When the Body Screams: Surviving a Brain Bleed
On World Stroke Day, I share this in hopes that you will remember the signs, trust your body, and never underestimate the power of compassion. Please share this—it could save someone’s life.
When the Body Screams: Surviving a Brain Bleed
The Warning Sign
When the lightning bolt of pain shot across my neck and up my head like an inverted cross—I knew something was very wrong. The sensation was sudden and overwhelming; this wasn’t just a headache. My body screamed. The nausea that followed deepened my alarm. My first thought was, I'm in trouble - followed by a surge of intense fear. The second was, I don’t know if I can get up.
For weeks, I had been teetering on the edge—juggling graduate school, an internship, caring for my elderly parents from afar, and navigating the relentless stress of the pandemic. Pressure simmered beneath the surface. Serendipitously, my husband, decided to stay home that day, a decision which could be lifesaving.
Slowly, I managed to get out of my chair and steady myself as I walked downstairs, where Steve was working. In a flat, uncharacteristic tone I said: “I think something’s wrong.” His face filled with concern. He took my hand and guided me to the bedroom, hoping it was anxiety. Deep down, I knew it was something more.
The Emergency Room: The Beginning of a Long Journey
Hours later, I called my internist, who sent me to the emergency room immediately for a CT scan. My husband dropped me off. I sat masked and alone in the waiting room due to COVID protocols. Worried and frustrated by not being let in, he drove around while he waited.
When the technician wheeled me in for a CT scan, it didn’t feel routine. When the doctor returned almost immediately, his tone shifted to one of gravity. “We see blood on your brain. You’ll need to be transferred to Hackensack neurosurgery immediately—by helicopter or ICU ambulance, and you’ll be there for a while.”
In that instant, the world as I knew it began to crumble. Blood on my brain? The words felt unreal. I clung to fragments of normalcy to cope—holiday cards I hadn’t finished, gifts left to buy, my dad needing me, my Scottish Terrier waiting at home. But I couldn’t deny the terror setting in. Of all the worst-case scenarios I imagined, this was not one of them.
Saying Goodbye: The Final Moment Before the Unknown
Not knowing if he would see me again, the doctor made an exception and let Steve in to take my purse and say goodbye. Parting under such circumstances was surreal with no time to feel emotions. As he stood in front of me, my cell phone rang. It was our daughter. It destroyed me to answer but I felt I had to. “How do you feel, Mommy? “I tried to downplay it. I responded, “I have a little problem.” Shayna knew something was very wrong. I had never had a “little” problem. This was just the beginning of a journey that would test every fiber of my being.
ICU: The Emotional Toll of Isolation:
The ICU was an alien world—cold, sterile, and disorienting. Flashlights pierced my eyelids. A barrage of questions, constant machines beeping, and fluorescent lighting overwhelmed my senses. My days blurred into a cycle of tests and confusion.
My arms ached from catheter insertions. Tubes tethered me down. Even moving a few inches was a challenge. When I was finally allowed to walk with a nurse’s help, I noticed others hadn’t moved from their rooms—some looked unconscious. The reality was terrifying. At night, the isolation became unbearable. Nurses came and went. Faces changed. And I was left alone with my fears.
Loneliness and Fear: The Darkness of the Night Shift
With no family visits allowed, Steve dropped off items for me with nurses who agreed to meet him outside—like a clandestine handoff. The isolation made me feel unhinged. Was it ICU psychosis? Who knows. I clung to sanity however I could.
The makeshift morgue just outside my hospital room reminded me of the pandemic’s grim reality. Still, I found solace in fleeting moments of human kindness.
Glimmers of Hope Amid Darkness
Chris, the nurse who received me at the trauma ICU, radiated warmth and calm. Her kindness was a lifeline. Another nurse washed and dried my hair, reminding me of childhood sleepovers. The sweet scent in sterile air grounded me in something familiar. A visit from an ICU social worker and a Reiki practitioner brought emotional peace. These small acts were connections that soothed my soul and helped me go on.
Unexpected Lifelines: A Neurosurgeon’s Kindness
My neurosurgeon became a quiet anchor. His confidence, patience, and calm presence reassured me in the storm. I trusted him deeply. The day before I was released, Shayna came home from Boston. I saw her—through the hospital window. She stood outside, waving. I waved back, tears streaming down my face.
The Road to Recovery
Discharge day was surreal. Stepping into the crisp December air felt like taking my very first breath. I rolled down the car window and stuck my face out like a dog, savoring the icy air on my skin. However, leaving the hospital was only the beginning. My recovery was slow and unpredictable.
Recovery was hard. I focused on what my internist had said: "YOU!” Those words became my compass. A Subarachnoid Hemorrhage (SAH), my doctor told me, often leads to anxiety. And how could it not?
I still have residual effects: burning sensations, speech lapses, heightened sensitivity. But I also found resilience. I finished my MSW and became a therapist. I was even featured in a Rutgers film on overcoming adversity.
Lessons from Survival:
For stroke survivors fortunate enough to survive, recovery demands patience and courage despite the uncertainty. For those under immense stress, let my story be a reminder: Listen to your body. It whispers before it screams.
To caregivers—your small acts of kindness may be someone’s lifeline.
To everyone—educate yourself about strokes. It could save your life.
Know the Signs: Stroke Awareness Could Save a Life
A Subarachnoid Hemorrhage (SAH) accounts for about 15% of all strokes. It occurs when an artery bursts and blood fill the space between the brain and the membranes that cover it. SAH is life-threatening and often presents with:
• A sudden, severe headache (perhaps the worst of your life)
• Nausea or vomiting
• Neck stiffness
• Confusion or loss of consciousness
The more common ischemic stroke (about 85% of all strokes) is caused by a blockage in blood flow to the brain, often from a clot.
Know the signs of stroke.
Remember: FAST
• Face drooping
• Arm weakness
• Speech difficulty
• Time to call 911
Closing Reflection and Call to Action
As a therapist and survivor, I now sit with clients in their darkest moments—not just with professional insight, but from shared human experience. I know the silence of isolation. I know the weight of fear. And I know the power of connection and grace.
If you’re struggling, share your story. Seek help. Healing can be messy—but possible. Resilience doesn’t mean avoiding pain; it means moving through it and trusting that meaning can be found on the other side.
About Debbie Naroff Scott, MSW, LSW
Debbie Naroff Scott, LSW, MSW, is a licensed psychotherapist and stroke (brain bleed) survivor, passionate about helping others live meaningful lives. At the heart of Debbie’s work is advocacy—empowering individuals to find their inner voice, process difficult emotions, and advocate for themselves. Informed by her own recovery journey, she encourages clients to approach healing and growth with self-compassion. Empathy is the core of her practice.Debbie also serves as a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) in the legal system, serving as the voice for children in court. She holds a Master of Social Work from Rutgers University and a bachelor’s degree in Spanish.In her spare time, Debbie enjoys spending time with family, connecting with friends through meaningful conversations, writing, dancing, creating mixed media montages and taking walks with her energetic Scottish Terrier, Kazik. Debbie can be reached at dnaroff@optonline.net