Almost exactly a week ago today I had a stroke. Completely out of blue, I had just finished a 10k run of moderate effort (48 mins) and swung past Sainsbury's on my way back. Everything was fine until I got to the till and then all of a sudden my body decided to malfunction. A small gathering formed around me, trying to pin me down, awaiting an ambulance. Against better judgement, I wriggled free and marched home.
I spent a good 5 mins trying to get the key in the front door. In denial still. 45 mins later I was on the floor, in a heap. Still in denial. I managed to get dressed, did my hair obviously, and crawled in to the bed. Which was where Andrew found me. I'd been reduced to saying 'yeah, yeah, yeah' and 'no, no, no' by then so the more alert of us rightly decided to phone an ambulance.
Things are a bit of a blur from then but I know had a thrombosis which cleared the blood clots. I was kept in for two days more days, and been recuperating at home since. Retail therapy of course.
I've gone from not knowing my name or address last Sunday, to a reasonably functioning individual today. Quite the journey. There's something quite bewildering about getting a fork confused with a knife whilst being able to discuss the the various Brexit permutations.
A week on, I've come a long way but there's shitloads over yonder. But as long as the route there is reasonably straightforward, I be alright.
