Last week, I was off at the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh for an MRI of my aneurysms. Cos, y’know, no-one wants this…
I mentioned once that I had let slip to Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth that “I didn’t solely come back from [stroke-y] death because I had to see her one more time. I wanted to see her one more time, and tell her that everything was going to be OK.”
And that that was a a lie, solely to the extent I didn’t think I was going to survive.
I read something last week that, had I known it at the time, would have meant I could have delivered the message with a clear conscience. Continue reading Something Fishy
Mrs Stroke Bloke just walked in and asked what I was up to. It probably looked like I was idly eying a Joan Didion essay on self-respect. But I was hard at work. Honest. I’d already read articles on A Formula For Happiness, Why Some People Dislike Everything and Seven Thoughts That Are Bad For You.
— I gotta tell you: I’m going for something big here, but I think my reach is going to exceed my grasp on this one.
— Why not just do something goofy?
Last Monday, I went to the Western General Hospital for a CT scan. In some ways, it was quite similar to going to Methodist in Brooklyn. The NHS has signs up informing patients of the same sort of stroke-related stuff that the American Stroke Association is always — quite rightly — banging on about.
This past Friday, I resumed my conversation with mortality. It had been on the way, I suppose, since Beth had first mentioned what a pleasant time she’d had attending her first aneurysm awareness meeting. I’ve since been to one myself, and discovered from fellow attendees that a ruptured aneurysm is quite similar to a hemorrhagic stroke. That is, getting wheeled into the ER, unresponsive, late on a weekend evening, with potentially catastrophic results, and, generally, something to be avoided. Anyway, I guess that was Beth’s way of gently getting me used to the fact that the work-ups from my stroke had revealed that I had at least one aneurysm. Continue reading The Cure / Not The Cure, or, My Aneurysm