Why not me?

It was the 20th November 1990. I went to work as on any other day. Around midday I was on the phone to a client. Suddenly my head started to wobble, I said I had to go, I felt dizzy, my head just didn't want to stay straight on my body. Something major was wrong, but at this stage I didn't know what. The secretary who was passing my office heard me yelling "Get me an ambulance, quick!". The next moment it happened. It felt as if someone picked me up by the brain and gave me a good shake. Once, twice, three times. I was frightened and shouted: "I'm dying". As quickly as it had come, it was gone again. For some reason I stayed fully conscious, a fact that surprised the doctors. By now I was lying on the floor with no feeling in my right side. The ambulance had arrived, an officer was attending to me, and soon I was whisked off to Auckland Hospital.

Once there, a scan revealed that I had had an Aneurysm that had burst, leaving me with severe bleeding, a so called Cerebral Haemorrhage. Unfortunately, the Aneurysm was situated at the brain stem, which meant it was inoperable, even if it had been detected earlier. It also meant that not only one side [of my body] was affected, but both. On top of that, I had a Tracheotomy (they cut a hole into your throat), because I couldn't breathe (I was on a respirator for some time), and Nasal-Gastric-Nutrition, (a plastic hose through the nose straight into the stomach) didn't let me see any solid food for almost a month (I couldn't swallow).

Apart from this I had many of the symptoms that normally accompany a stroke. While the majority of strokes are caused by a blood clot which travels to the brain, stopping the blood supply to certain nerves, a cerebral haemorrhage causes bleeding in the brain. Again the blood supply is interrupted. It is much rarer and leaves most people dead, or, if they're very lucky, abominably disabled.

My wife and relatives couldn't believe it! Particularly because I was only 39 at the time and absolutely healthy. Why me? I don't know, but everyone seemed to ask this question, and later, during my partial recovery, I was to ask this question myself.

No doubt every stroke victim has at some stage asked this question. Why me? May I ask the question: "Why not you?" I'm sure nobody can give me a good reasons as to why not. During my four and a half months in hospital I sometimes watched the news. There was a bus in Yugoslavia that went down a cliff with 42 school children on board, the Gulf War claimed many victims, hundreds of people died in an earthquake in Russia and entire Kurdish villages were wiped out by Iraq's army.

No, I couldn't possibly sit there and ask myself: "Why me?" Sure, death is a terrible thing. Something we would rather not talk about; yet it happens all around us, every day. There is absolutely no reason to ask "Why me?" The question to ask should be: "Why not me? Why have I survived?". In most countries of the Western World the chance of having a stroke is higher than the chance of winning Lotto. Only, everyone would like to win Lotto. Have you ever heard a Lotto winner ask the question: "Why me, why did I have to win?". Probably not.

It always depends on how we look at things. On a recent (my 18 months) check-up the doctor told me: "Well, this is it". He said to me that it is very unlikely that there will be any further improvement, and also asked me whether I get depressed. "No," I answered, "I'm just glad to be alive." He told me that many stroke victims get depressed, it is quite normal. "I enjoy life," I said.

Why I survived I don't know, but what I do know is, that we should ask ourselves the following question when depression looms: "Why didn't I die? Why not me?"

So, that is the stroke-part over. Now I'd like to add a few things that happened while I was still in hospital. This is not intended to be a horror story, it just sounds like one.

One night, after I had enjoyed a few hours of good sleep, I woke up with terrible chest-pain. It felt like a heart attack, even though I don't exactly know how one feels. Nor do I ever want to find out. Anyway, I thought "This is it", and buzzed a doctor. He didn't say much, but gave me a pain killer so I could sleep better. Little did he or I know at this stage, how close I was this night to sleeping really deeply. The pain killer was strong enough that I floated to sleep soon after.

A few weeks later, I had been allowed home for the weekend. As I was entering the house, suddenly there was this pain again. Only worse. The pain was excruciating. I had difficulty breathing. I had difficulty - full stop. My wife called an ambulance that took me back into hospital. After a thorough examination the attending doctor told me that it was pneumonia, and that it was good to have it under control now. They (the doctors) still wanted to observe my pneumonia for a few days. Part of this observation was, of course, to get confirmation that there was actually liquid inside my lung. For this reason a friendly, young, female doctor inserted a not so friendly needle in my back, while I was sitting on a chair. Missing my spine by only millimetres, she carefully sucked dry the bottom of my lung, and finally extracted a syringe filled with what I considered "muck", and she obviously considered nothing unusual. The medical profession was facing a puzzle.

Then a few days later, my leg started swelling up and getting hard around the calf muscle. The doctors suspected, quite rightly, a blockage in the vein. I was rushed to get an ultrasound, to have a closer 'look'. The operator who stared at the screen described it in one well known expression - 'choka-block'. It was concluded that I had had a thrombosis. Following this, I was transferred to another hospital to have an angiogram. A small camera, inserted into my blood vessels, revealed that there had been a blood clot in my lung previously. The two 'minor' incidents, one of which was diagnosed as Pneumonia, were in fact Pulmonary Embolisms. Again my life had been in danger. Twice.

To avoid another Embolism or clot, the blood had to be thinned down. Normally this is easily done by administering an anticoagulant. Normally! In my case, however, a different approach was needed. Because of the haemorrhage a strong anticoagulant was not an option, as it could have caused another bleed. Instead the doctors opted for a mild one (a few days on the drip). Also, I had a birds nest filter (a piece of wire, that looks roughly like a guitarist's discarded B-string) installed in my Vena Cava. This was supposed to stop blood clots from entering my lungs. And, no, I didn't have much influence over whether or not I wanted a piece of wire to show up every time a X-ray was taken. Of course I was asked, but it was also put to me very bluntly - "Do it, or die"........ Naturally, I thought: 'Who am I to argue?'.

It also was around this time that I had to wear some Thrombosis-Embolism-Deterent Stockings. I can't say that I liked them, and my first reaction was: "What am I? A blimin' cross-dresser?" To my horror I discovered that I, like everyone else who stayed in bed for any length of time, had to wear these not so exciting marvels of modern medicine. In the end I just accepted them as something that was good for me. Like you do in a hospital. You trust whatever someone tells you is good for you. You are not concerned with good looks. On your way out you don't mind a crease in your shirt, do you?

All in all it wasn't much fun. But, anyway, no matter how hopeless a situation seems to be, there is always more than one way to look at things. Sometimes even a way to laugh at things. Well... at least smile.