Part 3(a) Boom and Bust.

Two weeks into my hospital stay and I was getting restless. The days were long, hot and boring. I hadn’t been the perfect patient and p.t.a. was still a real adversary (Pta? Please read part 2 for an introduction to p.t.a. or “post-traumatic amnesia”)

I’d asked if I could go home and been told that I had to pass certain criteria before a discharge was possible. There were the physical aspects of managing stairs, both going up and down; coping with a crowded situation – hospital corridors were ideal for this; and the psychological aspects of the condition of my short-term memory and ability to cope with decision making and concentrating on a task. I had to pass a couple of tests.

I coped well with the physical tests even though using a walking stick was needed to negotiate crowded corridors. Coming down stairs was a challenge. It was if I was getting lost in a large volume of space and I was losing all idea of where I was, it was very disorienting. I needed to physically feel each stair as I descended by pushing my heel back against the stair I was on. This process went on for months and I still struggle with new, unfamiliar stairs.

The psychological tests were a different ball game. Part of the test was easy, things like recognising patterns, but others were awful; there was a memory test asking me to remember a story in correct order and detail from one day to the next. I failed every time, which meant that the occupational health nurse would not discharge me.

So it was getting towards the end of my third week in and I was finally discharged to go home on a Sunday. Rhian and my brother were to pick my up. Looking back on all of this makes it easy to come to some sort of conclusion about my discharge. I not want to sound ungrateful, but with what was to come 6 weeks down the line, I wonder if I was discharged too soon and if we could not have done with some sounder advice about what I should and should not do once I was home.

I look back at it all and think “I was too good!” It was the beginning of my euphoric or “boom” phase. There was a covid lockdown and so I realise that the hospital and society were trying to cope with all of this as well, so maybe there was a little of “Get the patients home as quick as possible”.

Anyway, I was driven home with Rhian having to cope with my insistence of stopping at a drive-thru Maccies so that I could get in there unaided, catch ME if you can…and wolf down…devour …that burger in a blink of an eye. (hints of pta)

On getting home, I was straight to bed. Thankfully, sleep has never been a problem since the crash. I will hit the pillow and be asleep in 10 minutes. Never different. Apparently now, I talk in my sleep; come over if you'd like a late night convo about nothing in particular. Also, dreaming has stopped and has not really returned. Every time I sleep, it is a sleep of the dead,

During those first few days, I was very shaky and unsure on my feet. Movement around my own home was a mystery to me, I was having to relearn the house layout: How do I get from lounge to kitchen? I couldn’t dress or undress unless I was sitting down. Balancing on one foot to take off a sock??? Are you mad!!! This reminded me of the two times in hospital that taking showers was a possible health hazard. I’d fallen over twice and banged my head a couple of time. Showers were now a claustrophobic cell that made my head spin. That impression lasted for months… Tying my own shoelaces was months away…the technical ability of tying and the horrible spinning sensation whenever I put my head down to start tying.

The weather was still nice, so I could sit out in the garden an enjoy the Sun. That, at least, was the beginning of a new regenerating and nourishing relationship with my garden and any open space outside. It’s still ongoing, and my flowers are proof of this!

So the days gradually turned into weeks. Comments from family describe me as if I was on speed….up and down; bouncy; hyper and frankly irritating. Everyone was pleased that I was home and family and friends could see that I’d had a lucky escape. But there was a storm brewing. I was having intrusive and confusing thoughts occasionally, and they were becoming more frequent and more intrusive. There was another version of me in my head, and he wouldn’t shut up. He was asking questions to which I did not have an answer and he would just keep on asking and not shut up. Occasionally, he would take over completely and leave me upset and tearful. So in his confusing constant commentary, this is what was being said, and it was gradually getting darker and more intrusive:

“You’ve had an accident, a big one. Oh? Am I better now? Yes, but you’re damaged, you are broken goods, it’ll be impossible to fix you. What’s the point of you now? You have changed forever. You are obsolete. What is your purpose now? You have no relevance.” And so it went on, that constant voice starting to become louder, shouting at times.

The end of September was approaching, and so came an appointment to visit the North Wales Brain Injury Service in Colwyn Bay. There we met a consultant psychiatrist who explained the extent of my brain injury to me for the first time. The detailed description of the bleeds in a previous blog post were obtained from the notes of this first meeting at Colwyn Bay. I was told things were going to take time and that I was “to pace myself”.

We discussed the possibility of visiting my son in London. A 4-hour train journey, some shops, lunch and then home again. The staff at Colwyn Bay thought that this was a good idea so that I could see “Where I was at.” In my recovery.

The day came. August 31st, the last day of the month, and it was a Thursday. Little details like this seem to be forever etched in my mind now. Let me share a few memories with you:

I was disappointed as soon as I put my feet on the platform at Euston station. I was telling myself that I was supposed to feel better than this, but I was more unsteady on my feet on the bustling platform than I was supposed to be, things felt “wrong”.

We met my son and walked to a nearby Bill’s restaurant for some brunch. I visited the toilet during our meal, and I was absolutely horrified to find a steep descending staircase down to a cellar bathroom. I clutched at the handrail and managed the trip to the loo and back again, but it was really difficult; those steep, unfamiliar stairs.

The day passed, but I was starting to feel more uncomfortable as the day went on. There was an ill feeling of foreboding that I couldn’t shake. I didn’t like the crowds; I was more unsteady on my feet than I was expecting. I wasn’t coping; things weren’t right.

We stopped for a late lunch at in Italian restaurant. I got talking to the kind waiter and told him a little of my story. He sympathised, explaining that his mother had suffered a similar injury following a fall at her home. I was very moved by his response and kindness, and I could feel that my emotions were beginning to boil up. Perhaps there was a hint of p.t.a. as well, or what I also call “broken filters” now because of my tendency to start talking and not shut up about my injuries with anyone who would listen.

Also, home time was approaching, and I was finding it more and more difficult to talk to my son. Every time I tried; I was fighting back tears which insisted on stinging my eyes. It’s even happening now as I type, I knew these chapters were going to be triggers.

We reached the station a little before the leaving time. Time for a drink and one last chat before saying goodbye except I could not say a word to my son. I knew I was losing it. I was losing control. We walked to the platform and the dam broke. I started to cry and that was it. My poor son didn’t know what was going on as I fled into the coach and hid in my seat I cried.

I cried all the way from London to Rhyl, essentially 75% of the journey, or 3 solid hours of heartbreak and shuddering, sobbing tears. I hid under a coat every time a conductor walked past. Suspicious behaviour? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. There was a strange reasoning going around in my mind. My son had recently graduated and was living in London, trying to start his acting career. Of course, if you knew my son, and I wish you did, this is actually brilliant and I am so proud of him. But now, in the middle of this brainstorm, in my mind, this meant that our little family was finished. Our close family unit was no more, and so this meant that I no longer had a purpose. Our family was now fracturing and shards of familial glass were falling away and spreading out to be lost forever. My place in our world was finished, I was no longer needed…

This was the beginning of my hell.

Disclaimer:

I’ve tried to share my darkest times with you here. I am not a medically trained person; this is an attempt to describe my own experiences. If you are struggling now, turn to someone and talk…get help…it’s not always this dark…things can and will get better eventually…. one step in front of the last…you move forward…. keep going……you’ll get there.

Contact details for The Samaritans:

Helpline: Call 116 123 for free

P.s. I grew this rose. Tip: gardening is great for mental health. I'll come back to this in a later post x.