It feels strange to write these words.

At the age of 34, I had a stroke.

I have gone back and forth about sharing all the details of that day, but if my story helps just one person recognise the early signs, or better understand what can happen, then it will be worth it. You may require a stiff drink to read about that day, which I highly recommend.
I would also like to add that this was a very rare event, and I was incredibly unlucky. However, stroke still affects so many Australians, so educating ourselves about it is essential.
This is my story of the 27th of October 2016, the day my family’s life was turned upside down.

When I woke on Thursday at 6am, I didn’t feel right. It wasn’t the usual tiredness from our active two-year-old climbing into our bed. Visually, something felt off, and I felt nauseous, like I was about to vomit.
The night before, I had noticed some spots in my right eye, and the sore neck on my right side, lingering from a nasty cough a few weeks earlier, had returned. I put it down to not eating enough and attempting to get back into exercise.
After forcing down a piece of toast, hoping it would fix me, I went back to bed for an hour while Mason was still asleep. When I woke, I felt okay again and got ready for work.
Jed was away working in South Australia, so I dropped Charlotte at a friend’s house where she plays before school, then drove the 20 minutes into town. I dropped Mason at childcare, only a few minutes from work. He wasn’t his usual happy self, so I told the girls I worked with that I was planning to see my GP at 9:30 am, just in case, and that they could call me if Mason didn’t settle.
I then drove to work at Hamilton Hospital, where I worked for Bendigo Radiology as a radiographer. I was rostered in CT, and my first scan of the day was ironically exactly what I would soon need myself: a CT of the neck and brain vessels.
After completing the scan, childcare rang to say Mason still wasn’t happy. The joys of motherhood. I left work at 9:15 am to pick him up and take him to the GP with me. I still felt okay and chatted to the girls at childcare about Mason.
I lifted him up, then reached down to grab his bag, and that’s when the most unexpected thing happened.
I couldn’t stand.
I slid Mason down safely and collapsed to the floor. Everything on my right side went numb, and I was unable to talk. I tried desperately to get up, but my body wouldn’t respond.
As the girls rushed over, I was completely aware of what was happening. I suspected immediately that I was having a stroke, specifically a posterior circulation stroke. They quickly realised how serious it was and called 000.
When the ambulance arrived, I tried to roll onto my left side as I felt myself about to vomit. It came on suddenly, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. A second ambulance crew was called, and I was lifted onto the stretcher. Mason’s cries faded as he became happily distracted, playing outside – something I’ll never forget.
The short trip back to the hospital had my mind racing.
Why?
I was a non-smoker, a healthy weight, with normal blood pressure. Why was this happening to me?
As they wheeled me into the CT department, I felt awful for my colleagues. I knew whatever was found wouldn’t be good, and I had only been working an hour earlier. I knew it would be a shock for everyone.

While waiting to go into the scanner, a cannula was inserted into my left arm. I knew exactly what was coming, a non-contrast CT brain followed by a CT angiogram of my neck and head vessels. I couldn’t believe that an hour earlier I had been the radiographer, and now I was the patient.

At this point, it’s worth mentioning the Florey protocol that had only recently been established at Hamilton Hospital. It meant that if a stroke patient arrived, the CT scanner was cleared immediately. As a radiographer, this could be frustrating on a complete list, but at that moment, it saved my life.
After the scan, I was taken to ICU, where the medical registrar assessed what I could and couldn’t do. It was during this time that I was told the words that filled me with absolute fear:
A basilar artery clot from a right vertebral artery dissection.
I knew the outcomes for this type of stroke were often devastating. Usually, blood thinners would be started immediately, but because of the dissection, that would carry a very high risk.

When the screen was wheeled in, I knew it was for the neurointerventionist at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Apparently, I was very animated, pointing at the screen, as if to say, just get me to that guy.
He confirmed what I already knew: I needed endovascular clot retrieval urgently. To do that, I needed to be flown to RMH as quickly as possible. Strokes are incredibly time-sensitive, and by the time I arrived, it would be just within the treatment window.

The wait for the helicopter was excruciating.

My sister and my dad, along with his partner, arrived and reassured me that the kids were taken care of. They were desperately trying to contact my husband, who was working in the middle of the South Australian desert with no phone reception, on one of the worst days.
I still remember a lovely nurse saying, “Don’t worry, you’ll be back at work before you know it.” I knew that was possible, but we still had a long way to go.
At 12:20 pm, I was wheeled past staff and colleagues, people I worked alongside every day, and into the waiting ambulance. We drove to meet the helicopter.
So many thoughts went through my mind. And oddly, I realised this would be my first helicopter ride, something I had always wanted to do but never quite got around to.

Dad came with me and even took a few photos. The ambulance and flight crews were incredible, taking such gentle care of me.
At 1 pm, we lifted off.
As the Grampians grew smaller beneath us, I silently hoped and prayed that I would make it back home to see them again.

My ride

Getting ready to take off

The helicopter ride was spent with me losing more and more sensation down my right side. Visually, things weren’t great, and all of my focus was on simply breathing and staying calm.

I don’t even remember nearly hitting a wedge-tailed eagle; apparently, we took quite a dip to avoid it. The one-hour flight felt endless, but it was still far better than the three-and-a-half-hour road trip it would have been otherwise.

As I heard through the headphones that we were coming into Melbourne, I silently let out a yell of joy. We were almost there.

We landed on the helipad at the Royal Melbourne Hospital, and I was immediately wheeled inside and down to the angiography suite. Everything moved quickly, efficiently, and with purpose, a well-rehearsed team springing into action.

I knew this was the moment everything hinged on.

Landing at The Royal Melbourne Hospital

I remember a lovely nurse saying, “You’ve still got your bra on,” and I replied, “Just cut it!” She could see I was trying to help, even in that moment, and she was so kind and reassuring.

A couple of minutes later, I felt a mask come down over my face and was told to take some deep breaths. It was at that point that I realised I was being intubated. Slowly, the gas carried me off to sleep, and I had no idea how or when I would wake up.

The next thing I knew, or what felt like the next minute, I was waking up in angiography recovery. It was around 5 pm. I couldn’t believe how much time had passed. That time must have felt endless for my family, and for my poor husband, desperately making his way home from work.

As I became more aware of what had happened, I realised I could speak. Then I moved my right side.

That moment will be forever etched in my memory. Nothing in the world could ever compare to it.

My neurointerventionist, Dr Rick Dowling, came to see me and was happy with the outcome. He even told me I would make it to my sister’s wedding in two weeks. I don’t think I truly understood what those words meant until later, but in that moment, they meant everything.

Words can’t describe how it felt to realise that I was going to live, and that I wasn’t permanently disabled. Disbelief is one word for it but there was also overwhelming joy at being given a second chance at life.

Kate xx