How I nearly missed the signs of a brain haemorrhage — and what happened next.
It was a typical Saturday in January 2024 — the first proper weekend of the new year. December had been full-on at work, and I was relieved to get back to some kind of routine.
That morning, I was curled up on the sofa at my partner’s house, watching YouTube and nursing the usual aches and pains. I’d taken some Co-codamol for my chronic pain, and as the wooziness kicked in, I figured that familiar foggy feeling was just the meds doing their thing.
But something felt different — something I now know were early brain haemorrhage symptoms.
A Feeling I Couldn’t Shake
Within minutes, I started to feel… off. Disoriented. Sluggish. My thoughts were slow, and forming words took effort. Still, I convinced myself it was just the painkillers hitting hard. So I parked myself in front of Animal Crossing, hoping it would all wear off in a few hours.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
Four hours dragged by, and I was no better. I was worse. I felt unsteady on my feet, and my right hand seemed to forget what it was supposed to do. I couldn’t quite explain what was wrong — I just knew something was. I chalked it up to a rough pain day, decided on an early night, and hoped I’d wake up feeling more human.
When Rest Isn’t the Cure
Sunday morning, I briefly felt a little better — but that quickly disappeared. I told themself I wasn’t doing great and planned to drive myself home to rest.
Thankfully, they challenged that plan. If I felt that unwell, why not get checked out? After a bit of back-and-forth (and me stubbornly insisting I’d be fine), I agreed to go to the local walk-in centre.
They triaged me as urgent, and I was quickly referred to the urgent care unit. There, the admitting nurse hesitated. I knew my name, where I was, and I wasn’t slurring — so I couldn’t be that unwell, right?
But I was. I knew something was seriously wrong.
The Moment Everything Changed
After seeing a doctor, he sent me for blood tests and a CT scan. I’d barely made it back from the scanner when the doctor asked to speak to me privately. That’s when they dropped the bombshell:
“We’ve found a bleed on your brain.”
Everything stopped.
I was moved to the resus unit for monitoring while a specialist team at Addenbrooke’s reviewed my scan. Themself popped home to collect an overnight bag, and by the time they returned, it was nearly 10 pm. I told them to get some rest — we still didn’t know when (or if) I’d be transferred.
Then Came the Seizure
Around 10:30 pm, my right hand started shaking. Then came cramping. Then my whole arm twisted in toward my chest. I called out for help as panic set in.
A swarm of staff arrived. My face began to droop. The convulsions kicked in. Someone called for lorazepam, and everything went black.
Welcome to Neurology
I woke up later, groggy and confused. I’d had a seizure. Not long after, I was transferred to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. I don’t remember much of the journey — I was drained, disoriented, and scared.
At Addenbrooke’s, they ran more tests, including an angiogram to look for a cause — like an aneurysm or AVM — but found nothing definitive. Just a bleed, sitting ominously in my left frontal lobe. Since I was relatively stable, I was discharged after three days into my partner’s care, and the Early Supported Stroke Discharge Team took over my rehab.
Life After the Bleed
That seizure wasn’t the last. I now live with epilepsy, as well as lasting effects from the stroke — right-sided weakness, memory issues, speech difficulties, and a whole new level of fatigue. I use a powerchair, rely on support at home, and work part-time when I can manage it.
Looking back, it’s terrifying how easy it would have been to dismiss the signs. I nearly did.
Please Learn From Me
f something feels off — really off — don’t wait it out. Don’t assume it’s just stress, or medication, or tiredness. Stroke doesn’t always look like the adverts. Sometimes it looks like a glitchy brain and a confused expression in front of a Nintendo Switch.
Get checked. You’re not being dramatic. You’re being alive.