I soon discovered that in Greece, the doctor is God: my brother and husband were summarily dismissed and when I ventured an opinion about my condition I was more or less told to button it. I was in no position to argue: in a strange country, not speaking the language, and terrifyingly aware from my own research that I could have another stroke at any moment. I felt better when Panos the porter arrived. He spoke perfect English, sounded sympathetic and wheeled me at top speed and with great aplomb to see the neurologist, Dr Antonakis. As I sat in front of the great man, he peered over his specs, leaned forward and scratched first one of my legs, then the other with the end of his Biro. He stroked his chin and looked me in the eye. ?You have had a stroke,? he pronounced solemnly. It had only taken two hours for someone to tell me what I already knew, and the ensuing CT scan confirmed the diagnosis.
I was allocated a bed next to a mountain of a woman who spoke no English. She managed to communicate by pointing at her stomach and running her forefinger across her throat. I took that to mean things were not good. Her two strapping sons attended to her every need, thinking nothing of hoiking their mother on to a bedpan: in Greece it?s quite normal for relatives to bring food and care for their loved ones. In the corridors, it was mayhem as relatives shouted into their mobiles well into the night.
Over the next couple of days, I was given injections in the stomach, with what I guessed was a blood-thinning agent, and pills (after furious texting to a journalist friend back home, I deduced this was an antiplatelet drug). I was also put on a drip. What it contained remains a mystery ? the nurse?s explanation that this was ?for brain? had to suffice.
Each hour that passed seemed like an eternity: I was still dragging my foot when I walked and my left arm stubbornly refused to function. But on my second day, I noticed some sensation in my left hand. I?d been having maudlin thoughts about how grim life would be should I ever get home, convinced I would never be able to use a computer again nor go out with friends, nor walk my much-loved lurcher, Charlie. So, imagine my elation at being able to raise my left arm, albeit slightly. I began a frenzy of rehab, forcing myself to unscrew bottles of water and pick up minute objects. By the time Dr Antonakis came on his round, I could make a pretty strong fist.
Seven nights in a Corfu hospital gave me plenty of time to ponder. Why had this happened? I am a slim, fit 57-year-old with no underlying risk factors. I have low blood pressure, don?t smoke, eat a healthy diet and take regular exercise. On my return to Britain (escorted by a nurse, insisted upon by Dr Antonakis and paid for by the insurance), I had a scan of my carotid arteries, the main blood supply to the brain, to see if they were furred up ? but they were clean as a whistle. What went wrong?
Professor Anthony Rudd, consultant stroke physician at Guy?s and St Thomas? NHS Foundation Trust, told me that 20 per cent of strokes occur in people under 60, sometimes with no underlying risk factors or obvious cause. ?It may turn out to be a single piece of very bad luck,? he said.
However, on his advice, I had a ?bubble study? to check for a Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO). This is a type of hole in the heart which we are all born with, but which in a surprisingly high number of people ? one in four ? fails to close after birth as it should. The test involved having saline bubbles injected into the veins, to see if the bubbles pass through a hole. The doctor looking at my heart on ultrasound was unequivocal: I definitely had a PFO.
The plot thickened. Prof Rudd?s theory is that I may have suffered a tiny deep vein thrombosis on the flight to Corfu. Instead of being absorbed back into the blood stream as expected, the clot crossed through the hole in my heart and travelled straight to my brain, causing the stroke. Some doctors I have spoken to believe that Corfu?s heat and dehydration may have been a factor, making my blood thicker.
The good news is that the PFO can be closed with delicate surgery performed through the femoral artery in the groin. A tiny mesh ?umbrella? is passed through the artery and into the heart. New tissue grows around the device after a few months and the hole is permanently closed.
So now, some nine months on, I await one more test to find out how large the hole remains. It means swallowing a tiny probe at the end of the flexible tube so doctors can see my heart more clearly. Then I can make an informed decision about whether I want to have surgery: difficult, because there are risks attached, including having a stroke in the theatre. Plus I?m not that keen on having metal mesh in my heart for ever. The only other option is to remain on blood thinners for the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, I?m staying as healthy as I can and taking regular exercise, which Prof Rudd says will boost my energy levels. And despite the nightmare holiday, I feel very lucky: the building may have been crumbling, the language incomprehensible and the nights noisy, but I?m convinced those Greeks saved my life.
For information on strokes in younger people, visit www.differentstrokes.co.uk
shape magazine health questions health women women health magazines
No comments:
Post a Comment