Many heartbreaking stories about ambulance waiting times and people dying before help can arrive are often in the media these days. There are many reasons for the delays. Here are just a few.
- There are simply not enough ambulances to meet demand.
- Technical failures by Optus and Telstra preventing connection to Triple 000 calls (Australian Emergency Number).
- Time wasters calling an ambulance for a runny nose, a headache, or they’ve sneezed five times in a row.
If you find that hard to believe, check out You Called an Ambulance for What? by Tim Booth, based on his own experiences as a paramedic.
But there was one day when, if the ambulance hadn’t arrived as quickly as it did, I wouldn’t be here to tell this story. Just as importantly, if it hadn’t been for the people around me recognising that something was seriously wrong, the outcome could have been very different.
This is that story.
25 October 2013
As a teacher, I had big plans for the school holidays.
I was going to spend time with a cousin in Queensland, start my new Marian Keyes novel, begin—and finish—my TAFE course, make a YouTube video about… well, something, and perhaps even tackle a proper spring clean.
I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I had a brain haemorrhage.
I now affectionately refer to it as ‘the BH.’
A Normal Morning… Until It Wasn’t
On the morning of the BH, I felt fantastic.
I walked the 15 minutes to my local 25-metre pool for a swim. After colliding with a large sign that almost blocked the sliding pool door, – ‘No Cap – No Swim’ – I got the message loud and clear. I changed into my bathers, pulled on my swimming cap, and jumped in.
As I’m not destined for the Olympics anytime soon, I took the obligatory rest after my first lap. Then I completed another lap, followed by another rest.
Halfway through my fourth lap, everything changed.
An overwhelming wave of exhaustion hit me. I couldn’t do another stroke.
I rolled onto my back and floated to the shallow end.
Had my head exploded?
When I stood up, I was horrified.
I genuinely thought my head had exploded.
Tentatively, I reached up to feel it. My head was still intact. My swimming cap was still on.
I looked up at the clock.
Only 10:20 am.
I glanced towards the deep end of the pool.
I have to do a few more laps. I’ve only just got here.
But I couldn’t.
I floated under the lane ropes and somehow managed to haul myself out of the pool. Holding my head, I staggered into the change rooms.
A woman followed me in and asked if I was alright.
Clearly, I wasn’t.
More people came in. They wrapped towels around me as I stood there dripping wet, my head hanging to one side. They tried to get me to sit down but I couldn’t. I felt like I was lodged in a block of concrete. A statue. I couldn’t lie down or even speak.
This had to be the mother of all headaches.
The Ambulance
The ambulance arrived quickly. The paramedics put me on a gurney and wheeled me out to the waiting ambulance. They took my blood pressure.
Then they took it again.
And again.
It was critically high.
Straight away, they recognised just how serious the situation was. I was grateful for that. I wasn’t ready to die just then.
Straight to Emergency
Funny the things you remember during a critical incident. For me, it was the siren screaming all the way to the Royal Hobart Hospital. That gave me no comfort. In fact, quite the opposite. Was I going to die?
The Emergency Department staff were amazing. They gently helped out of my bathers and into a hospital gown. Doctors gathered nearby while nurses repeatedly checked my blood pressure and monitored me closely.
I was starkers under the gown, but a lack of clothing wasn’t my biggest concern.
My brain was.
Please… just stop the pain.
It was obvious something was seriously wrong.
This wasn’t the overcrowded emergency department I’d read about in the newspapers, where people supposedly waited for hours or days on trolleys in hallways.
I had everyone’s attention.
Family History Matters
One doctor, whom I’ll call Dr Frank, seemed to be leading the questioning.
He asked about my family’s medical history.
Thinking was becoming increasingly difficult.
‘Well… we’ve had a few family members die from cancer over the last couple of years, and there’s plenty of high blood pressure.’
Then he asked the question that mattered.
‘Any history of brain injuries or brain problems?’
I told him my father had suffered a subarachnoid haemorrhage when he was 38 years old.
Dr Frank looked impressed that I could instantly recall the exact diagnosis from something that had happened more than 40 years earlier.
He quietly said,
‘We think that’s exactly what you’ve had.’
Family History Matters
I asked the obvious question.
‘Will I recover? Will I be completely normal again?’ ‘At least as normal as I ever was.’
Dr Frank said the fact that I’d remembered exactly what Dad had, right down to the medical name, gave him confidence my chances of a full recovery were good.
Yet it seemed ironic.
Parts of what had happened only a few hours earlier were already becoming hazy, yet I could remember something from more than four decades ago with perfect clarity.
But for now, the priority was to restrict even the smallest movement. Every shift in bed, every conversation, every tiny effort sent my blood pressure soaring again, despite the intravenous medication working to bring it down.
The Diagnosis
A CT scan confirmed exactly what Dr Frank had suspected, a subarachnoid haemorrhage.
The BH.
So much for Queensland and Marian Keyes. Instead, my holiday destination became the neurosurgery ward in the High Dependency Unit.
I spent the next few days connected to an impressive collection of medical equipment and, for the ultimate holiday luxury… a catheter. I remained horizontal, unable to move, while heaps more tests were carried out.
There was an angiogram, which made my head feel like it had been dipped in a bowl of hot water. Thankfully that feeling was only temporary. This test gave the radiologists the opportunity to get plenty of fascinating ‘holiday snaps’ of my brain.
Then there was the MRI, which was almost like lying in a flotation tank—minus the water. As a bonus, they let me listen to some of my favourite music uninterrupted for nearly an hour. Unfortunately, the machine’s relentless loud clattering and banging made it almost impossible to hear, even with the volume cranked right up.
The Questions Everyone Asked
Some people were amazed I’d survived. Some wanted to know how and why it happened. I had no answers for that, except it was just a random thing.
Others asked something far more important.
‘Were you wearing your swimming cap?’
Well, yes, I was, and that managed to survive as well.
Not Quite the Holiday I’d Planned
Instead, I came home with an experience that reminded me just how quickly life can change, how important fast-thinking strangers and skilled paramedics are, and how fortunate I was that help arrived when it did.
Not the best holiday I’ve ever had.
But one I’ll never forget.
Some words of gratitude
If anyone happens to read this, and they recognise themselves as one of the people who helped me on that day almost 13 years ago, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It happened at Friends Pool in Newtown, Hobart, Tasmania. My care took place at the Royal Hobart Hospital.
Featured Image: Published on September 28, 2022 by Unsplash by an Unknown photographer. Thank you for the image.
