I was treated to an absolutely wonderful team effort. The surgical unit in the Diana Princess of Wales Hospital is every bit as competent and caring as the stroke unit. I walked in on a Monday evening, walked to the theatre on Tuesday and walked out and went home on the Thursday.
After the operation I woke up in intensive care – a routine arrangement I had been told about – and the staff there was just as good, even although I think I got a bit stroppy with them. I like to pretend that it was the effect of the anaesthetic but I suspect that I was just showing my true nature!
Three weeks after the operation I was walking the dog, swimming twice a week and I was back with the over 45's although I had to wait another couple of weeks before I started badminton again. It may be my imagination, but I think that my peripheral vision is better than before the stroke. Six weeks after surgery I went back to the gym with the personal trainer all geared up to get me back to full fitness.
When I first had the stroke I cursed my luck but most of all I felt betrayed by my body. Now I realise that it is not the body but the mind that is to blame. I let myself down by being unfit and (slightly) badly nourished. Of course all of my efforts cannot eliminate the possibility of another stroke but I have improved the odds. Perhaps even more important is the fact that, if I do have another brain attack, my fitness will greatly increase my chances of recovery.
The other important lesson I learned was that, while governments, health boards and local councils fund the services I received; it is individuals – real people – who implement the decisions. I was given the best possible care by dedicated, committed experts who routinely go far beyond the duties they are paid to fulfil.
I know that I am prejudiced but I think all their effort was a good investment!
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned four novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. His latest novel, The Island, is a McStorytellers publication.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned four novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. His latest novel, The Island, is a McStorytellers publication.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.