by Kavita Basi
MediaCity was buzzing, much like London. People were sitting outside enjoying the weather on deck chairs and resting on the grass with their laptops. I’d planned to just grab a salad but saw a beautiful café called Grindsmiths that looked like something out of New York: it specialized in healthy brunches, coffee, and tea. I ordered food there, then sat on a bench and ate my lunch while looking out the window, thinking about how pleasant and different this felt. I’d never done this before either. I decided that every Friday I would have lunch out and experience new places, new food, and new environments.
After I finished lunch, a woman came up to me.
“Would you mind doing a short interview and recording?” she asked.
“I love talking and giving my opinion,” I said. “What is this for?”
“I’m from a company called Dreamscope TV. We’re video experience specialists and help build revenue for companies all over the UK. We’re stopping people like you to ask whether they prefer video or print advertisements, to see which has more of an impact on consumers.”
“Sure, I’d love to,” I said.
The interview was brief, and when it was over we exchanged business cards. I had a feeling I would work with this company again. Her request seemed so random, but our short conversation had made me realize I preferred video to print, especially now that I could no longer read books—I had to listen to them on audio instead, otherwise I got headaches. I’d heard others with my condition had this issue as well. This made me feel like my video blogs were truly important.
How we did things at work began to change. There was more of a focus on having a happy work environment. Senior management started to offer incentives for teams that reached their goals: manicures, pedicures, and massages to start.
They were a big hit!
“What about offering something that helps on the inside, too?” I suggested. “Like a workshop from a nutritionist or yoga instructor.”
Some people wouldn’t see these two options as a treat, I knew, but I believed offering them would show them that we cared about the team and were looking after their well-being. To look beautiful is amazing, but to be well and beautiful on the inside is even better.
I brought in Ana, the yoga teacher who was helping me recover. Her knowledge of body and mind was remarkable, and during her sessions she explained how posture, breathing, and stretching helped in many ways.
“It will have a positive effect on your work and health if you continue,” she said.
I hoped this would translate into a happy, healthy team, because I knew that would lead to productive work, better sales, and reaching our target goals.
Seeing my coworkers happy and appreciative gave me a sense of satisfaction.
Before my brain hemorrhage, someone asked me, “What do you think the sole purpose of life is?”
“To enjoy each moment,” I told them. “To cherish life and live in the present. To be content with what you have. And to be thankful for being here and alive.”
Even though I’d believed this when I said it, I felt like I was a better representation of these words now. I was taking time to enjoy my life in a deeper way than I had before. And I was actively trying to make a difference in the lives of people around me, as well as those of the global community.
Chapter 11
As I reached out for help and resources during my recovery—and news of my story spread—I was sought after as a public speaker. I was asked to speak at the Royal College of Surgeons in London for the Brain and Spine Foundation, as well as the Blue Coat Church of England Academy School Walsall.
I was excited about being asked to speak at the Brain and Spine Foundation Annual Conference. I’d given a small talk at a gathering a couple months before, but this was much bigger and would allow me to talk with people in different stages of recovery. The theme of the conference was “Life After A Subarachnoid Hemorrhage.” I admired the charity’s commitment to helping improve the quality of life for people who, like me, had been affected by neurological problems.
Deepak, Jasmine, Jay, my younger sister, Sheetal, and I arrived in London on an early-morning train to attend the conference. We met the organizers at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery and made our way to the conference hall. The whole Brain and Spine Foundation Charity team, including the CEO, greeted me at the front of the hall, and each of them shook my hand with great admiration. I was surrounded by half a dozen people asking how I was doing and praising my passion for helping their cause. I could see Jasmine was proud of me, which felt wonderful.
I was only doing what I needed and wanted to do. I just wanted to give something back. I was eager and passionate about showing how positivity helps in the recovery from a brain hemorrhage. I really wanted to connect with other patients in attendance. I also planned to talk about issues I dealt with early on in my recovery process, as well as the issues I was dealing with now, many months after the hemorrhage, which sometimes felt even more difficult to understand.
I began my talk with a video of Jasmine, tears running down her face, sharing her experience the night of my brain hemorrhage:
“. . . I never really appreciated her as much as I should have. When my friends would say, ‘Oh, I’ve had a fight with my mum,’ or ‘My mum is so annoying,’ I’d just say how much I’d give just to have her at home, even if we were fighting. I wanted her home with me in the house. She’s been away before, on business trips and holidays, but seven weeks inside the hospital. I did see her, but it wasn’t the same. She was lying on that bed with millions of wires connected to her, machines all around, supporting her. I never thought I’d have to see my mum like that. But she’s home now. She pulled through, because she’s a fighter. She’s strong. And she’s one of the most inspirational women. I love her so much. I respect her so much. I don’t think she’ll ever know how much I appreciate her.”
As the video drew to a close, I glanced over my note cards quickly and then began to speak: “Every time I watch that video, I choke up a little bit,” I said. “I’m here, and I’m fine, and I’m doing really well. I’m Kavita Basi, and I had a subarachnoid hemorrhage. I’m here to talk about my recovery, what I’ve been going through, and I hope my being here might help you as well.”
I told the attendees about the operations I’d had and that when I got home some of the first things I’d suffered from with were fatigue and lack of coordination. Then there was the short-term memory loss.
“This got me into a lot of arguments,” I said, laughing. “I used to say something, or someone would tell me something, especially my husband, and I’d completely forget that I’d had that conversation. ‘I told you that.’ ‘No you didn’t.’ ‘Yes I did.’ ‘No you didn’t.’ I used to get so frustrated, so I began keeping a diary. Sometimes days would go by and I’d still think it was Monday.”
I suggested that memory loss could be an issue even in later stages of recovery. I got a good laugh when I told everyone with iPhones to get “Family Calendar” so their family members can remind them of their appointments if they forget.
Next I gave suggestions for how to deal with headaches, and shared a little about my vision and hearing problems. “When there was a loud sound, I just couldn’t take it. I started putting tissues inside my ears. What I realized was this was not going to help. I had to take them out and train myself by putting music on in the background, very low, and increasing the volume a bit each day. By doing it slowly and gradually, I was able to regain my hearing again.”
I got another good laugh when I talked about no longer being able to multitask. “Doing one thing at a time is much easier. When the kids come in and disturb me I’ll launch at them, ‘Please don’t disturb me.’ It’s making family and friends understand that you can’t do too many things. I always joke with my husband—I shouldn’t say this, but . . . women are really good at multitasking. I tell my husband, ‘I’m more like you now!’”
As I spoke I saw people nodding and smiling and a
cknowledging that they were experiencing similar issues and weren’t sure how to deal with them. I felt confident that the solutions I was offering to some of the problems experienced after a brain hemorrhage were helpful when I noticed participants taking notes. This gave me confidence that I was on the right track.
I could have talked through till the evening, but one of the charity team members held up a cue card to let me know I only had five minutes left. So I started to move toward wrapping things up. I stressed how important it was to get psychological help if it was needed. I’d sought these things out on my own (albeit with the help of hospital resources), despite the stigma I still felt was attached to therapy, because I knew what had happened to me was bigger than any of my family could handle alone or even together.
“Now my therapist has seen my children and my husband, and it’s really improved our relationship and their understanding of what happened. After they came back from their sessions, they gave me a big hug. I think they didn’t realize some of what I was going through, because I look okay.” I looked around the room. “The other thing I’ve dealt with is low self-confidence. You may look at me here today and think, ‘She’s quite a confident person,’ but there are times when I don’t feel myself—when I feel very, ‘Why me? Why did this happen?’”
I finished my talk by emphasizing the importance of communicating with their boss or reporting lines. “If you do go back to work,” I said, “it’s important they understand what you as an individual are going through.”
I attended multiple talks at the conference in the days that followed, and I found hearing from experts about causes, surgery, and aftercare quite illuminating. All of this information gave me even more inspiration to continue in my recovery and in helping others. It made me happy to meet patients and doctors and hand out my information.
I left the conference with a sense of completeness. I was proud of what I’d achieved. And it was a relief to feel there was so much more to come when not long ago I hadn’t been able to see beyond the day to day. I’d learned at this conference that recovery had countless stages, and each stage was very different and needed its own kind of care. I recognized I still had a long way to go myself.
Speaking to brain hemorrhage survivors was one thing. I wasn’t sure how I’d do at the Blue Coat Church of England Academy in front of students. Originally founded as a charity school, their principles seemed in line with the fundraising I was doing for Salford Royal Hospital through my 5K run. But I didn’t know what to expect—how big the audience would be, if they would listen to what I had to say, if I would make a difference in their lives in any way. I decided I would just speak from the heart and be positive.
It took a couple of hours of travel to arrive at the school. I didn’t want to appear corporate, so I dressed casual but warm. I wanted the students to feel I was accessible. We arrived at the school and were greeted by the acting head.
“The student ages range from eleven to eighteen,” he explained as he escorted us to the church where they assembled every Friday morning.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place and the effort the school had put into the setup of my talk. They had three huge projector/TV screens in different parts of the church so the students could see me up close and so they could show my video blogs and charity page.
When all the kids were assembled and the room had settled down, an administrator introduced me as an inspirational person who had battled a life-threatening illness and, through determination and willpower, had recovered to the point that I was able to speak here today. Then they played my first video blog.
When I looked over at Deepak during the video, I saw him wipe a tear from under his glasses. It had never occurred to me how much it must affect him when I gave these speeches—he had to live it all over again every time. I wanted to get up and give him a hug—but then I heard them call “Kavita Basi,” followed by a large round of applause.
As I stood and looked at the children, I thought to myself, How can I—as an individual—make a difference to this next generation? I wanted to be able to make a huge impact.
I told them what had happened on the day of my accident, and the general story, and about how Jasmine called Emergency Services. “If you notice that something is not right, it’s important to have the confidence to call and ask for help.”
Eventually, I got to the part where I had lost my confidence because of all that had happened. “I went to my doctors and told them I had lost my confidence. To realize this is really, really important, because sometimes it’s very hard to admit. Don’t be scared to admit there is something wrong and that you need help. It’s very important to talk and tell people.”
Looking at the students, I could see that they were engaged. I glanced at different parts of the church to try and make as much eye contact as possible. Spreading awareness of neurological conditions was important to me. These conditions aren’t always visible to other people.
“I just have a few quotes that I want to give you to finish off. I say them to my kids all the time: ‘Be bold. Be strong. Be confident. Have a goal. Have a purpose.’ Have your mind set to be able to achieve your goals. Most important: look after yourself. It’s very important to look after yourself. I’ve changed the way I eat. I’ve changed the way I do things. I’m into health and fitness. One of the reasons I survived is because I did lead a healthy lifestyle even before this happened. Never let others determine what you want to do. This is your life.”
It was time to bring this talk to a close. I took a breath.
“Everyone has been talking about Muhammad Ali this week. It’s unfortunate to lose someone so inspirational. I want to leave you with one of his quotes: ‘He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.’”
As I stepped down from the pulpit, I was greeted by a crowd of teachers and students who shook my hands as I walked down the aisle and out of the church. I hoped in that moment that I’d made a difference, even if just for one person.
Chapter 12
The publisher of a local magazine called and said he wanted to do a story about me. He’d seen my video blogs and heard about my story from an acquaintance. I thought agreeing to the story might be a good opportunity to raise awareness about neurological issues.
The publisher came to my house to hear my story and later arranged for a journalist and photographer to come out as well.
When the journalist arrived, he explained he was running late because he’d been at the hospital; his daughter had a condition similar to mine.
“What’s wrong with your daughter?” I asked.
“When she was a small child she had a brain bleed that left her paralyzed on one side of her body,” he explained. “Her condition is inoperable. My wife and I are always in and out of the hospital.”
It seemed so unfair, to have a child going through this. His daughter was the same age as my son. I wondered: why weren’t they doing a story about him? My heart went out to him. His story gave me more incentive to tell my story and promote charities that support people with neurological problems.
I was thrilled when I saw the article in Hale and Bowden Magazine. The piece included a beautiful picture of Deepak, Jasmine, Jay, and me in our home.
BEATING THE ODDS: KAVITA BASI AND HER REMAKABLE JOURNEY FROM NEAR DEATH TO NEW LIFE
Imagine this. You leave work early because you’ve not been able to shake off the headache that’s been plaguing you all day. A couple of painkillers ease the symptoms enough to enable you to wrap your daughter’s presents for her birthday tomorrow. Your youngest child helps you arrange his sister’s presents and then you wait for the rest of the family to come home. The headache’s still there, though, and you have a small but insistent sense that there’s something not quite right but, really, it’s probably just fatigue and tomorrow you’ll be back to your normal energetic self.
After an evening spent watching the telly with your husband and two children, you manage
to doze off to sleep as night falls. You don’t know this yet, but this will be the last night of your old life; the next couple of hours will hurl you into a world unknown and undreamt of. If you’re fortunate, you’ll emerge in the morning light with a radically altered new life; for those lacking good fortune or chance there will be no morning. Now imagine that.
Kavita Basi woke up in the middle of that March night with a blinding pain in the back of her head; she felt as though someone had hit her with a hammer, as she ran around the bedroom screaming for help before collapsing on the floor. Her husband, Deepak, and her daughter watched in shock and horror as she went into a tonic clonic seizure. It was at this point that Kavita lost all memory of the ensuing hours, days, and weeks.
She spent seven weeks in Salford Royal Hospital, of which she can only remember the last three. A brain aneurysm had triggered a subarachnoid hemorrhage; 70% of people usually die within two weeks of such a stroke and the surviving 30% can normally expect to have profound speech and mobility problems. Kavita feels blessed to have gotten off so lightly. A series of operations followed, including the clipping of the aneurysm and the insertion of a shunt to relieve the build-up of fluid in the brain. These preventative devices are permanent and lifelong, and will always be a significant part of Kavita’s life from now on.
Unrelentingly grim and depressing this may be, but Kavita herself provides the miraculous antidote to that. Today Kavita is living, to all outward appearances, the life she led before. But, of course, that’s not the case, and her resolution to transform a negative into a positive with the love and support of her family, friends and her professional carers, is extraordinary. She’s determined to not waste this opportunity to start anew.
She’s returned to work as vice president of the global fashion importers Li & Fung, albeit part-time and minus the hectic pace and pressure of before. Her home décor business, Jardin, which lay dormant during her illness, is also being resurrected as she returns to normality.
