the euphoria or excitement people now associate with the eighties.
The mid-eighties also saw the launch of
The Story of English
, the television series I’d worked on during the previous four years. When I look at the programmes now I cannot imagine how I was able to find the time both to research and write the scripts, and also to be an effective editor at Queen Square. I seemed to have so much energy then; we all did. In the quest for explanations, some people suggested, perhaps predictably, that I’d had the stroke from overwork, but there’s no medical evidence to support this. There are things you do when you’re young that defy analysis. The programmes were a huge success in America, largely thanks to the popularity of our presenter, Robert MacNeil; the accompanying book spent several weeks on the
New York Times
bestseller lists; for a few months in 1986 myfeet hardly touched the ground. I was thirty-three then, and thought I was immortal.
S ARAH’S DIARY : 11 A UGUST
It’s amazing how quickly you can move from the world of the well into the world of the sick. I, who was so worried about the indignities of pregnancy, and who have always been so faint-hearted about and repelled by the idea of hospital and sick people, am now conversant with a whole new culture. I think of all the things that could have happened, that could have been worse: R. could have had a head injury or broken his spine or had his arm mangled in a meat-rendering machine, or been blinded by a shard of flying glass, or been hit by a car and broken every bone in his body.
Small improvements each day. R’s speech is improving a lot, but he is still speaking with a stutter and slurring a little, and so I hope that he will be fine soon - it’ll make it so much easier for him to communicate. And it will improve his spirits too. The last week has been a real testament to anti-depressants already. I’m still so afraid.
As I began to recover, my responses to the outside world became sharper. Within two weeks of the initial ‘insult’ I was once again becoming conscious, as I had not been for several days, of the passage of time, and the frustrations of delay:
M Y DIARY : S ATURDAY 12 A UGUST
At the weekend, even the BUPA-sponsored Nuffield goes half-speed. At twelve o’clock the standby physiotherapist came, and we did basic manoeuvres for aboutan hour. By the end I was exhausted, and then slept like a log. I am getting more competent at basic standing, but my speech is still very slurred, I think. It’s frustrating, but I am slowly getting over the first shock of the stroke. I have to find time to get my equilibrium back. Mum and Dad came to visit, Sarah went shopping and I had the regular Nuffield lunch: soup, sandwiches and fruit, none of it very appealing to eat. Taste, and the pleasure in food, has gone.
Then they took me out into Queen Square in the wheelchair. I felt sorry for my parents, having to wheel me around at their advanced age [
actually, neither was then yet 70
] and at a time when I should be looking after them, not vice versa. I think they have been stunned by the experience of my being in hospital with a stroke, though of course they will not admit it.
Back in the ward I read some more Marcus Aurelius and then slept heavily. Later on, Julio Etchart came by, and we chatted about our foreign trips together, especially East Timor, which seems very far away, very remote and, now, quite impossible.
Tonight - it is now seven o’clock - I slept three or four hours, and still feel very sleepy. I find I think about sex a lot, having sex with the nurses - silly stuff, but hard to put out of my mind, not having had sex for so long. [
One of the first things I did when I came round at University College Hospital was to check, with my good right hand, that I could still have an erection. I could.
] I am also keen to get back to my laptop word processor as soon as possible if I can. I have become obsessed by the names on the hospital
The mid-eighties also saw the launch of
The Story of English
, the television series I’d worked on during the previous four years. When I look at the programmes now I cannot imagine how I was able to find the time both to research and write the scripts, and also to be an effective editor at Queen Square. I seemed to have so much energy then; we all did. In the quest for explanations, some people suggested, perhaps predictably, that I’d had the stroke from overwork, but there’s no medical evidence to support this. There are things you do when you’re young that defy analysis. The programmes were a huge success in America, largely thanks to the popularity of our presenter, Robert MacNeil; the accompanying book spent several weeks on the
New York Times
bestseller lists; for a few months in 1986 myfeet hardly touched the ground. I was thirty-three then, and thought I was immortal.
S ARAH’S DIARY : 11 A UGUST
It’s amazing how quickly you can move from the world of the well into the world of the sick. I, who was so worried about the indignities of pregnancy, and who have always been so faint-hearted about and repelled by the idea of hospital and sick people, am now conversant with a whole new culture. I think of all the things that could have happened, that could have been worse: R. could have had a head injury or broken his spine or had his arm mangled in a meat-rendering machine, or been blinded by a shard of flying glass, or been hit by a car and broken every bone in his body.
Small improvements each day. R’s speech is improving a lot, but he is still speaking with a stutter and slurring a little, and so I hope that he will be fine soon - it’ll make it so much easier for him to communicate. And it will improve his spirits too. The last week has been a real testament to anti-depressants already. I’m still so afraid.
As I began to recover, my responses to the outside world became sharper. Within two weeks of the initial ‘insult’ I was once again becoming conscious, as I had not been for several days, of the passage of time, and the frustrations of delay:
M Y DIARY : S ATURDAY 12 A UGUST
At the weekend, even the BUPA-sponsored Nuffield goes half-speed. At twelve o’clock the standby physiotherapist came, and we did basic manoeuvres for aboutan hour. By the end I was exhausted, and then slept like a log. I am getting more competent at basic standing, but my speech is still very slurred, I think. It’s frustrating, but I am slowly getting over the first shock of the stroke. I have to find time to get my equilibrium back. Mum and Dad came to visit, Sarah went shopping and I had the regular Nuffield lunch: soup, sandwiches and fruit, none of it very appealing to eat. Taste, and the pleasure in food, has gone.
Then they took me out into Queen Square in the wheelchair. I felt sorry for my parents, having to wheel me around at their advanced age [
actually, neither was then yet 70
] and at a time when I should be looking after them, not vice versa. I think they have been stunned by the experience of my being in hospital with a stroke, though of course they will not admit it.
Back in the ward I read some more Marcus Aurelius and then slept heavily. Later on, Julio Etchart came by, and we chatted about our foreign trips together, especially East Timor, which seems very far away, very remote and, now, quite impossible.
Tonight - it is now seven o’clock - I slept three or four hours, and still feel very sleepy. I find I think about sex a lot, having sex with the nurses - silly stuff, but hard to put out of my mind, not having had sex for so long. [
One of the first things I did when I came round at University College Hospital was to check, with my good right hand, that I could still have an erection. I could.
] I am also keen to get back to my laptop word processor as soon as possible if I can. I have become obsessed by the names on the hospital
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