What is it like to have a stroke?
Some time ago someone asked me what happens when one has a stroke. Since every stroke is different I didn’t want to give him a description of my stroke. We have to remember that some people hardly notice it, while others have an inkling that something is wrong, and others again feel it quite violently. Most survivors, me included, simply don’t know what’s happening. So, how do you describe something you do not understand? People will read this, and some might say it’s different, others might find it strangely familiar. Whatever!
The only thing I could come up with was this metaphor. It’s not only about the stroke itself, but also the arduous way back. Being a metaphor it is very much open to interpretation. I do hope it does it justice.
So, here goes:
Suddenly the ground opens. You are falling. Something is wrong. You don’t know what, but this is definitely not right. Like a black tube, or something like it. Not knowing whether there will ever be an end to it. Just black. Maybe this is what Alice felt like when she fell down the rabbit hole. Not knowing. Only blackness. Panic – no! Fear – yes! Also some kind of resignation. Because it is stronger than you. No way you can fight it. No panic, because you feel strangely calm. Fear, because you do not know what is happening to you.
You are waiting. Something must happen. Something you understand, like they talk about the light at the end of the tunnel. Surely you have deserved that. But no bloody light. Only confusion.
Still falling.
After a while you feel something. Something, or someone is touching your shoulder. No, not touching – it’s more like brushing. Yes, briefly brushing your shoulder – that’s what it is.
Then you see it. The light. It’s there, but not where you expected it to be. The opposite direction. You can clearly see it, even though it’s very dim. You must have fallen a long way.
You must get back to this light. But what happens then? Doesn’t matter, really. Anything must be better than keeping falling.
Whatever it is that was brushing your shoulder is slowing you down. And now you can hear it. There is this odd snapping noise. Not all the time, but every now and then. You can hear it clearly. Yes, it is like breaking branches, or something similar.
Maybe you can hold on to a branch. Maybe it supports your weight. Maybe you can climb up. Up to the light.
Still falling.
The first one you attempt to grab breaks, but slows you down. You manage to hold on to the second one, and pull yourself up. Then you sit down. Resting. Trying to make sense of it.
Looking up, it doesn’t seem too bad. Now, that you can see the branches. You can use them as a ladder. The climb shouldn’t be too difficult.
But breaking branches slow you down, and it costs you so much energy that, sometimes you have to rest, sit down, and your climb seems to be coming to a standstill.
Epilogue
Reflecting, and talking to other survivors, made me realize this metaphor is not only applicable to stroke survivors, but everyone who has had a life-changing experience. The fall, following the sudden opening of the ground beneath you. This could also be an accident. Whatever it is, it changes your life within seconds. You’re thrown out off your comfort zone. You feel vulnerable. It’s the not knowing. The uncertainty.
What you identify as branches are actually friends and family who want to help you. Some can’t carry your weight – they snap. Others support you so you can climb up to the light. They support you, but you have to do the climbing.
Once you’ve reached the top, you’re ready to face the world...