CLOT LINES

During my novel writing life, it was par for the course to have a WIP – an unfinished script – lying around in my study. A year and fifty-one days on from the brain attack, a WIP is how I see myself: a work in progress.

I admit, albeit a tad reluctantly (and testily), that high hopes of a complete and rapid recovery remain just that: although the hopes are a notch or three lower down. I still feel a return to fighting fitness is just about doable but, speedy? That ship has circumnavigated the globe. It’s exasperating when I’m itching to move on apace.    

‘Patience is a virtue’, goes the saying and if I repeat it often, I might start to believe it again. A mantra of mine for months has been, slow but sure. It worked well for a while, I know how far I’ve come along progress road, but I’ve reached the point where I long for the fast lane, or at least swifter than the current rate. More hare (or Toad) less tortoise, I say.

The snag is that my brain now functions only so far on autopilot; it needs to ponder every step of the way. All that loose or disconnected wiring means it sends and receives messages via snail mail rather than email and that leads to everything taking longer and expending more energy.

One study found that tasks after a brain attack use five times more energy than prior which mainly explains why chronic fatigue is an issue for most people in the brain attack boat.  

I’m not talking a touch more tired; I’m talking tsunamis of overwhelming exhaustion. There’s no fighting it. Believe me I tried, but battling through isn’t just pointless, it’s counterproductive. Initially, the knock-on effect of not taking a break could write off the rest of the day. And the next. I had to learn to take things easy, which as we know is easier said than done.   

Physios promote the three Ps: prioritise, plan, pace. Excellent advice which I still follow. What with PPP, ESD, MRI et al, initials have been all the rage this last year or so. I even made up my own: BBA and PBA.

Life BBA was pretty good, all body parts in working order, brain ticking over nicely. I had independence, spontaneity and a smorgasbord of options. PBA, not so much.

I like to believe the essential me remains the same: personality, thought processes, sense of humour, smooth tongue, sharp wit. Modesty. I’m still a hopelessly addicted news junkie, voracious reader, ardent ‘goer’ to theatre, cinema and gigs.

All this and more is, I believe, unchanged. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. How I see my PBA self isn’t always the way others do. I know this with certainty because I’m hyper-alert to people’s reactions.

I walk slowly, have a slight limp and use a stick. It may be purple and shiny and rather chic, but it’s still a stick. Visual shorthand for not the norm: different. And although I used to baulk at the word, I’ll call it what it is – disabled.   

Many people still show ‘the kindness of strangers’, and it’s a wonderful thing. But not all. I’ve clocked occasional glances of pity, sometimes impatience, even contempt. I’ve heard people whisper the sort of line that goes, ‘does she take sugar?’ (I have the hearing of a bat colony and, no, I don’t take sugar.)  

People I know well, I watch like a hawk readying to pounce. I’ve been known to snap a testy ‘don’t patronise me’ or ‘no, I can do it’.  

Almost invariably it’s a case of me jumping to conclusions over a perceived slight. I can mistake care and concern for casual disdain. Add hyper-sensitivity to the blend plus my own ultra-awareness and assessment of every move I make and – mea culpa, guilty as charged, it’s a fair cop, guv.   

In truth, although I can manage many everyday tasks that were impossible a year ago, I can’t do them as quickly or efficiently and there are others still beyond me. Again, although I feel the same and, seated, I look the same, when I stand and walk it’s clear – even to me – there’s something amiss.

Every so often, utter frustration and fury unleashes my inner Violet Eizabeth Bott. The tantrum doesn’t last long: wallowing in a tear bath is unsightly and wastes both time and that all-important energy. I usually nip a crying bout in the bud with a self-coined maxim: Don’t grieve for what you’ve lost; be grateful for what you have.

And I am. Mostly.

After all, I’m still here and they say what doesn’t kill us makes us strong. Are they right? To an extent. I have more resilience, insight and empathy. At the same time, I feel more vulnerable, more fragile, more fearful. Maybe they’re natural emotions given the state of the world, but that’s a much bigger story.   

This story’s almost complete, but bear with me a minute: I’ve been cogitating of late on the relationship between the mind and the brain. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities – who does? – but broadly-speaking the brain’s a tangible, physical organ. The mind a collection of thoughts, memories, emotions. Though different they’re inextricably linked, and each needs the other to function fully.

I’m being simplistic, but I see it as the brain controlling the body and the mind running everything else. Even so, to my way of thinking, I reckon the brain has the upper hand, as it were.

If it was a case of mind over matter, I’d be signing up for the New York marathon and treading the boards at Stratford as Lady Macbeth. (The imagination’s as lively as ever.)  

No, the reality is that although I’ve shown Brian the door, the bloody clot left damage in its wake. Whether the damage is permanent or not, only time and my rewiring efforts will tell. And that’s something I’ll always be working on.     

This is my last regular brain attack blog, but I’ll keep you posted with significant updates.

In the meantime, I leave you with one of my favourite quotes. It’s from the poet Lemn Sissay’s memoir, My Name Is Why. His fourteen words speak volumes.

I am not defined by my scars, but by the incredible ability to heal.

Breaking news . . . I’ve just been given the medical green light to drive again. Thrilled? You bet! On the joys of the open road, I’m with Toad in the driving seat.

‘Poop, poop. Oh, poetry of motion! Oh, the bliss!’

Poop, poop, indeed.