Learning to be content

It’s a rainy, April morning in 2021. I’m sat at my desk with my headphones on, microphone positioned, staring at my psychologist on the other side of a webcam wondering:

“Why is she so focused on the arguments in the car?”

“Why did I have to mention that? For fuck sake, I’ve had a stroke! I’m not here to worry about my stupid arguments in the car with my boyfriend.”

Cathy was about to help me understand more about myself than I ever had done before. I was about to become content for the first time in years. I’d had a stroke six days after my 28^th birthday, and spent 3 months in hospital learning to wash, dress, and walk again. And despite being left with a myriad of health problems I, Andy Quinn, was going to finally be content. You see, unbeknownst to myself, I also left the hospital with trauma, grief and this “tetchy” (my boyfriend’s word) anxiety.

So how exactly did I end up sitting here, confused, staring at a psychologist on a computer screen in my bedroom?

While in rehabilitation I was fortunate enough to have a few chats with the multidisciplinary team psychologist, and in her infinite wisdom she referred me to the outpatient psychology team in my area. It’s safe to say she knew what was about to happen. I was riding on the high of meeting all my rehabilitation goals and getting back home. That’s when it all went downhill.

At home, I met grief. Nobody warned me that I was going to be sucker-punched in the gut by this unwelcome, unpredictable thing. I had grieved for other people before, but never for myself. This was different. “I’m still here, but I’m not, or am I? and if I am still here like this now, then who was I before? Who am I now? Why am I so sad?”

I think I recognised the grief, but I did not recognise the feeling of vulnerability that had crept in. My physical recovery halted. I didn’t want to leave the apartment and I wasn’t sure why. It just felt safer going as far as the couch for the day. Nothing bad could happen there. The days rolled on. From my bed to the couch, shedding tears in the evening and then back to bed. I had spent three months telling myself how lucky I was to be alive, but I didn’t feel lucky. When I met my new GP he told me that in actuality I was unlucky and I instantly liked him. Since then, I’ve told people that I’m lucky in an unlucky situation. You see Cathy taught me that you need to see a situation for exactly what it is, warts and all. I had been fooling myself and I had not cried about or accepted how shit my situation truly had become. Seeing it for what it was helped me grieve and come to accept this “new Andy”. Thankfully, because of the stroke, I don’t remember a huge amount about the “old Andy”, so there’s that.

So, we’ve knocked grief on the head and learned to accept the situation, but there are still those horrible arguments in the car and Cathy wasn’t going to skim over that situation. It’s important to stress that at this point, I had started going for regular walks again, but never alone. My boyfriend pretty much dragged me in the beginning. I think I managed a couple of hundred meters the first time we went out. Slowly though, I started to improve on this. We started to plan scenic walks and we would travel 15 or 20 minutes in the car down the road. He dreaded those car rides because inevitably I’d find something, anything, to argue with him about. We’d do the walk, he would be annoyed, we’d get home and then I’d cry out of confusion. “What is going on with me? Why am I doing this?” It just felt so stupid, and our relationship was suffering.

“You’re managing to suck the fun out of everything we do,” he’d say, and he was right.

“Do you think maybe the feeling of vulnerability is playing a bigger part in your everyday life? When was the last time you went for a walk by yourself?” Cathy had put that question to me and all I could say was I hadn’t. Ever.

“Why?”
“I get anxious”
“Because?”
“I don’t feel safe.”
“Do you feel safe in the car?”
“No.”
“Do you think that’s why you end up arguing?”
“Maybe…”

I began to see it for what it was. The “tetchy” anxiety, the horrible arguments, the confusion, the tears, and the inability to go for a walk by myself were because I felt so vulnerable and fragile. I was so afraid of going through the trauma of ending up back in hospital again that I had inadvertently stopped doing the exact thing I had spent three months in hospital trying to do again. I had stopped living.

I remember when I was rushed to the emergency room one of the emergency doctors kept saying, “You’re alright, you’re going to be OK!” She said this repeatedly. I’m so grateful for that doctor. I don’t know her name and I couldn’t even tell you what she looks like. I’ve always said that she saved my life. However, so did Cathy. They’re equally as important doctors in my eyes. One saved my life physically and the other mentally. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is probably one of the greatest things I’ve ever done. Going for a walk, eating right, and keeping my mental health in check is as equally important to my survival as taking the prescription meds that keep my heart ticking and attending the check-ups and hospital appointments.

A few weeks later, at the end of one of our sessions, Cathy asked me what I had planned for the rest of the morning. It was sunny, the sky was blue, and I felt good. I felt content.

“I think I’ll go for a walk.”