When the Body Screams: Surviving a Brain Bleed
In light of our recent brain injury training, I wanted to share a lived story that brings the Clinical into a lived Experience.
When the Body Screams: Surviving a Brain Bleed
In recognition of Stroke Awareness Month, I’m sharing a personal story that changed my life in ways I never imagined. As a therapist and a survivor of a Subarachnoid Hemorrhage (a rare type of stroke), I know firsthand how critical it is to recognize the signs—and how isolating recovery can feel. This story is shared not just to raise awareness, but to offer hope, connection, and a reminder: listen to your body. It whispers before it screams. (Content warning: medical trauma, hospitalization)
The Warning Sign: When the Body Screams
When a sudden, intense pain shot across my neck and up my head like a lightning bolt—I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t just a bad headache. My body screamed. The nausea that followed, something I’d never linked to headaches before, 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 juggling graduate school, an internship, caring for elderly parents from afar, and navigating the relentless stress of the pandemic. Pressure simmered beneath the surface. Fortunately, my husband had decided to stay home that day—a decision that may have been lifesaving.
At first, I wondered if the pain was caused by my hair scrunchie being too tight. I removed it; the pain didn’t subside. Slowly, I managed to get out of my chair and made my way to the bathroom. Steadying myself, I headed downstairs to where my husband was working. Quietly, I entered the room and said, “I think something’s wrong.” His face filled with concern. He got up, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom. Could it be anxiety? Hoping for relief, I agreed to lie down.
The Emergency Room: The Beginning of a Long Journey
Hours later, I called my doctor, who sent me to the emergency room immediately for a CT scan. My husband dropped me off, and I sat masked and alone in the waiting room due to COVID protocols. He waited outside, unable to come in. When the technician wheeled me in for the scan, it didn’t feel routine. Minutes later, the doctor’s tone shifted. “We see blood on your brain. You’ll need to be transferred to neurosurgery immediately—by helicopter or ICU ambulance, and you’ll be there for a while.” In that moment, my world crumbled. Blood on my brain? The words felt unreal. I clung to fragments of normalcy to cope—unfinished holiday cards, gifts left to buy, family needing me, and my dog waiting at home. But the terror was undeniable.
Saying Goodbye: The Final Moment Before the Unknown
Not knowing if he would see me again, the doctor made an exception and let my husband in to take my purse and say goodbye. After many years together, parting under such circumstances was surreal—there was no time to process emotions. As he stood in front of me, my phone rang. It was our daughter. “How do you feel, Mommy? “I tried to downplay it. “I have a little problem.” She knew better. This was just the beginning of a journey that would test every fiber of my being.
The ICU: The Emotional Toll of Isolation
The ICU was an alien world—cold, sterile, and disorienting. Bright lights pierced my eyelids, and constant machine beeping overwhelmed my senses. My days blurred into a cycle of tests and confusion. Privacy was nearly nonexistent, and the many tubes and medical devices were physically and emotionally draining. Even small movements were difficult. When I was finally able to walk with a nurse’s help, I noticed some patients had not moved in days. The reality was terrifying. At night, isolation deepened. 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, my husband dropped off items to nurses who passed them to me like secret messages. The isolation was unhinging—ICU psychosis? Who knows. I clung to whatever helped me keep sanity. The makeshift morgue outside my room was a grim reminder of the pandemic’s reality. Still, moments of kindness brought solace.
Glimmers of Hope Amid Darkness
Chris, the nurse who received me at trauma ICU, radiated warmth and calm—a true lifeline. Another nurse washed and dried my hair, evoking memories of childhood sleepovers. The sweet scent in the sterile air grounded me. Visits from a social worker and a Reiki practitioner brought emotional peace. These small acts became beacons of hope.
Unexpected Lifelines: A Neurosurgeon’s Kindness
My neurosurgeon was a quiet anchor, his calm confidence reassuring me through the storm. The day before discharge, I saw my daughter outside the hospital window—waving. I waved back, tears streaming down my face.
The Road to Recovery
Leaving the hospital was surreal. The crisp winter air felt like my first real breath. I rolled down the car window and stuck my face out like a dog, savoring the icy air on my skin. Recovery was slow and unpredictable. Complications during the healing process tested my mental strength. I made it through with breathing techniques, positive self-talk, and encouragement from friends. My doctor emphasized the importance of focusing on myself—those words became my compass. A Subarachnoid Hemorrhage often leads to anxiety, and how could it not? I still experience some lingering effects—burning sensations, speech lapses, heightened sensitivity—but I also found resilience. I completed my MSW and became a therapist. I was even featured in a Rutgers film on overcoming adversity.
Lessons from Survival
Recovery demands patience and courage despite 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 lifelines. To everyone—educate yourself about strokes. It could save a life.
Know the Signs:
Stroke Awareness Could Save a Life A Subarachnoid Hemorrhage accounts for about 15% of strokes. It occurs when an artery bursts, filling the space between the brain and its membranes with blood. Symptoms often include:
· Sudden, severe headache (perhaps the worst of your life)
· Nausea or vomiting
· Neck stiffness
· Confusion or loss of consciousness
Ischemic stroke account for about 85% of strokes and are caused by a blockage of blood flow to the brain, often from a clot.
Remember: FAST
· Face drooping
· Arm weakness
· Speech difficulty
· Time to call 911
Stroke Resources & Support
🚨 Learn the Signs: • American Stroke Association – Stroke Warning Signs Phone: 1-888-4-STROKE (1-888-478-7653)
🧠 Learn More About SAH: • Mayo Clinic – Subarachnoid Hemorrhage • National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke Phone: 1-800-352-9424
💬 Find Support: • American Stroke Association Support Network • Brain Aneurysm Foundation – Support Groups Phone: 1-877-272-928
Closing Reflection and Call to Action: Awareness can change your life
As a therapist and survivor, I now sit with clients in their darkest moments, not just from a place of professional understanding, but from a shared humanity. I’ve sat in the silence of isolation, wrestled with fears that feel insurmountable, and further understand the critical nature of human connection and vulnerability.
To those facing similar battles, let my story be a reminder: You are not alone. Healing can be messy and imperfect; each step forward, no matter how small, is a victory. If you’re struggling, share your story, seek support, and give yourself grace. In the end, we discover resilience not by avoiding pain, but by moving through it—trusting that healing is possible, and a life filled with meaning is waiting.
I urge everyone to act—educate yourself and others about stroke. The knowledge could save lives.