The Hospital: Act 1

The Unkown

Arriving at the hospital is a real blur. I can’t remember much about the trip or being wheeled up there, but I do remember it was pretty late by the time I got there. At least 12 hours since everything happened.

I remember the nurse. He was a fairly young south asian guy, and he wheeled me to my bay, where I changed beds. Then he plugged me into all the stuff: Catheter, BP monitor, temperature on the finger, etc. ‘The wires’.

Then he left, and it was eerily quiet.

Just me and my thoughts at this point. And a headache.

I lay there and for the first time, I had a moment to wonder what the hell was going on. Why was I here? Why Oxford? Why would I be here and not just back at the hospital in Swindon?

I think he told me I’d be going for another CT or MRI, I can’t recall which. This happened reasonably quickly, but it was definitely about 1-2 am by now.

Tell me

I tried to find out what was going on. No one could tell me.

The nurse said that I would find out more shortly, time came and went, and I got some paracetamol every 2 hours, then codeine 2 hours after that and repeat.

Obviously sleep was hard to come by; all I could think about was what had happened and what was going to happen. I didn’t look at my phone; it hurt too much, but overall, at this point, I just felt tired and in pain, but my body felt pretty much like normal. For now.

Sometime in the morning, a lady came to tell me to change into a gown for ‘theatre’.

What the fuck are you talking about, ‘theatre’?

I think I asked her pretty much in this rather straightforward manner. She wasn’t surprised, but she couldn’t tell me.

I told her I wasn’t getting changed until someone told me what was happening to me. Eventually, I relented as she clearly didn’t know.

So for about the slowest, scariest and most daunting hour of my life, I imagined every possible scenario to which I was headed. Was I getting my head cut open? Was I going to die if I didn’t? What options did I have?

Sign here

2 consultants eventually appeared. One man called Pete and a lady whose name I can’t remember.

They explained that I had had a severe bleed on my brain, but they couldn’t tell why from the scans and needed to find out.

I asked him a question I’ll never forget the answer to.

“Is it still bleeding now?” I asked.

“No, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, my friend”, he replied.

The gravity of the last 24 hours rushed into me like a freight train.

I’m good at reading people, and this guy’s eyes told me things were not good. He had a sympathy and empathy that I will never forget, but it was also haunting, as these people don’t look at you like this unless there is some dark shit going on.

He explained that they needed to look inside my head, but with an angiogram. They would put a catheter into my groin and some kind of camera or tube up into my brain, and the dye goes in so they can see what’s happening in teh blood vessels.

He explained that because I was young, I had survived something most people would not have.

“But we don’t know why and what will happen next.”

The consent form was big. He explained plainly that they had to do this, but there is a risk of stroke, and that because my head was already in a fragile state, the risk was exacerbated.

I had no choice but to sign something that said I could die based on my current condition was something entirely profound.

Mentality Monster

Jürgen Klopp once described the mindset of footballers and teams who know how to win. For whom, adversity is just a step towards victory.

I didn’t think of Jurgen that day, but I was sure as hell not going to let this procedure scare me.

I have a talent for compartmentalising things as they happen. Keeping my emotions under control for long periods. Not without fail, but I can wear an outward appearance that defies convention.

I would approach this procedure with every possible grain of resolve I had.

You can’t be scared of this. You will find out what is going on. Face it head-on.

I feel like I psyched myself up for it, I focused as hard as I could on the minute by minute, not what might be or not be. I couldn’t and wouldn’t show any weakness. I don’t know why, but I could only think of dealing with what came my way. Not catastrophising it. A lesson for the future.

The reverse firing squad

You realise shit is serious when there are lots of people in white and blue gowns waiting to greet you.

I was wheeled down by a nurse who was asked to stay and watch for her studies. I think she was in medical school.

But then there were the two consultants. At least four others are floating around, and a further three people are behind a glass screen, looking at monitors.

There was also some heavy-duty equipment on standby. It looked to me like stuff you need to save someone, not check someone.

The image of a firing squad popped into my head. These people could be the last people I see. If they are, they will at least be the best at trying to keep me alive.

Focus

I have never focused so much in my entire life.

From the puncture in my groin to the feeling of the dye. The cold feeling rushed into my arteries and my brain. The feeling of something crawling, and the strange feeling of having wet myself even though I hadn’t.

The lights above my head hurt, and I remember now I was wearing an eye mask to keep the light out. Whenever anything hurt, I did not show any pain. It’s not going to beat me. Mentality.

I did not make any facial movements, I tried to make a joke, I answered all questions, and Jurgen Klopp himself would have patted me on the back. “What a boy”.

I was in the zone.

Although I was acting as hard as oak, inside, of course, I was still worried about what they might find. Mainly because I had no idea what they were looking for.

This was the unknown.

The touch

I don’t know how long the whole thing took.

There was a constant narrative, and I recall most of it sounded positive.

Often Pete would say, “looking good”, or “nothing unusual there”, or some such. He asked constant questions, and I came back. I believe we talked about cricket or something similar.

But after some time, he said something I’ll never forget, and patted my leg.

“Oli, you’re going to be ok.”

There were no signs of aneurysm, and my veins and arteries were in excellent condition. Overall, I was extremely healthy ‘inside’ and, because of this, I was strong enough to survive what had happened the night before.

He said he would update me later.

His touch on my leg was something I’ll always remember. It was a genuine, heartfelt touch. This man had not seen this happen to many people my age and in my stage of life. With 2 young children. I could tell in his voice he was more than relieved; he was happy.

I would survive, despite the odds.