Miracle
Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in —
Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked
In their backs, the stretcher handles
Slippery with sweat. And no let up
Until he’s strapped on tight, made tiltable
and raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.
Be mindful of them as they stand and wait
For the burn of the paid out ropes to cool,
Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity
To pass, those who had known him all along.
Seamus Heaney, Miracle
My stroke wasn’t the type that creeps up quietly. It wasn’t my brain silently being depleted of oxygen. It was me. I was the mute, embarrassed body collapsed on the floor of an art studio, trying to apologise to the people around me. I didn’t understand. Others did. Long before I could think, before I could speak, they spoke for me.
I thought I could just stand up and leave. Go home. But I needed to be lifted by my underarms just to stand. I was the body that needed carrying, and I wasn’t going home that day.
I tried to write my partner’s number with my left hand. Too many 9’s. It was all I could think to do, to call him and ask him to carry me home. Someone reached him, and before I remembered that I couldn’t speak, I slurred, “I’m sorry.”
I fell into a wheelchair and was moved into the ambulance bed. One paramedic asked me to smile; I did, and he nodded. The other turned on the sirens and drove fast.
At the hospital I had priority because I was young, and I was strangely proud of that. I met all the nurses in A&E but couldn’t say my name back. They tried to get me to read words from a sheet of paper. I tried. I tried. But I couldn’t say anything besides “Yeah,” and sometimes, “I’m sorry.” For a moment I thought, “What if this is my future now?” but I shrugged it off.
My partner arrived. I cried, and when he asked what happened, I shrugged my only functional shoulder. At the same time, I noticed my mum spamming me calls because I hadn’t answered our usual daily call. I texted back one word: “Wait.”
Then came the first CT scan. So many people who knew how to manage the machine, how to manage me. Nothing showed up. Then the doctor said they would repeat the scan, with contrast. He was the first to say it out loud: “We think you’ve had a stroke and we want to confirm.” Of course, that’s what everyone saw. He also said that God told him to do another CT scan because he felt there was a clot. I had no reaction.
Then came the specialist team. They tested my speech one more time (still nowhere) and asked for consent to perform the emergency procedure. They explained; I understood; and I nodded.
I signed to my partner to call my parents once I’d be under anaesthetic. I don’t know what the call sounded like.
I fell asleep while the nurse told me to breathe and count to ten. I suddenly woke up in a different room entirely. A nurse held a bowl to catch the post-anaesthesia nausea. She asked if I was okay, and I verbally responded. I actually did. I felt better. More alive. But I didn’t know what had just happened to me. I told her to call my partner, and I successfully dictated the number. (Ha! Now I remembered.)
After that, everything sped up. The days blur because so many hands moved around me that I couldn’t track which belonged to whom.
In flashes:
There was the nurse who first brought me water and spoon-fed me.
The nurse who brought the strong painkillers.
The porters who would slide me from bed to bed for scans.
The staff who comforted me before the scans, and so professionally used those massive machines.
The nurses who would fit compression boots on my legs so they wouldn’t form clots again.
The staff who cooked and brought the lunch trays.
The nurses who would be impressed that I study maths, while I have been in awe of their work.
The physiotherapists who would hold my hand when I was learning how to walk.
The speech therapist who waited patiently while I was trying to speak.
The occupational health assistant who assured me that my memory and vision were intact.
The lecturer who laid out the safety nets: take a year out, pause everything, come back later. Options I thanked him for and then ignored.
My friends, who visited and pretend that they weren’t terrified.
My partner, who realised that I don’t respond as quickly as before and still waited.
My parents, who crossed countries and probably the stages of grief repeatedly before I even woke up.
And there was Manchester. A place I chose because I wanted to live a fuller life. A city that caught me before I could fall hard. A choice that ended up saving me, literally.
Be mindful of them as they stand and wait.