How I Rescued My Brain (18 page)

I also freeze when people innocently ask an open-ended question — say, Anna might ask, ‘What would you like for dinner?', which is a much harder question than one requiring a yes-or-no response. For me, it's like having to find files in a rusty old cabinet; I have to extract the meaning of the question first, locate the file on dinner options, sift through these, and then make a decision on what I feel like having. I see the confusion on the questioner's face when I can't respond to what seems straightforward. In time, I learn to say, ‘I can't answer your question right now' or simply ‘You decide'. My brain is working slowly, but the rest of the world is going as fast as it ever was.

Something else has changed. I'm attending a stream of medical appointments and often getting lost. It's ridiculous: I'm disorientated when driving to familiar places and, sometimes, even on the way back home. I don't feel stupid, just … incompetent. When I tell Doctor Small about this, he calls it ‘topographical disorientation'. I buy a GPS for the car, and the struggle to learn how to use it is worth the effort. One less thing I need to rely on my brain for.

I work out that I have three levels of brain incapacity. The first is ‘fog brain'. It comes on like a mist descending. I'm unable to understand what's just been said to me, or what's being asked of me, or how to do something. I feel like a child around adults who are making decisions about me — powerless to influence the outcome. Financial and legal matters, in particular, bring on fog brain. In these situations, I often have to withdraw, or explain that I simply don't understand.

It's fog brain that makes me decide to start sending out a regular email to update friends, family, and acquaintances on my recovery. When someone asks me, ‘How are you going?' with that concerned look, I'm flummoxed. They don't realise how exhausting it is to explain. I can't tease out the most important thing to say, what I may have told them before, and if I would be repeating myself (as I often do). Usually, I just reel off the latest test results and my latest symptoms. So I make up an email list of those I think would be interested, and add any person who enquires about my health.

As my thinking starts to improve, I begin to really enjoy writing these updates. I can create for myself a little virtual world, pretending that nothing bad is happening outside of my stroke, and let my sense of humour creep into the words. I refer back to earlier emails to avoid repetition and to make it a continuing story. Some of my readers, when I meet them in person, tell me that they look forward to my updates or that they feel they're on the journey with me.

The second level of brain incapacity, ‘rubber brain', occurs when I've been concentrating too long: the conversation has gone on for more than thirty or so minutes, or the noises around me have sucked my mental energy dry, or I'm speaking to a new person who wants to know all the details of my story. With rubber brain, when someone speaks to me, I have the sensation of his or her words bouncing off my brain: nothing comes in and nothing goes out. It's absolutely time to stop and recuperate. I often think that it'd be startling for these people if they could see how their words seem to ping off my brain.

The worst level is ‘sore brain'. I first discovered this stage a month after the stroke. I had been invited to an engagement party for two of my swimming buddies, James and Phillippa. I wasn't keen on going because conversations with new people were by far the most tiring. And there would be a crowd and music. But I went because they're good friends.

Lily gave me a lift, and we arrived early. I talked with the few others there. The music was low, no more than background noise. I thought,
This is going all right.

But half an hour later, the house was full of people. I ended up squashed in the kitchen, holding a glass of sparkling water, talking with a young lawyer. I hadn't told her about my stroke; I wanted to see how I'd go being normal. We'd been talking loudly to be heard over the din.

Then she disagreed with something I'd said. Her eyes were fixed on me: she meant to get her point across. It was at that moment the change happened: suddenly, I couldn't understand what she was saying; she may as well have been speaking a foreign language. Her words, the conversations around me, and the music were like pins or darts in my brain: my head hurt, not as it does when I have a headache, but as if I was being stabbed. My skull felt too small for my brain, as if it were trying to get out.

I had to leave. I told the lawyer that I needed fresh air; she gave me a disdainful look in response. I pushed along the corridor, through the bodies jabbering like cockatoos, to the front door, and burst out into the night air. The noise from the house exploded outwards behind me, like a massive fart.

I walked a few houses' length along the road; it was a quiet cul-de-sac. This was better, but my brain still hurt. I looked up into the clear sky. Ordinarily I enjoyed the stars, but tonight they seemed as coolly distant from me as the old me did — the one who would've jousted with the lawyer, tolerated the music, and thrived on meeting new people.

I wanted to wait until Lily was ready to go. I sat, stood, walked, and paced, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold sank in. The pressure in my brain was unrelenting.
God, this is awful.
Eventually I walked back into the house, found Lily, and told her I wasn't holding up too well. I felt like a killjoy. She said that we'd go soon. I went out and walked up and down some more.

Half an hour of the party: that's all I'd lasted. What a miserable thing a brain injury is.

11

I GATHER THE
kids, and we sit on the verandah. It's time for us to have a talk. I've been getting sore brain frequently at home. The household noise and the kids' demands, on top of my usual activities, have been tipping me over the edge.

‘Girls, you know how I've had a stroke and my brain's not working like it used to?' I say.

They nod like this is old news.

‘Well, when I'm really tired I get a sore brain.'

The younger two laugh. Ashley is inspecting her nails.

‘My brain really hurts, like I have a bad headache, when there is lots of noise or when I've been working. If I say I've got a sore brain, I need you to stop asking me for things and leave me alone for a while. So I can sleep or go for a walk by myself.'

‘Oka-ay,' the younger ones say.

Looking at Ashley, I say, ‘Did you get that?'

‘When you've got a sore brain, we have to leave you alone,' she recites. She glances at me with that expression: the type perfected by teenage girls, which demotes the parent to the status of a worm.

After that, the girls do try to leave me alone, when I tell them that I have sore brain. I don't always get enough time to fully recuperate; the sore brain doesn't always go by the next morning, leaving a hangover-like trace. But it is a help.

Yet I don't think Anna completely understands that I can't meet the usual family demands as I used to. After all, she has relied on me, as I have on her. When I've got sore brain and she wants a decision from me, or we need to work something out, all I can say is: ‘My brain's not working.' Often then I see a look on her face that is a mix of frustration and doubt. Once, she says: ‘When
will
it be working again?'

One Thursday, six weeks after the stroke, Anna calls me to join her for lunch at a cafe. This is nice; we haven't done it for a while. We sit outdoors under a leafless poinciana tree, which is letting through the lukewarm winter sun.

After ordering, she says, ‘Dave, I'd like to talk about how we do the separation.' It is said in a matter-of-fact way, as if we'd agreed that this was on the agenda for discussion. She waits for my response. But I'm dumbstruck.

Eventually I say, ‘I can't talk about this right now. I thought we were going to review everything at the end of the year … after all the financial stuff was out of the way?'

She looks taken aback, as if I've pulled a rabbit out of a hat, and it stalls the conversation.

When we'd started the relationship counselling, the agreement was that we would commit to staying together for six months while we worked on our marriage. After Anna returned from overseas and these sessions finished, she didn't raise the issue of separation again — or if she did, I'd been too preoccupied to register it.

In my early days of seeing Wayne, she would often ask, ‘Did you speak to Wayne about us? About the family?'

‘No,' I would say, or ‘A little.' Once I elaborated: ‘Anna, I'm just trying to survive. Getting through the day is hard enough for me at the moment. Most of what we talk about is to do with this.'

I'd felt then that she didn't understand how much post-traumatic stress and depression had taken over my mind, how difficult it was for me to think outside of this. I suggested that she speak to Wayne; this would help her to get a better sense of what I was going through, and let her get things off her chest. I suspected, too, that she wasn't sure about the quality of advice I was getting, and I wanted to reassure her.

At the following session, Anna spoke with Wayne while I waited in reception. She was inside for a long time, and when she came out, I asked how she'd found talking with him. ‘He's the first person to really listen to me,' she said. ‘He understands what I'm going through.'

Anna felt reassured that I was seeing a capable professional. I thought that she was a little more patient with me after this, although she still asked from time to time if I'd discussed our relationship issues with Wayne. I sensed that she was hurting, but when our financial problems began to close in, it became even harder for me to think about the relationship. Mentally, I put our marriage issues on the back burner — hoping I could get to them when we'd dealt with the finances, and I had the mental space for it.

I wasn't totally oblivious: I could see that Anna was socialising more without me, but I didn't think she would really leave. I thought she'd stick it out, like me, until we could give our relationship proper attention. I'd told Anna before that whenever the notion of separation came up, I went into freefall. It was like the plug was being pulled from the sink, and I would drain away.

At the cafe, the food arrives. We talk about safe subjects as we eat and then make our individual ways home.

As I drive, I feel a deep sadness for what is happening to my family: we are coming apart. Is it possible for things to get any worse? The chasm between Anna and I yawns wider and wider; it feels as if I'm falling into nothingness.

AS IT HAPPENS,
my old mate from Sydney, David, arrives the next day to stay for the weekend. When he learnt of my stroke, David arranged to visit as soon as he could get away. He and I first met while working in the prison system when we were both young psychologists. We discovered common interests (music and fitness) and we enjoyed cracking jokes with each other. Our lives have paralleled since then: marriage, children, and private practice. I'm excited to see him.

David's presence is a morale booster. Anna trusts him — she has gotten to know him and his wife well over the years, and our families have even holidayed together a few times. I mention to David that Anna has talked about separating. He's concerned. He's a skilled psychotherapist, and agrees to speak with us individually. That night he speaks with Anna.

David's become a keen photographer, and on Saturday morning, through a chance meeting, we tee up a photo shoot with a local band who want new publicity shots; he'll take their pictures when they play at the markets on Sunday morning. For most of Saturday we spend time at the beach, walking and talking. I don't feel so alone.

On Sunday, before he leaves, the three of have lunch together and he recommends one last try because, he says, ‘of all the good things you have: your relationship, the children, your mutual friendships, your finances'. ‘You've got to earn your separation,' he tells us. He encourages us to have another go at therapy. ‘If you can't do it yourself, get some help. You've got to try and tease out anything that might be improved.'

His words clear the air between us, and it feels as though Anna softens somewhat. I'm reminded of how much we have to lose if we don't work things out.

As I drive David to the airport, he says, ‘She loves you enough to give it another chance. I don't think it has gone past the point of no return. But you have to come back to life; you can't expect Anna to lead a life of duty to you. You have to do everything in your power to be that person she married.'

The next day, Anna and I speak about having a ‘last go'. We make a plan to follow up contacts that could resolve our financial and legal predicament.

Anna makes an appointment with a sex therapist. Part of the condition for the therapy is that we remain together for three months while we work on things. It feels like the last roll of the dice.

SOME WEEKS LATER
I'm back doing battle with creditors and lawyers, and by Friday, I'm wasted. I go for a gentle swim, get a haircut, and decide to treat myself to a movie.

I go to the cinema. When I survey what's on offer, there's not a great choice. In the end I fork out for
Disgrace
, starring John Malkovich. The write-up says that it's about an English professor who seduces one of his students, resigns in disgrace, and then recovers from his fall. I'm not drawn to the reason for his disgrace, but the idea of someone messing up, recovering, and then redeeming themselves is appealing in my current circumstances.