April 3rd: Two Years After the Rupture
April 3rd does not arrive quietly. It sits there in the calendar like a marker you cannot ignore. Not a date you move past, but one you circle back to whether you want to or not.
Two years ago, on April 3rd 2024, my brain aneurysm ruptured. At the time, I was already an inpatient in a neurological rehabilitation centre, trying to get a handle on Functional Neurological Disorder. I was already in the system. Already under observation. Already someone needing help.
And still, everything changed in a moment.
That matters. Because there is a quiet assumption people make about medical events. That if you are in the right place, under the right care, things will be contained, managed, resolved. That assumption does not survive contact with reality.
What followed has not been a clean narrative of recovery. It has been two years of disruption, loss, adaptation, and, at times, a kind of forced recalibration of who I am.
This is not a story about overcoming. It is a record of what remains.
The Immediate Cost
The rupture did not just happen and pass. It rewrote the baseline.
I lost sight in my left eye. Not partially. Completely. Depth perception is different now. Balance is different. The world is visually uneven in a way that is difficult to explain unless you live it.
I cannot walk.
My hearing is significantly impaired. Conversations take effort. Background noise is no longer background. It becomes interference.
I lost over fourteen years of memory. Not fragments. Not gaps you can piece together. Whole sections of my life are simply gone. That includes marrying my wife. It includes the births of our three children. These are not distant memories that have faded. They are absent. I rely on being told who I was, what I did, what those moments meant.
That creates a particular kind of fracture. People assume memory loss is about forgetting details. It is not. It is about losing ownership of your own life story.
On top of that, there are the ongoing symptoms. Headaches that come without warning. Fatigue that is not tiredness but something heavier, something that shuts you down. Cognitive issues that make simple tasks take longer than they should. Emotional control that is inconsistent at best. Personality changes that you become aware of not because you feel different, but because other people react to you differently.
I also lost my sense of taste. It sounds minor when listed alongside everything else. It is not. It removes something basic from daily life. Food becomes function rather than experience.
None of this is abstract. This is the baseline I have been working from for two years.
The Silence After Discharge
There is another layer to this, and it is one that is harder to explain because it is not about the injury itself. It is about what came after.
Since being discharged, I have had one follow up. A phone appointment in October 2024.
That is it.
No structured ongoing care. No consistent specialist input. No meaningful engagement from the hospital despite repeated attempts from my GP to get them to act.
This is where the system reveals itself.
People talk about healthcare as if it is a continuous process. In reality, it is often episodic. You receive attention at the point of crisis. After that, you can find yourself largely on your own, particularly if your condition is complex, not easily categorised, or does not fit neatly into a single pathway.
I am dealing with the aftermath of a brain injury layered on top of an existing neurological condition. That complexity seems to be enough to stall the system.
The result is simple. You are left managing long term consequences without long term support.
That is not a complaint for the sake of it. It is a structural observation. The gap between acute care and sustained rehabilitation is where people fall.
The Support That Did Exist
Not everything has been absent. But the support that has made a difference has not come from where most people expect it to.
My GP has been consistent. Trying to push for referrals, trying to get responses, trying to keep things moving. That kind of persistence matters more than people realise.
The Royal British Legion has been a major factor. They helped fund the wheelchair I now rely on. Without that, my mobility would be even more restricted.
My welfare worker, Hannah, has done more than any system or institution. She has worked relentlessly to ensure social services put the necessary care in place. She has been involved in improving my quality of life in practical ways that actually make a difference day to day.
That is the distinction. Practical support versus theoretical provision.
Social services now fund my personal assistant, David. That support is not optional. It is what allows any level of functioning and independence at all.
And then there is my wife.
She is my main carer. That is the reality of it. Not in a symbolic sense. In the day to day, physical, emotional, logistical sense of the word. The impact of that on a relationship is significant. It changes the dynamic. It introduces dependency in places where there was previously equality.
People do not talk about that enough. The strain it puts on both sides.
Memory and Identity
Losing fourteen years of memory is not just about the past. It changes the present.
I have no recollection of marrying my wife. No memory of our children being born. I know these things happened. I understand them intellectually. But the emotional anchor that memory provides is missing.
You end up relying on other people’s accounts of your own life. Photos. Stories. Explanations. You build a version of your past from external sources.
That creates a disconnect. There is a version of me that existed, that made decisions, built relationships, had experiences, and I do not have access to it.
So the question becomes, who am I now in relation to that person?
There is no clean answer.
Identity becomes something you have to reconstruct. Not from a position of continuity, but from a position of interruption.
Relationships and Distance
One of the more difficult aspects of the last two years has been watching relationships change.
Some people have stayed. Some have stepped up in ways that matter.
Others have disappeared.
It is not always dramatic. There is rarely a clear break. It is more often a gradual distancing. Less contact. Fewer messages. Invitations that stop coming.
Disability exposes something in people. Not always intentionally. Sometimes it is discomfort. Sometimes it is not knowing what to say. Sometimes it is an unwillingness to engage with something that challenges their own sense of normality.
Whatever the reason, the outcome is the same. Your circle gets smaller.
There is a clarity in that, even if it is not a welcome one.
Independence and Resistance
I have struggled to rebuild independence. That is not a surprise.
What is harder is accepting the level of support I now need.
There is a tension there. A resistance.
I come from a background where independence is not just practical, it is part of identity. You handle your own problems. You operate without reliance on others.
That framework does not translate cleanly into this reality.
Needing care is not something that comes naturally. Relying on others for tasks you previously handled without thought forces a shift in how you see yourself.
It is not just about capability. It is about control.
Rebuilding independence now is not about returning to what was. It is about finding what is still possible within the limits that exist.
That process is slow.
Trying to Rebuild
Over the last two years, I have been trying to find things I can do. Not in a vague sense. In a very practical way.
What can I manage independently, or with minimal assistance?
That has been more difficult than expected. Engaging with hobbies has not been straightforward. Fatigue, cognitive issues, and physical limitations all interact in ways that make consistency hard.
The most successful thing so far has been the blog.
I started it in May 2025. It grew out of the diary I kept in hospital. At the time, writing was a way of tracking what was happening, making sense of it, keeping some form of record.
The blog became an extension of that.
I write from lived experience. Disability. Masculinity. Social commentary. Not in an abstract way, but grounded in what I am dealing with day to day.
It has given structure. A way to process. A way to articulate things that are otherwise difficult to explain.
More recently, in March 2026, I started photography.
It is early. But it has been one of the few things that has felt accessible.
Getting out in the wheelchair, going to the local nature reserve, taking pictures. It is simple, but it works. It is something I can engage with without it being overwhelming.
That matters.
Two Years On
The last two years have not been linear.
There have been setbacks. Frustrations. Periods where progress feels minimal or non existent.
There have also been moments of something else. Not positivity in the usual sense. But moments where things align enough to feel manageable.
What has changed most is perspective.
I have a clearer understanding now that this is not something that can be rushed. Recovery, if that is even the right word, operates on its own timeline.
There is a limit to how much force you can apply to it.
I have learned the value of acceptance. Not in a passive sense. Not giving up. But recognising what is within my control and what is not.
At the same time, patience and perseverance have become less optional and more necessary.
You do not get through this by pushing constantly. You get through it by continuing, even when the pace is slow.
What Remains
Two years on, the situation is not resolved. It is ongoing.
The medical support is still lacking. The symptoms are still present. The limitations are still real.
But there are also foundations.
Support from individuals who have actually shown up. A structure of care that, while imperfect, exists. A set of activities that provide some level of engagement.
And a clearer understanding of what this life now requires.
This is not a return to what was.
It is a reconstruction, piece by piece, with what remains available.
April 3rd will continue to mark the point where everything changed.
What matters now is what is built after it.
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