Room 23

by Kavita Basi

  Deepak quickly realized something wasn’t right and asked Jasmine to take me outside for some fresh air.

  I was having a panic attack. I had never experienced anything like this before. I—a composed, confident, international businesswoman who had traveled the world—could not handle being in a small café with half a dozen people? I just didn’t understand why this was happening. The commotion and confined space had gotten to me. I realized I was in a pivotal moment of my recovery. I had to overcome it. I wanted this so much. I wanted to prove to my family that I’d made progress. I didn’t want to let them down. I was determined to handle this.

  After a few minutes outside with Jasmine, I was able to calm down. I pulled some tissues from my pocket and scrunched them up and stuffed them in my ears. As we walked back inside the café, I took a deep breath and ordered a bottle of water.

  Deepak looked up when we came back to the table, his brow creased with worry. “Are you okay? We can leave and eat at home. You’ve done a lot today.”

  “I want us all to enjoy this time together—just us,” I said.

  He understood, and Jasmine and Jay tried to be as quiet as possible. As we enjoyed our brunch, tears of happiness rolled down my face.

  Deepak reached over and grabbed and held my hand. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he told me.

  Chapter 8

  I was scared and emotional as we parked and walked to the entrance of Salford Royal Hospital. I pulled back on Deepak’s hand and hesitated.

  “I know you’re scared,” Deepak said.

  I nodded.

  I’d only been back to the hospital once since my brain hemorrhage. The last visit hadn’t been too bad. But before that, I’d spent my time in this hospital being wheeled around by strangers, poked with needles, and prodded with tubes, not to mention constantly vomiting.

  “This is just a routine checkup,” Deepak said, seeing the fear on my face. “I’m eager to see how Dr. Holsgrove thinks you’re doing.”

  I was nervous to see Dr. Holsgrove. He was so important to both Deepak and me. He’d had my life in his hands those first weeks in the hospital, and the decisions he’d made about what was best for me had proven correct. His opinion really mattered to me. I was more than a little anxious to see him after all this time, even if this was just a routine visit. I was so grateful to him, and wanted to show him how far I’d come.

  As we walked through the hospital corridors, I pieced together some of my memories, taking in different landmarks, like the gift store and cafeteria, the walls, pictures, and even the elevator. This had been my home for nearly two months.

  While I was deep in thought, a paramedic stopped us to say hello. I didn’t remember him, but Deepak did. He was one of the people who’d cared for me the night of my brain hemorrhage.

  “You look really well,” he said.

  “Thank you so much for your help that night,” Deepak said. “It saved her life.”

  “Yes, thank you so much,” I said.

  It was surreal knowing he’d helped save my life and I couldn’t even remember him.

  “I’m so glad it worked out,” he said.

  When we arrived on the ward for my appointment, we saw two of my nurses—not that I recognized them.

  “Hello, how are you?” they asked.

  I smiled.

  “They took really good care of you,” Deepak said.

  I began to feel anxious, knowing how much these people had helped me and not being able to remember them. I just kept smiling as Deepak offered his gratitude.

  We sat and waited patiently with others in the waiting room. I held on tightly to Deepak’s hand. Nervous thoughts raced through my head.

  What if they find something wrong with me?

  What if I’m not progressing enough?

  I don’t want to come back to the hospital.

  Please, God, let this go well.

  We were led into the room to meet Dr. Holsgrove, who hadn’t arrived yet. However, one of my surgeons, a Danish woman, was in the room. When I saw her I immediately hugged her; a handshake would not have been enough. She was slim, and taller than I remembered, with an angelic face. She was the doctor who’d tried to tidy up my hair during the last operation, accidentally waking me up in the operating room.

  “How are you?” she asked. “It’s so good to see you. You look wonderful.”

  She had always been so polite, asking me questions about my family and work whenever she visited the ward.

  Before I could answer, Dr. Holsgrove walked in. He was equally as happy to see me, but more quiet. He only spoke when he needed to. He’d seemed larger than life to me when I was in the hospital, but now he seemed like a normal, down-to-earth person who wanted to know how I was doing.

  I sat next to Deepak in a comfortable chair and both doctors smiled at me and began asking questions and filling in their charts along the way.

  “How are you doing?” Dr. Holsgrove asked, pausing briefly after each word.

  Why is he talking so slow?

  “I think I’m doing okay. I’m just tired all the time.”

  “That’s normal. It will lessen in time. Your brain has been through serious trauma. Don’t overdo it. The brain will adjust in time.”

  Dr. Holsgrove was talking so slowly I thought something was wrong with him. He was taking long pauses between his sentences and looking at me intensely. Was this how he normally talked?

  Hurry up. What’s wrong with you?

  I answered his questions with speed and confidence and it dawned on me he probably didn’t know my level of comprehension at this point. Most people who have had a subarachnoid hemorrhage would not necessarily be at the same stage I was in terms of awareness, speech, and general strength.

  “Are you still getting headaches?” he asked.

  “All the time.”

  “This will continue for a while, but they’ll become less frequent with time.” He got up and stood next to me. “May I take a look?” He gestured toward the area where they’d implanted the shunt.

  “Of course.”

  Both doctors pressed firmly onto the bulging tube to see if it would pop out again. He wanted to make sure it was still working and secure. They also pressed on the surrounding stitches to see if they had healed okay. Their touch was so painful I let out a shriek.

  “Ouch!”

  I’d been so careful of my head since the operation. I never let anyone touch it, not even Deepak.

  “We need to schedule a routine scan just to make sure everything is working okay,” Dr. Holsgrove said. It seemed he’d finally realized my level of recovery was further along than his other patients’, because now he began speaking more quickly. He wanted to know what I was doing to help my memory loss, and we talked about fatigue.

  “Your brain is working four to five times harder than a normal brain,” he said, “so getting tired is natural.”

  “I just want to be back to normal,” I said.

  “It’s going to take a good few years.”

  A good few years?

  It was hard to hear the truth about my recovery timeline.

  “I brought a list of things I wrote down last night that I’d like to go over, if that’s okay,” I said.

  “Of course,” Dr. Holsgrove said, looking amused.

  “When can I drive?”

  “Six months if you have no reoccurring seizures. Otherwise, one year.”

  “When can I take the train? When can I fly?”

  “You can do both now, but nothing over two hours. You need to build up your strength first. Two hours will feel like twelve.”

  “What kind of exercise can I do? Stomach crunches? Cycling? Horseback riding?”

  “Are you serious?” Dr. Holsgrove laughed. “Please take it easy!”

  “What are the do’s and don’ts for yoga?”

  “Nothing on your head for now. No pressure on that area. All other poses should be fine.”

  “I haven’t had a period in four mo
nths.”

  “That’s normal. Your body has been through something traumatic. It will adjust itself.”

  “Can I get pregnant? No plan, just curious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I have alcohol?”

  “Yes, but in moderation. One glass will be equal to two to three glasses.”

  “When can I return to work?”

  “I suggest twelve months, but earlier is okay if you feel up to it. Just make sure it’s a phased entry. You will be tired.”

  “Should I use unscented body products?”

  “You can use anything.”

  Dr. Holsgrove was clearly amused by my list, and maybe a little alarmed. I folded the paper up and put it away with a sigh of relief. I don’t know why I’d been so worried. He’d humored me and hadn’t disallowed anything on my list completely. I could see both doctors were just happy that I was alive and doing well. He looked proud of what he’d achieved with me.

  As we left, feeling a little bit of a high, I turned to Deepak. “Should we go to my ward and see if we can meet some of the nurses who looked after me?”

  “You’ve done a lot today,” he said. “You’ve done so well. How about we come back another time?”

  I didn’t press the point. We did stop to speak with the advice nurse before we left the hospital, however. I was concerned about my personality changes and low self-confidence and thought Emma might be right—maybe I needed to talk to someone.

  “I think you should meet Sandra at the Brain and Spinal Injury Centre,” the nurse told me. “She had a brain hemorrhage twenty years ago and started a charity to help others. Sometimes it helps to speak to other people who have had a similar experience. I can also refer you to a therapist at The Priory.”

  When I arrived at the Brain and Spinal Injury Centre (BASIC), Sandra and one of her colleagues greeted me and showed me around. They showed me the physio machines, meant to help with arm and leg movement, and treadmills in a 3D dome setting, so the room had the feel of being surrounded in scenery, like walking through a forest or a commercial shopping area. The entire charity was set up to help people who were suffering illnesses related to mine, and was funded solely by donations.

  “There aren’t many resources out there for recovering patients looking to relate to others and get a sense of what they’re going through,” Sandra said.

  She was so warm and friendly. I was embarrassed that it was so much easier to talk to her than my own family about what I was going through. But she understood, because she’d been there herself. She’d had a brain hemorrhage twenty years earlier. Having a brain hemorrhage back then was even more difficult, in that those types of health issues weren’t discussed the way illnesses are now.

  “It was hard to communicate what I was going through with friends and family,” Sandra said.

  She had to overcome many of the same difficulties I was struggling with now, like sensitive hearing, headaches, memory loss, and coordination issues. It was a relief to talk to someone who understood what I was going through. We talked about everything. I even talked to her about my emotions being all over the place.

  It was a relief to know that what I was going through was normal. I no longer felt as alone.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Sandra told me. “It’s going to take some time. You need to be kind and patient with yourself.”

  I left Sandra and BASIC with my confidence and strength boosted. I felt she was right—that I would be okay, and that I just needed to give myself time to recover. I was humbled by her dedication to helping others, and it reminded me of a drive I’d had since childhood: I wanted to help others.

  I realized I might be able to help others with my journal entries, notes, pictures, and the videos Deepak had taken while I was in the hospital. I decided to research starting a blog. I wanted to be able to help any person in any age group who might be suffering the same thing I was, or anyone whose loved one was going through something similar. I wanted to be able to reach people instantly, and it occurred to me that people in my condition wouldn’t be able to follow things in the same way as others would, so it seemed like a video blog might be the best avenue.

  So far I only had fifteen minutes of video. I knew I’d have to take this project in stages, because I still couldn’t use the computer for very long without it bothering me.

  When I got home and watched the videos, it brought it all back. I cried and cried, but I still felt inspired to give something back, to help others. I also wanted to show how fragile life is and remind people not to take things for granted. I began to have a new perspective I wanted to share—living life to the fullest.

  I decided I would start to compile my video blogs and film myself more often. This would give me purpose every day and show my recovery in stages. After talking with Sandra, I was sure my experience could help others, just as Sandra sharing her experience had helped me.

  Now that I had my doctor’s approval to fly, Deepak booked us a family vacation to London. We all needed to get away. The children needed to have a family holiday, Deepak needed some rest, and I was desperate for some sunshine—though London wasn’t the best bet for sunshine.

  But Deepak had a surprise that he couldn’t quite keep to himself.

  “We’re going to London,” he told me two days before we left. “But pack warm clothes. Afterward we’re going somewhere warmer. Take some of your holiday dresses.”

  “What?” I said, eyes wide. “Really? Where? For how long?”

  He grinned. “Marbella. For a week.”

  “The flight is a little over two hours,” I said. “We need to ask the doctor.”

  “I already have. He said it’s fine.”

  I was smiling from ear to ear. I was in shock. I really needed this break.

  And Deepak had another surprise for me: “Your cousins will meet us there.”

  I hadn’t thought I could be more excited, but now, knowing my cousins were going to be there, I was ecstatic. The kids would have other children to play with, too.

  I rushed into Jasmine’s room, and then Jay’s, to tell them the news, but they already knew and were halfway packed!

  “I’m taking my best things!” I said to anyone who might be listening.

  Below my excitement was some anxiety. This would be my first time leaving my home and city since everything had happened. It had only been two months since my last surgery. I still had to keep a diary to keep my memories straight.

  I was nervous about traveling to London by train with the children without Deepak. He’d gone ahead of us for work. I had booked a porter to help us at the station with our bags and suitcases from the time we arrived to the time we got on the train, but we were going to have to manage ourselves from the station to the hotel. I tried not to be nervous and focused my thoughts on our destination: the Ham Yard, which, with its urban feel and tree-filled garden, was one of my favorite hotels in the Soho area.

  When we arrived at the station I walked up to the desk to let them know we’d arrived.

  A gentleman came out and looked at me. “Go on now, get out. I’m not doing this for you!”

  I was shocked. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. I didn’t know what to do or say.

  “But I’ve booked a porter,” I said.

  “I’m not your skivvy!” he said.

  He’d taken one look at me and didn’t believe I was weak or in need. I knew I looked good on the outside—normal, even— but inside I was only thirty percent of myself. I still felt weak, and was always fatigued.

  I tried to grab the luggage with my daughter helping and we managed to get it out of the trunk, but then it fell to the floor. The man just stood next to the trolley, watching us struggle. By the time I got the baggage onto the trolley, I felt like I was about to collapse. And the porter simply didn’t want to help.

  A gentleman who was standing nearby overheard and saw what happened, and he very kindly helped carry our luggage onto the train. I should have made an offi
cial complaint about the porter, but I didn’t have the energy to.

  The kids were so happy on the train. They took videos and photographs of me, clearly thrilled I’d been let out on holiday.

  Still shaken, I pulled out my compact to look at the shaved side of my head. I nervously flicked my long hair from one side to the other, trying to figure out how to hide the operation site, hoping no one would see it.

  “Are you feeling okay, Mum?” both kids quizzed me.

  I was so desperate to be normal, but inside I was panicking.

  What time will the train arrive?

  How will we get to the hotel with all this luggage?

  Who is going to help us?

  I was having another anxiety attack and trying to hide it from my kids.

  When we arrived, Deepak was waiting on the platform— thank goodness! I was so relieved to see him. Instantly, my anxiety disappeared.

  “My meeting finished early,” he said before giving me a kiss.

  When we landed in Spain, Jay turned to me.

  “Mummy, you survived!” He was serious, yet grinning ear to ear.

  We headed straight to the Villa Padierna Palace in Marbella, where we rushed through reception, anxious to avoid seeing our cousins; they didn’t know we were coming, and we wanted to surprise them.

  “Hurry,” Deepak said, ushering the children toward the desk.

  We quickly checked in and got settled in our room. Then we went to find our cousins—but they beat us to it! As we entered the lobby, we saw two of them walking our way.

  Their mouths dropped open when they saw us. “Oh my goodness,” one said, running to hug me. “What are you doing here? I can’t believe it.”

  “They let me out on holiday!” I said, smiling ear to ear. “Where are the others?”

  “They’re having breakfast just outside.”

  We followed them outside and I was overwhelmed by the welcome I received. Everyone was so happy to see me. And I was so, so happy to see them too.

  We sat down at the table and Deepak told them the story of what had happened to me.