Our stories
In 1998, my husband George Pettifar was based at the Tower of London as Area Secretary of The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, a post he had accepted after some 36 years with the regiment.
On 6th January I drove up to the Tower to join a lunch party. I recall feeling somewhat miffed that I had been too busy that morning to undress the Christmas tree. Little did I know that it would be still there, fully dressed, some 5 weeks later.
I arrived at the Tower of London to find George lying prone following what he described as “a monumental explosion in my head”. “I think I may be having a brain haemorrhage” was his dramatic but, as it turned out, accurate grasp of the situation (and this from a man unable even to read a thermometer!).
George was rushed from the Tower to the casualty department of Guy’s where a doctor verified the diagnosis and gently told me “3 out of 4 people die of this; if you have children, I suggest you contact them immediately.”
With a police escort for speed, George was transferred to the neurosurgical unit of Guy’s at The Maudsley Hospital in Camberwell where he was placed in the care of the neurosurgeon, Mr Anthony Strong. Soon after, our children, Simon and Domini, arrived with their spouses. Mr Strong informed us that George had suffered a massive subarachnoid haemorrhage and stressed the importance of family support. He explained the surgical procedure that he hoped to carry out within 5 days, provided all remained stable for 48 hours.
The following morning George recovered consciousness but soon drifted off again - his period of lucidity having lasted just 15 minutes. As his condition deteriorated we prayed, feeling helpless but trying to appear optimistic, each supporting the other. Sitting holding George’s hands, we reluctantly released them to a member of the nursing staff once every hour, who, after gently easing him awake, began to ask a series of routine questions. They always started with grasping his fingers firmly and saying, “George, squeeze my hands”.
Loath to leave the hospital, odd moments of sleep were snatched on a bench in the corridor. After 3 or 4 days, the offer of a twin-bedded room near the ward was gratefully accepted.
However, one morning after calling home for a change of clothes, I hurried to answer the doorbell clad only in a towel. Facing me, smiling, was Hilda, a Deaconess at St Stephen’s, our local church, saying, “I hear your husband is seriously ill. I would like to pray by his bedside”. Later, after a silent vigil by George’s bed, Hilda hugged each of us in turn. “It will be alright” she said softly. One could only envy such faith – and it was justified. After four nightmarish weeks, a somewhat confused George regained consciousness. “He must eat now – he needs building up” we were told.
So, I set about producing a stream of simple meals and nourishing snacks from the ward kitchen. Desperate for his recovery we cajoled, pleaded and sometimes bullied him into swallowing our offerings: hard for someone lying horizontal. D-Day arrived too soon and anxiously, with fingers and toes crossed, we crowded around his trolley for a hug. Some six hours later, the old witty George emerged. For 30 minutes or so we answered his questions until he suddenly fell into a deep sleep. Following tests we were told he had developed hydrocephalus and, with his brain retaining fluid, further surgery would be necessary the next day. Once again we held our breath and after another three hours in theatre we again applauded the skills of Mr Strong and the theatre staff and found ourselves able to look to the future.
Two weeks later, after bidding sincerely sad farewells to the endlessly patient hospital staff who had never once made us feel we were in the way, we finally moved out of the hospital.
Two weeks out of surgery, George was home and within 48 hours we had become grandparents to a delicious little girl promptly named ” what else ” Georgia. Some years later she was heard telling a friend, “I’m called Georgie because they thought my grandpa was going to die”. Four months later George had returned to work, initially part time, but soon back to his normal day. Keeping him at home was like trying to stop the wind blowing.
The eight weeks George spent in hospital saw dramatic changes in us all and we learned considerably more about brain damage and its treatment than we may have wished. We also learned about people’s courage.
Above all, we wanted to help the hospital and asked Mr. Strong how this might be done. This led to George and I forming a charity to fund research into the causes and treatment of brain damage. As the word spread amongst our friends, the first cheques, amounting to nearly £8,000, arrived along with the invaluable help of the indefatigable Cheryl Baker, who became a founding trustee by bringing her “Mike Nolan Brain Damage Fund” into the fold. Our charity, “HeadFirst”, was on its way.
