Two dear friends have both been
victims of strokes recently. Horrid
reminders of one’s frailty, they seize their moments and have left a trail of
concern in their wake. One was a TIA,
the other a more serious episode. Both
required hospitalisation. It got me
thinking about my own cognitive functioning, in a way I tend not to – we don’t
realise how much we have, until we can no longer call upon it.
The stroke ward looked much like
any other hospital ward I have visited.
But there was a particular tone to the quietness that felt heavy, almost
ominous. The staff were pleasant, and
attentive. Watching and waiting for
important indicators of progression or regression. I flicked through the leaflets there for
patients, and their visitors. I was
struck by one in particular advertising a service undertaken by professional
actors who read to stroke patients, and help their recovery in this way. I had not previously heard of the initiative,
and marvelled at the concept.
Thankfully the two people I have
known to have experienced strokes recently are both making a good
recovery. They are now vulnerable to
future episodes, but will be closely monitored, and managed with appropriate
medication. It is not possible for
anyone to yet predict prognosis with any accuracy. The brain remains mysterious, and silent.
I have no clue what happened to
my own today. Having been driving for
almost an hour I thought I had left something important at home. I turned around, irritated by my
carelessness, and the impact it was going to have on my overall journey
time. What a waste of time, and
petrol! I drove for 20 minutes in the
opposite direction, before recalling that I had in fact packed the item the
previous day, in anticipation of my journey.
I turned back, and re-joined the motorway in the same place I had
earlier, and navigated the variable speed limit, and negotiated the average
speed check. I took a deep breath, and
forgave myself. Things could be worse.
As they felt to get when, in the
same afternoon, I called into an unknown branch of my bank, where my spirit of
adventure got the better of me, and I decided to use the ‘Express Banking
machine’. No one else was using it. As I approached it, with some degree of
trepidation, my mind suddenly went blank.
I could not recall my PIN. The
code I use every day, usually several times a day. It was not where it is usually to be
found. My fingertips deceived me, and I
found myself hopelessly trying a number of combinations I knew to be wrong, but
had to rule out through a process of elimination. The bank’s fraudulent use policy kicked in,
and allowed me no further attempts.
I was devastated. I have a brilliant memory. What had happened? How could it let me down in this way? I suddenly felt quite distressed. It was uncomfortable. I felt vulnerable. And alone.
No one else, for obvious reasons, knows my PIN (I do, on occasion, in
certain contexts, follow advice). It
didn’t matter how many times I tried to visualise the sequence, using the key
pad on my phone. Gone. It wasn’t there. My memory was on strike.
And then, almost as quickly as
it’d vanished, it came back to me. I
could remember the number. I’m not sure
which I felt first; silly, or relieved.
Looking back, I feel grateful. I
had panicked and that had, I now see, made it worse. My mind has been very busy of late. I wonder whether the mind, a little like the
physical body that so often struggles when it’s invited to rest, has a built-in
circuit that shorts occasionally, prompting us to acknowledge and respect its
capacity.
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