On the 6th of June 2006 when I was nine years old, my life took a life-changing turn when my Mum had a stroke.

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I remember the hospitals mostly that year. The smell of flavourless looking food, the hand gel, my mum lying so small and helpless in an enormous hospital bed.

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Mum had been suffering from migraines for a week and was struggling to look after three kids -including a two-year-old. So, my grandparents had stepped in to take care of all of us.

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The school day finished, and my Grandma was at the gates. Not unusual, however, what she said after was. My straightforward talking Grandma said, “Your mum's in hospital, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

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For three weeks my sister and I were left in the dark. Different family members pulled us out of school early each day, while my dad was at the hospital. We didn’t ask questions, perhaps out of fear. Until one day my dad sat us down and told us “ Your mum has had a stroke and she’s not very well. She’s still your mum, but she won’t be the same.”

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“She’s still your mum, but she won’t be the same.”

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I can’t remember my reaction, I was an emotional child so I can only assume that I cried. I recall my thoughts though. What do you mean? Where is my mum? and when will she be home?

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Dad explained that Mum had a thin blood vessel in her brain, one day it burst which lead to her having a stroke. For a nine-year-old this meant nothing to me, I didn’t fully understand until I asked the questions again when I was much older.

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That summer consisted of visiting my mum in hospital. In the early stages she was unconscious. After a week and a half, my mum came around. When she saw us, she couldn’t speak, but tears ran down her face. 

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The stroke had left my mum with a speech impediment and paralysed on her right-hand side. At first, I was scared to speak to her, she looked like my mum. But this fragile and quiet person that sat in a chair was not my mum.

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For a time, I thought I would never be able to connect with her like I did. There was anger that came out of her that I had never experienced before. The frustration every time she tried to talk or walk would terrify me. The words were there, but her brain refused to let them out.  

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After three months in hospital, Mum was home. She was here, but our life was far from normal. My mum struggled immensely. This once-independent woman had to rely on everyone else around her.

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Her physiotherapy group hit her the hardest. She was only 39 and was placed in a class of people much older than she was. In the UK around 10 to 15 percent of people who have strokes are between the ages of 18-50. I could only imagine how alone she must have felt.

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Before we knew it, a few years had passed and this was our new norm. When I was a teenager people would say “I can’t believe this happened to you, I’m sorry”. For years my response was “I didn’t know any different, it was just normal life to me.”

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 But this wasn’t a normal experience. Nothing about this was ‘normal’ and I realised this more as I grew up.

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Those childhood years - while my family were adjusting to a new life, were stolen from me and I was angry. I was jealous, and filled with sadness. But mostly, I was terrified that something like this would happen again.

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Sixteen years and a few therapy sessions later, we’re still here and most importantly, we’re still together.

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The experience definitely shaped my close family. I think we’re all a little bit more grateful for who we have in our lives... because we’re also all very cautious about how fast this can be taken away.

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How’s my Mum? She’s still left paralysed and with a lack of speech.  But she is the funniest person I know. For years she was filled with anger and frustration. But now, I’ve noticed that she’s calmed down.

 

Perhaps she’s just got used to her life now, perhaps realised she can’t change anything, or perhaps she’s just as grateful to be here as we are to still have her.

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By Rosie May Knapp 

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