As the exact 2-year anniversary of my brain surgery approaches (it’s on March 25th – coinciding with the 13th birthday of our eldest grandchild, the beautiful Emma), I thought I would return to the analogy of my recovery being like climbing out of a deep, dark hole.
I am still trying with every fibre of my damaged body to climb up and out, but some activities conspire to set me back, albeit temporarily… Air travel being chief among them. Again, I have written previously about how I now hate flying but as my recovery moves slowly ahead, I am better able to quantify the negative impact of flying.
As I wrote previously, part of the trauma is caused by the lengthy trek from kerbside to cabin, and then at the destination, the reverse journey, cabin to kerbside, all of this only achieved these days with “special assistance”; the hated but essential wheelchair and/or mechanised buggy.
And this aspect is the same irrespective of one’s destination –all this stress and exhaustion whether the flight duration is one hour or 21 hours!
In addition to that, there is being crammed into a seat for the majority of the journey. And yes, I could get up and stroll around as one is advised to do to maintain good circulation, but when I stroll these days, it is less stroll, more roll from side to side – my comic gait brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “dizzy blonde.” Invariably, well-meaning cabin crew leap forward to try to “help” me, while fellow passengers in aisle seats look horrified and swivel-eyed, clearly terrified that at any second, I might topple into their lap. So I find it is easier to just stay put.
On top of that is the impact of the flight itself, of being inside a pressurised tube for hours on end – have you seen what it does to a sealed crisp packet. And then there is the vibration and turbulence, even the slightest of which tends to make my poor brain feel as if it is being tossed around like lettuce in a salad spinner.
I have just returned from Vancouver – a nine-hour flight away and eight hours behind the UK in terms of time zones. It is a lovely city and I do hope any resident or fan reading this won’t take it too personally if I say “I hope never to go back there.”
Truly, I love this beautiful city beside the Pacific Ocean on Canada’s west coast. It is an architectural gem in a truly beautiful spot between sea and mountains, and it has a very appealing laid-back West Coast vibe, but 9 hours cooped up in a metal cylinder, and jet lag at both ends of the journey is no fun at all when one is recovering from brain surgery…
In fact it is 1.55am as I write this, which might just be a late night for many adults but for me, whose current 10.30 bedtime is probably not much later than the average 12-year-old, it is the middle of the night and I have been driven from my bed by jet lag – that total inability of the body to comprehend that it is no longer on West Coast time and should be asleep.
On the plus side, my vision continues to improve and my jerky left hand (which has ataxia as a result of the surgery) is slightly less jerky; indeed, it is now about a month since I last biffed my husband on the nose as we lay in bed.
Also, I am getting better at opening cans and jars, and even little pots of make-up which sometimes seem designed to be difficult to open by any but the most nimble-fingered.
Also the ability to sequence tasks properly (what, I believe, neurologists refer to as “co-ordination” and what we females think of as multi-tasking), is also improving to the point where I can shower, get dry and leave the bathroom having gathered up all of my possessions – undies, dressing gown, slippers and pyjamas – ah, yes, the much disliked, nay, hated, pyjamas. For all of my adult life I slept wearing nothing but pants; it wasn’t sexual (well, alright, it was, a bit); it was mostly about freedom; from the constraints of childhood when one is required to wear a nightie or PJs in bed. And then, following surgery, my body’s thermostat system went crazy and for most of the time, I can’t tell whether I am hot, cold or comfortable. And that is especially problematic while I am sleeping, so cotton pyjamas were the answer…
Again, on the plus side, I have found that as my fatigue lessens, I push myself a little harder every day and, jet-lag aside, I find I need fewer and shorter rests between tasks. And thus my stamina increases, albeit with agonising slowness.
But, I am also aware of a mild but discernible sense of being more in control, physically, emotionally and verbally: I made lunch for some of the family at the weekend. Previously, post-surgery, it has been all I could do to prepare food and keep smiling; this time, I felt more able to interact with everyone, which was a really good feeling and gives me hope that my recovery has not yet plateau’d but keeps moving forward, if rather too slowly for my taste….
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