Life’s Brush Stroke
I'm writing to you at 35, from a place of deep introspection and authenticity. This blog has been my companion in a journey of self-discovery, a medium to share my experiences, learnings, and the evolving thoughts that shape my life. It's a testament to the belief that we are our most valuable asset and that investing in ourselves is the key to unlocking a better version of ourselves every day.
AN UNFORESEEN CHALLENGE
Today's post is different. It's taken a lot of courage and contemplation to bring these words to you. On December 11, 2023, my life was interrupted by an unexpected event – a brain stroke. This experience, harrowing yet enlightening, has profoundly influenced my mission and altered my perspective on many aspects of life.
I've grappled with the decision of whether to write about this episode, not because I seek sympathy or pity – far from it. The journey of recovery, the spectrum of emotions, and the profound insights gained – it's been a path of intense personal reflection. Here I am, choosing to stay true to my core value: authenticity. I believe there's no right or wrong way to deal with life's curveballs; we all navigate our challenges uniquely. For me, sharing this experience, raw and unfiltered, is about being open and embracing the power of vulnerability to inspire and spark thought.
So, I invite you to join me as I recount this part of my journey. It's a narrative of rediscovering strength, redefining resilience, and reaffirming the commitment to personal growth. These lessons, I believe, are worth sharing, for they might just light a spark in someone else's journey.
LEARNING COMES IN DIFFERENT WAYS
It was a typical day at work, filled with the familiar buzz of a strategy workshop. I was in a spacious meeting room, a place I've always associated with collaboration and creativity. Having just returned from a long flight from Tokyo, I was surprisingly energized, eager to share my experiences and ideas with my colleagues. I love these moments - the camaraderie, the sharing of passions and work. It's what makes my job more than just a job.
As colleagues trickled in, I was busy typing away on my laptop, my left hand rhythmically clicking the mouse. Greetings and hugs were exchanged, the last being with a dear colleague. Another colleague sat to my left, and a third one across from me. The room was filling up, a mix of faces both in-person and on-screen. It was in this typical, yet dynamic setting, that something unexpected happened.
I was executing a simple gesture – moving my right arm across my body – when suddenly, it just stopped. Mid-air, frozen. My left hand, however, continued its dance on the mouse. A perplexing moment, to say the least. I remember staring at my suspended arm, almost in a curious detachment, thinking, "This is odd, is my mind playing tricks on me?"
But then the pain came. It started at my fingertips, a creeping sensation that snaked its way up my arm to my chest. That's when alarm bells rang. My first thought? Heart attack. Then logic intervened – the pain was on my right side, not the left as one might expect with a heart condition. "I can't move my right side," I thought, an intention to speak that, for reasons unknown then, remained unvoiced.
Attempting to stand, I realized the paralysis had claimed my right leg too. A slow, almost surreal fall to the ground ensued. My right side felt switched off, my head a void of cold, tingling numbness. Through it all, my mind was sharply aware – of the growing concern in the room, of the anxious voices of my colleagues.
The concern of those around me was evident. I desperately wanted to respond, to explain, but words wouldn't form. It was only after what felt like an eternity that I could finally articulate that my right side was unresponsive.
As I lay there, my colleagues swiftly and gently arranging my legs on a chair, a profound sense of surrender washed over me. For once, I let go – an act not typical of me. And in that letting go, I found an unexpected peace. My consciousness was crystal clear, each detail etched in my memory, from the slipping office chair under my legs to my own efforts to stabilize it with my left leg.
The pain began to recede, and though my right hand and foot were far from cooperative, I could clumsily play 'air piano' with them. With my left hand, I kept touching my right, a reassurance that it was still there, still a part of me. Laying on the floor, a sensation unfamiliar yet deeply comforting came over me – the warmth of a hand taking mine, the soft whisper of reassurance that everything would be alright. There I was, my body having surrendered to a situation beyond my control, my mind still sharply attuned to the unfolding events.
In this moment of vulnerability, heavy tears began to well up in my eyes. These were not tears borne out of fear or pain, but rather from a deep sense of disappointment and frustration. Reflections swirled through my mind, thoughts about time and opportunity, about the moments I had postponed for 'the right time.' I had often heard the phrase “Carpe Diem” and dismissed it as nothing more than a cliché. Yet, in this defining moment, life was teaching me its true meaning in the most dramatic way possible. It dawned on me that the present moment – the 'now' – was all that truly mattered. The right moment is always now. This epiphany, about seizing the present and living fully in each moment, crystallized as the tears streamed down my cheeks.
Amidst these reflections, I had to refocus my attention to respond to the doctor's questions. The Siemens' company doctor, present before the paramedics arrived, began a standard check with queries like "What is your full name?", "What day is it today?", and "When were you born?". Under normal circumstances, these would have been simple to answer. But in that moment, even though I knew the answers, articulating them was a struggle. My eloquence was compromised, and I found myself needing to concentrate intensely to avoid mixing up words, confusing left with right, or mixing them altogether into “Reft” or “Light”. Each response required a deliberate effort, a slow and careful articulation to ensure clarity and correctness.
This was not just a physical struggle but a profound mental challenge, a test of my cognitive abilities under the most unexpected and taxing of circumstances. It was a stark reminder of how quickly life can change, how the taken-for-granted ease of daily tasks can suddenly become herculean efforts.
As I continued to answer the doctor's questions, the distant sound of sirens grew closer, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. The blue lights I imagined outside seemed both surreal and ominous. Soon, three young paramedics entered, their uniforms a symbol of urgent care and professionalism. They gathered information swiftly from my colleagues and the Siemens’ doctor. Then, with a gentle yet firm approach, they requested everyone to exit the room, leaving me in the sole company of the medical professionals. Just before exiting, one colleague, who had been like a guardian angel through this ordeal, gently reminded me to breathe and asked for my consent to contact Fabienne, my girlfriend.
The paramedics then began their own assessment, initially attempting to communicate in German. Realizing the complexity of my situation, the doctor suggested switching to English, a relief in my muddled state. The paramedics were kind and attentive, carefully listening as I recounted my experience. Their conversation with the doctor in their native German, peppered with the word "stroke" , was hard to follow, but the implication was clear. A stroke? At 35? This question whirled through my mind, a mix of disbelief and concern.
The arrival of the stretcher marked the next phase of this unexpected journey. Alex, one of the paramedics, inquired gently if I felt capable to stand. With his assistance, I cautiously tried and managed to position myself onto the stretcher. The experience was new and unsettling, a stark contrast to the normalcy of just a few hours ago.
As I was wheeled out of the meeting room and into the hallway, a path cleared among my colleagues. Their expressions were a blend of concern and support. I raised my thumb in a gesture of gratitude and reassurance, a silent message that I was still fighting, still here. Internally, I echoed Leonardo DiCaprio's defiant words from 'The Wolf of Wall Street' – "I am not fucking leaving." It was a mental rally cry, a declaration of resilience in the face of uncertainty.
RECOVERY STARTS NOW
Riding in an ambulance on a stretcher is not what I would consider comfortable traveling. I remember only being able to see the gloomy grey sky from the small rear windows of the vehicle. The journey from the office to the hospital was a blur, each turn unfolding into the next. Upon arrival, I was ushered through the bustling corridors, the overhead lights passing like stars in a fast-moving sky. Lying on the stretcher, I was struck by a profound sense of vulnerability, yet there was an undercurrent of strength. The paramedics led the stretcher into a room, where a scanner and hospital personnel were waiting to welcome me. That would be the first of many tests during my week at the clinic. I will spare of the long list and the details of examinations I underwent.
During my time in the hospital, my thoughts often drifted. I contemplated the fragility of life and the sudden, unexpected twists it can take. There was a surreal quality to it all, being in the hospital, so far removed from everyday life. Memories of simple pleasures, such as a casual stroll, a soft kiss, or a hearty laugh , took on new significance. I realized how much of life is taken for granted until it's abruptly disrupted.
Amidst these reflections, my resolve began to take shape. I was determined to face whatever lay ahead with courage and optimism. The medical staff, the concern from my colleagues, and the impending arrival of Fabienne provided me with a tapestry of strength to draw upon. Their presence, both physical and emotional, served as a reminder of the interconnectedness of our lives and the profound impact we have on each other.
As the week in the hospital unfolded, a significant aspect of my recovery became increasingly apparent. One lingering effect was especially pronounced: the diminished sensitivity on the right side of my body, most notably on my face. This reduced sensation was a constant, subtle reminder of the stroke's profound impact on me. Each day, as I experienced slight improvements in sensitivity, it felt like regaining pieces of myself that I had lost. However, the recovery of these sensations was incremental and incomplete, a nuanced dance between progress and the lasting reminders of my vulnerability.
This experience of partial recovery added a complex layer to my overall journey. It wasn't solely about the more noticeable milestones like regaining physical strength or returning to everyday activities; it was also about these subtle shifts in my bodily sensations. These small victories, coupled with the ongoing reminders of my fragility, painted a deeply personal picture of recovery. It was a narrative marked by nuance and introspection.
The gradual return of feeling, albeit not to its full extent, became a symbol of my broader journey. It represented not just the physical healing but also the emotional and spiritual recovery that was occurring simultaneously. Lying in the hospital room, with its sterile environment and the constant beeping of machines, I realized that recovery wasn't merely about returning to a previous state of normalcy. Instead, it was an opportunity of moving towards a new understanding of self and the world around me. It was here that I started to truly understand the value of the present moment, the importance of resilience, and the power of a positive mindset. This unexpected detour in my life was becoming a profound teacher, offering lessons I might never have learned otherwise.
As my week in the hospital neared its end, the medical team shared a critical insight into the cause of my stroke. At 35, suffering a brain stroke is very rare, which warranted the thoroughness of the numerous examinations I underwent – from electrocardiograms (EKG) and transesophageal echocardiograms (TEE) to daily blood samples and MRI scans. After all these tests, the doctors concluded that the likely cause was a thrombus, or a blood clot, which they believed had formed in my leg during the long transcontinental flight from Tokyo to Frankfurt, just two days before the stroke.
Now, I'm no medical expert, and I certainly don't claim to be a doctor, but I'll try to explain it in the best way I can, based on my understanding. The doctors explained that this blood clot traveled to my heart and passed from of upper chambers of the heart (atrium) to the other through a small hole known as a Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO). Interestingly, this tiny flap-like opening is something that should have closed after birth, but as I learned, it occurs in about 25% of people. For those interested in learning more about PFOs, I've found the Mayo Clinic to be a reliable source of information. Continuing with the journey of this clot – after it made its way through the PFO, it was then pumped into my brain, obstructing the blood flow and ultimately causing the stroke.
A NEW OUTLOOK OF LIFE
My recovery is following its due curse. As I stand today, one would hardly, if at all, be able to tell I suffered a stroke, unless I told you. Looking back at the journey I've traversed since the stroke, I am struck by the profound lessons it has taught me. These insights have not only reshaped my outlook on life but have also crystallized my mission and purpose.
Self-Prioritization as a Form of Care: The realization that I am my own number one priority, particularly in terms of health, has been pivotal. I have come to understand this far from selfish, but it's a fundamental truth – taking care of myself is the first step in giving my best to others. This experience has reinforced the importance of putting my well-being at the forefront, as a non-negotiable aspect of my life.
Health and Wellbeing as the Foremost Priority: My body is the greatest instrument I will ever own, and caring for it is now my top priority. This encompasses a holistic approach to health – exercise, nutrition, supplementation, and mindful practices. In the past, I might have encouraged others to focus on their well-being while finding excuses to postpone or even neglect my own. That ends now. The commitment to my physical, mental, and spiritual health is an ongoing, active pursuit.
A Clear Mission and Passion: This experience has brought my mission into sharp focus: to inspire and guide others to unleash the best versions of themselves. The key to this is genuine: deep caring. While the specific strategies may unfold over time, my energy and focus will be devoted to reaching as many people as possible, emphasizing that the 'right moment' to start is now. Because, in truth, tomorrow may never come, and it's the cumulative daily actions that shape our best selves.
The Art of Active Listening: Active listening begins with tuning in to myself – understanding the signals from my body, mind, and energy. This journey has taught me the importance of being attuned to what my own being is communicating, and responding to it with mindfulness and care.
The Balance of Doing and Being: I've learned the value of 'being' over 'doing.' While action and progress are important, it's in the moments of stillness and presence that I find my essence and purpose. Moving forward, spirituality and meditation will take on a new level of significance in my life, helping me to connect more deeply with my true self.
Seizing the Present: The concept of waiting for the 'right moment' has been completely redefined for me. The right moment is not some distant, elusive point in the future; it is now. This moment, this day, is the time to act, to live, and to be.
In closing, this journey has been more than a path to recovery; it has been a transformative expedition to the core of my being. It's taught me to cherish every moment, to listen deeply – both to myself and to others – and to act with purpose and intention. My hope is that by sharing my story, I can inspire others to embrace their health, their present, and their potential to the fullest.
To all who read this, remember: the journey to becoming your best self starts now. Embrace it with open arms and an open heart.
