Jennifer Clement

My Story: I Had a Stroke and Went Out for Lunch

It was a regular Tuesday. My parents were visiting from Scotland, bags packed for their flight home to Glasgow. I, on the other hand, couldn’t get out of bed. I was exhausted, battling what I thought was just another migraine—complete with the usual suspects: sparkling vision, tingling fingers, slurred speech. Nothing new. Or so I thought.

I eventually dragged myself up, dropped my phone twice, and fumbled a teacup in the sink. My husband raised an eyebrow at my speech (though, to be fair, I’m Glaswegian - so slurred is relative). Still, I brushed it off as a migraine and went out for lunch with my parents.

Yes, lunch. After a stroke.

It wasn’t until we got home that I finally gave in to the fatigue and took a nap. Two hours later, my dad - bless him - suggested I see a doctor. Something about the lingering aura symptoms triggered a quiet alarm in my brain. Biology 101 whispered: “This could be a stroke.”

The GP took one look and sent me straight to Emergency. It was Melbourne Cup Day, so the ER staff were dressed like they were headed to the races. But they didn’t miss a beat. I was admitted on suspicion of a stroke. I was 41.

My parents had to leave for the airport without really knowing what was happening. They were allowed into the patient area to say goodbye. It was surreal - like a scene from a movie, only with more fascinators and confusion.

Blood tests showed my iron levels were practically non-existent. My speech was off, my left hand numb, and the left side of my mouth drooped. A CT scan revealed a tiny abnormality in the right frontal lobe, but I had to wait a week for an MRI to confirm the diagnosis. The hospital didn’t have one on-site.

In the meantime, I was doing peg-and-string exercises with the Occupational Therapist to regain dexterity in my left hand. It worked. My speech returned to normal. I felt like a bit of a fraud, especially compared to a 25-year-old woman in the same ward whose stroke had been far more debilitating.

When the MRI day came, I was transported by ambulance. The driver radioed in that he had a “walker,” which made me feel like an extra on The Walking Dead. The MRI confirmed it: an ischemic stroke. Not a TIA, as I’d hoped. A real stroke.

I was lucky. No lasting damage - unless you count my inability to snap my fingers with my left hand. (My right hand still performs admirably, thank you.)

Twelve years on, I’m grateful every day. I take my meds, I listen to my body, and I support the Stroke Foundation however I can. Because if my story helps even one person get help sooner, it’s worth telling.