Reinventing Emma by Emma Gee Read Free Book Online Page B

had had a stroke. He was paralysed down his left side, had a facial droop and couldn’t speak clearly. I could tell he was anxious when he introduced himself, “I am John and it’s difficult to understand me.” Actually I could understand him. Many of my former patients had similar speech difficulties. For the first time I could see a positive side to my situation. I was still a therapist and could reassure him, but at the same time rapport was much easier to build because I felt at his level. I was now a patient too. We’d both been struck down by a neurological condition and were both approaching unknown territory.
    In that bleak time it was a small comforting thought, that I was now a powerful combination of patient and therapist. But this positive frame of mind was soon challenged when the ambulance entered the gates of Caulfield Hospital. I spotted a white station wagon with a familiar number plate, SPY 923. It was a hospital car I had once driven. I also recognised the OT behind the wheel and I was suddenly painfully aware of my change in role. That first night I wrote in my diary:
    I entered Rehab 2 overwhelmed. I was tired. A single room was a relief. I was wheeled past a social worker I had worked with. I wanted to hide, but sitting there in my frilly pyjamas unable to walk I was forced to acknowledge her. Puzzled she said, “I know you from somewhere?” I was exposed. My disguise was blown. I reluctantly said, “I worked with you.”
    My colleagues were also confused by their own role in my rehabilitation. Upon my arrival, a handwritten note was left on my bed on top of a pile of neatly folded clothes for me to borrow.
    Hey Em, Hope your first night is OK … I’ve got a feeling you might be inundated by work people … so will let you get into a routine and look forward to spending some time with you on the weekend. I’m thinking of you always, though, and am here if you need me. Love you lots – have a good day and keep smiling!
    These words were just a small slice of the constant love, support and encouragement I received throughout my rehab. But in spite of all that, I became steadily more depressed and anxious. I hated my former colleagues seeing me around the clock. They saw my low points and my tears and attended to all my needs, even changed my bedpan. And what worried me most was their access to my medical history, where they would see the query of a ‘psychological condition’ stamped on my file. Even though my condition was diagnosed as a physical one, I was still haunted by the words of the psychiatrist at the Alfred.
    I knew I should be concentrating on getting physically better but I was torn between dealing with the AVM diagnosis, grappling with my decision to have a craniotomy and accepting the loss of independence, dignity and self-worth. Yet I wanted to be brave for my family and for my colleagues.
    Day by day my anxiety about the time bomb in my head grew. I didn’t know what the warning signs of my AVM rupturing would be. All I was told was that I couldn’t increase my heart rate, hold my breath or lift anything too heavy. Any strange feeling in my head panicked me. I’d buzz, the nurse would respond and take my pulse and blood pressure … I was driving the staff crazy. I’d wake every morning and do an exaggerated smile to make sure my AVM hadn’t ruptured during the night.

    I lie on my bed, wide awake, but with my eyes shut to deter my roommate from chattering non-stop about her problems. I want to be alone, to get some time out from this hell before Louise, my friend from work, arrives. But shutting my eyes doesn’t shut out my AVM. It talks to me in an urgent pulsating tone. It seems to enlarge and louden with each second and the more attention I give it, the bigger and more lethal it becomes. Focus on another sensation . I remind myself to breathe. Apparently regular oxygen flow will tame my AVM, prevent