Room 23

by Kavita Basi

  Advance Praise for Room 23

  “ While neurological conditions are often considered rare, there are over 350 different conditions of the brain and spine that together affect more than twelve million people in the UK. In many cases these conditions have long-term impact, without the prospect of a cure. Kavita is an inspiration. We are delighted that she is a Community Ambassador for the Brain & Spine Foundation. Thank you, Kavita, for raising awareness of neurological conditions and sharing your amazing story.”

  —ALICE DOYLE, Chief Executive, Brain & Spine Foundation

  “Kavita has been an important part of the Li & Fung family for many years, and an absolute joy to work with. After her unfortunate illness, she has been a true inspiration to our community worldwide and continues to motivate many of us to face adversity in a positive manner.”

  —SPENCER FUNG, Group CEO, Li & Fung

  “ I have known Kavita Basi both as a family friend before and after her subarachnoid haemorrhage and as a patient under the care of my neurovascular colleagues at Salford Royal. I know firsthand what she went through during her illness, and how gravely ill she was. That she recovered so well was impressive enough, but it is truly remarkable what she has gone on to achieve. It is both a testament to her as a person and an inspiration to all those—past, present, and future—who find themselves on the path she has traveled.

  —ANDREW KING, Professor of Neurosurgery, University of Manchester, Salford Royal Hospital

  Room 23

  Copyright © 2018 by Kavita Basi

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published November 6, 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-489-9

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-490-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018949688

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

  I dedicate this book to my dearest friend, companion, and true love, Deepak Basi, for all the support he has given and shown to me during this challenging journey we have been on together.

  “Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change.”

  —Jim Rohn

  Author’s Note

  I only just remember two of the seven weeks I was hospitalized after suffering a subarachnoid brain hemorrhage. I have largely relied on family, friends, video, and personal diaries to piece together the early stages of my recovery. Some events in the timeline of the overall story may appear out of chronological sequence for the sake of storytelling. Some speeches and dialogue have been edited for brevity. Any company figures given are not exact, but estimates to show scale and/or volume.

  Introduction

  A week before I suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage I told my sister, Rajni, and husband, Deepak, about a reoccurring dream I was having.

  “My head is shaved and I’m in my pajamas in a wheelchair being pushed around by family members,” I said.

  “It’s just a dream,” they said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  But this wasn’t the first time I’d had premonitory dreams.

  I wasn’t feeling well the day of the hemorrhage. My back was hurting and I had a headache that wouldn’t go away even after taking aspirin. We had our usual team meetings at work about how to increase revenue for our growing fashion business. And I was due to be in Dublin the next day for customer meetings. I decided to leave early since my headache wasn’t going away and I needed some rest.

  My daughter Jasmine’s birthday was the following day as well. Instead of resting when I got home I wrapped Jasmine’s presents with my son, Jay, and we hid the birthday cake. It was so hard to believe my baby was going to be fifteen.

  Later in the evening, I huddled together with my kids and husband on the bed to watch my favorite TV program, Mr. Selfridge. I still had a niggling headache.

  It’s been three years since I suffered the brain hemorrhage early on that morning of Jasmine’s birthday. I was in the hospital for a total of seven weeks, only two of which I remember. During that time, I underwent four operations.

  Though recovery from a brain hemorrhage is a lengthy process—one whose end I, just three years out from the incident, have not yet seen—I felt it was important to share my story in the event it could help others. However, writing this story wouldn’t have been possible without the shared memories of my friends and family, who helped piece together the events of a timeline I don’t entirely remember.

  Even though it feels like so much time has passed since my brain hemorrhage, I still sometimes think about what may have caused my brain to bleed. People who suffer a subarachnoid hemorrhage usually have or are one of the following:

  • Heavy smoker

  • Alcoholic

  • Overweight

  • High blood pressure

  I was none of these.

  Before the incident, I was a mother and wife working as a high-powered executive in the fashion industry who traveled internationally most weeks of the year. I was a pescatarian and exercised regularly. I didn’t feel under any more pressure than usual to maintain our very busy, modern lifestyle, though I had been getting headaches more regularly. The only other explanation was that this could have been hereditary; my grandfather had a history of stroke.

  I don’t think this is a question that will ultimately be answered.

  I’m a different person now as a result of this experience. I feel closer to the person I was when I was younger, before the world got its hands on me and molded and shaped me into what it wanted me to be. I feel a sense of freedom now that I didn’t have before. I’m direct and say what I mean. And I’m taking advantage of life’s opportunities in a new way.

  This change hasn’t been easy for all of my family and friends. As I’ve slowly recovered, they’ve had to adjust to this new person I’ve become. I feel like the change is positive, but others don’t always perceive it that way.

  I’ve always had a sense that I want to contribute something to this world. My hope is that through this book, I will. Approximately ten thousand people suffer a subarachnoid hemorrhage per year in the US alone, and more than fifty percent die within the first thirty days. My intention for this book is for it to not only help those who have suffered and survived this deadly brain bleed and other neurological problems, but also to be a comfort to family and friends of those in recovery, so they know they are not alone and have a sense of what to expect.

  Finally, I decided to add QR Codes (Quick Response Codes) to my book to bring together my love of future forecasting and interactive design and my desire to reach and hold the interest of future generations and people recovering from brain trauma. Visual media has played a large role in my recovery. I haven’t been able to read in the same way since the onset of my illness. My doctor says this is normal and typical of people who have suffered brain injuries. My hope is that by offering this interactive approach to the book, I will offer readers a more layered experience of my story. To download a QR Code Scanner, just visit the app store on your smartphone.

  Chapter 1

  I woke up at 11:00 p.m.
to the feeling of a metal hammer plunging through the back of my head and into my skull. I sat up, screaming, and shook Deepak.

  “My head! My head! There’s something wrong with my head!” I shook my husband again. “Deepak, wake up! My head!”

  The pain was so bad I felt numb. Screenshots of the period drama series we’d watched before bed, Mr. Selfridge, flashed like a camera reel through the left side of my head.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  I got up and ran around the room screaming. “Help me! Help me, please!” I held my head and frantically looked around to see if something outside of me was causing my pain.

  Why is this happening?

  Deepak got up to try to calm me down. But my body shut down from pain. I had a seizure, collapsed on the floor, and fell unconscious.

  Deepak lifted my head and tried to wake me. His parents, who normally lived with us, were in India for six months. He had no other adult in the house to turn to. When he got no response from me, he ran into my daughter Jasmine’s room.

  “Something’s wrong with your mother!” he said, shaking her awake. “Wake up! I don’t know what to do!”

  Blurry from sleep, Jasmine ran after her father down the hall, her thoughts racing. She tried to wake me by calling to me softly and nudging me gently. I wasn’t moving. I looked like I was sleeping.

  “Why won’t she wake up?” she asked.

  “She was screaming and complaining about pain in her head. I tried to console her, but when she tried to get up, she collapsed.” Deepak grew frantic. “Get her to wake up! Get her to wake up!”

  “Calm down, Daddy. It’s going to be fine.” Jasmine gently pushed my hair away from my face. “Mummy? Can you hear me, Mum? Come on, wake up.” She watched for any movement, sound, anything that would indicate I was alive or could hear her.

  Deepak was frustrated by my lack of response. He was scared, but felt helpless to do anything.

  When Jasmine got no response from me, she panicked and shook me. “Get up! Get up! Why are you not getting up?” Tears streamed down her face.

  She and Deepak managed to move me from the floor to the bed. Deepak couldn’t make sense of what was happening. He was frozen in shock.

  When my body began shaking and I started to foam at the mouth, Jasmine picked up the phone and called Emergency Services. She began to tell them to come, and broke down. When he saw that she couldn’t finish her sentences, Deepak took over.

  While Jasmine and Deepak waited for the paramedics, Deepak continued to try and wake me. In between attempts, he called my sister Rajni. “Please come be with the children. Something has happened to Kavita. I’m waiting for the paramedics to take her to the hospital.”

  “What’s happened, Deepak?”

  “I don’t know. Please come as soon as you can.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I wasn’t breathing when the paramedics arrived; they had to resuscitate me. They had an idea of what the problem might be from Deepak’s description of what happened.

  “She’s been having headaches and a lot of pain in her back—more than usual.”

  Even though I was breathing now, there was no life inside of me.

  “You can ride along in the ambulance,” the paramedics said to Deepak.

  “I can’t,” he said at first. “The kids. I’m in my shorts. I’m not ready.” But after a few deep breaths, he got a hold of himself. He looked at Jasmine. “Go stay with Jay until your Auntie comes,” he told her. “She’s just ten minutes away.”

  When I arrived at A&E alone—Deepak just a few minutes behind the ambulance—the doctors performed X-rays, CT scans, and blood tests. When they’d finished all the tests, they brought Deepak in to see me. He held my hand, but I was incoherent and mumbling, unable to respond to him.

  “We’ve done a brain scan and we need to transfer her to Salford Royal Hospital in Manchester,” they told him. “They specialize in neurology. She’s had an aneurysm, which has led to a severe brain hemorrhage. She needs an operation right away. You can ride in the ambulance.”

  Deepak called my family and told them to meet him at Salford Royal Hospital. Rajni was close by, but it would take my mum, brother Sunny, and sister Sheetal hours to arrive.

  In the back of the ambulance, Deepak cried as he held my hand and I cried his name out in pain unconsciously.

  “She’s going to be in the best hands,” the paramedic sitting next to him sympathized, trying to calm him down.

  Rajni and her husband, Manish, met Deepak at the hospital after checking on the kids. They did their best to calm him down, but the atmosphere was tense when the rest of my family arrived. Deepak tried to put on a brave face, but within seconds of their arrival he broke down and sobbed.

  Rajni didn’t know what to say to Deepak. They had no idea what was coming. They had no idea if they’d both be forced to live without me.

  “She’s going to be okay. She’ll fight this. We have to stay positive,” Rajni said. But deep down she had no idea if what she was saying was true.

  My family waited all morning to hear from the neurosurgeon, Dr. Holsgrove. Finally, he came out to the waiting room with some news.

  “She’s had a subarachnoid hemorrhage—bleeding on the surface of the brain, caused by an aneurysm. A swollen blood vessel has burst. She’s going to need an operation, but we don’t want to operate this early in the morning because of the intricacies of the procedure; it’s less safe. We’ve stabilized her and want to keep her as comfortable as possible for four to six hours.”

  Four to six hours.

  Deepak was allowed in to see me before my surgery. The doctors asked him to wear scrubs and sterilize his hands before he entered the ICU.

  “Be sure to keep any outerwear away from the bed in the future, and it’s imperative that everyone who visits her sterilize their hands before entering,” they told him. “When you’re finished you can bring your close family members in one by one.”

  “I understand,” Deepak said.

  When he entered the room he thought I looked like the commander of my own spaceship, surrounded by so many machines making all sorts of sounds. He held my hand and talked to me, lingering, afraid to leave my bedside. I was semi-conscious and mumbling about the pain in my head. He looked at all the machines surrounding my body, working hard to keep me alive, and prayed.

  “Please, God, give me more time with her. I can’t imagine my life without her. How will I survive? The kids need their mum.”

  After a long visit with me, Deepak brought in my mother, sisters, and brother, one by one. For them it was also as if they’d stepped into the future. Machines protruded from the ceilings in the ICU and there were monitoring systems all around. One or two hospital staff attended every patient. I was still semi-conscious and didn’t acknowledge anyone. I just kept banging my head.

  “My head is hurting,” I said over and over.

  Chapter 2

  Four to six hours was a long wait for my family. Anything could happen during that amount of time. No one knew if I would survive long enough to see the operation. Another bleed could happen at any time.

  Deepak had to sign papers agreeing to the operation of “coiling” the aneurysm to avoid further bleeding. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  “There’s a chance that we’ll find more than the one aneurysm during the operation,” the surgeon said. “You also need to be prepared that you may not be taking your wife home. This is a severe hemorrhage.”

  The list of complications or side effects was long: death, stroke, loss of function, memory loss, loss of an eye, loss of hearing, paralysis, a long recovery period—basically, there were no guarantees. Would I get my full health back? Would the operation lead to further side effects that would hinder my recovery or cause my death? No one knew. The surgeon couldn’t say.

  “The odds are in her favor,” Rajni said. “She’s young, living a healthy lifestyle, has no history of stroke or head injury.” She tried her best to reassure e
veryone—and herself.

  But the odds weren’t in my favor; only fifty percent of people who suffer what I had survive.

  Rajni had had a similar experience with her mother-in-law; she, too, had suffered a brain aneurysm, and she had passed away as a result. She was not young, however, and therefore had a lower chance of success. She likely would not have survived the operation if it had been offered to her.

  Rajni urged Deepak to say yes to the operation. My life was hanging in the balance and the operation was my best chance at survival.

  Deepak signed the papers.

  “I called your parents in India and told them to come home,” my mom said to Deepak.

  “I wasn’t going to tell them,” he said, trying to remain stoic.

  “They’re already on their way.”

  Even though Deepak didn’t want to disrupt their trip, he was relieved to know they were coming home. He couldn’t predict the future, but he knew he’d need the help of keeping things as normal as possible for the kids. The kids would need routine. Jay was too young to understand what was happening.

  Waiting for the surgery was excruciating for my family, but according to the surgeon, the anxiety of anticipation was just the beginning.

  “If she recovers,” he said, “the recovery process will be slow: hour by hour, day by day. Only fifty percent of patients survive this kind of brain hemorrhage. And of those who survive, a third have ongoing problems. I’m not trying to scare you, just prepare you.”

  Rajni wanted to crumble, but she kept her composure in front of Deepak and the rest of the family. Deep down she was in pieces. She didn’t want to lose her best friend, her sister. Faced with this potential loss, she thought about the pain of losing our father.