Support Meredith Jane's Journey to Occupational Therapy

My name is Meredith Jane, and I had a hemorrhagic stroke and a craniotomy three years ago, at twenty-two years old. This is my story.

When I was four years old, I developed a significant stutter. Up until that point, my speech had been progressing normally, so naturally my parents were concerned about such a spontaneous remission. Within two weeks, the stutter completely vanished. By the time my parents began to plan a doctor’s appointment or look into speech pathologists, it was as if the whole ordeal had never happened. Although it worried my parents for a time, my family attributed this phenomenon to the unique experience of a normally developing brain, and life continued.

Eighteen years later, I would learn that this stutter was actually the first of two hemorrhagic strokes caused by an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) that grew into a significant mass in my brain. When the AVM fully ruptured, I was twenty-two years old and, at the time, training to enlist in the Army. On March 25th, 2021, I went home after a training session, ate a meal, and went to bed, but slept fitfully. I tossed and turned, unable to enter a restful state. In the morning, I woke up feeling fatigued, like how one feels when they are getting sick. I decided to call in to cancel work and take a sick day; however, when the woman in HR asked for my name, I couldn’t answer. It felt like the wire connecting my brain to my mouth had been clipped. I couldn’t move my mouth; it wouldn’t cooperate with the instructions I so desperately tried to execute. I knew every word I wanted to say, I could understand my surroundings perfectly, but I could not verbally communicate anything. Fortunately, I was able to write, and I urgently scribbled a note to my housemate that we needed to go to the emergency room.

As soon as we got to the emergency room, the admissions nurse asked my housemate why we were there. After my housemate explained my unusual circumstances, the nurse asked me to pull down my mask and asked if I could speak. By this point, if I strained hard enough, I could spit out something that sounded like a half-word, and meekly I whispered, “b-arrr-ee-lll-yy.” Her eyes widened, and in an instant, I was admitted to the hospital, put through several scans, and hooked up to wires that came and went from my body like someone had weaved me into all of the medical equipment in my room. After my test results came back, my ER doctor stated that I needed to be transferred to a different hospital in Redwood City that specialized in neurotrauma, and that my parents should be called. The most frustrating part about the phone calls to my parents was that I literally could not talk to them; this news had to be delivered by my doctor alone.

Shortly after my doctor finished updating my parents, I was transferred to Redwood City, where my parents would meet me. I spent four days in this new hospital going through fMRIs, CT scans, speech pathology sessions, angiograms—everything. If this hospital were a theme park, I felt like I went on every ride. I was tested in every machine, had several different things injected into my body for more testing; needless to say, it was a long four days. During my stay, I also met my medical team, which consisted of several different doctors, but the one I saw the most was my neurosurgeon. Dr. Efron had a calming but optimistic demeanor and was a great comfort to my family as he walked us through my diagnosis.

I learned that my stroke was due to a ruptured arteriovenous malformation. AVMs are congenital, so my AVM had been growing with me throughout my life, and it had previously bled when I was about four years old, which I learned was what caused my temporary stutter. The AVM had grown to be a cluster that was about 4.7 centimeters, which was considered large, but it was elegant, meaning that all of it was in one place. Due to the characteristics of my AVM, Dr. Efron decided it was best to resect the mass through surgery. He first wanted the blood clot that had formed from the rupture to thin over the next six weeks and scheduled my craniotomy for May 11th, 2021.

Those six weeks went by very quickly, but each day felt like a year. It’s hard for time to pass quickly when there is a life-altering event up ahead that you know about. I had also never been in a medically life-threatening situation, and I didn’t know how to prepare for it other than to be with people I loved as much as I could, so that’s what I did. I spent time with family and friends until the day my mom and I made the trip to Redwood City for this significant life event.

I entered the prep room with my mom and aunt early on the morning of May 11th. My dad would also be there when I woke up from surgery. I remember praying over my mom, being wheeled back into a very bright room with at least ten people in gowns and masks, and having many different hands move me so carefully from the gurney onto the cushioned operating table. Dr. Efron confidently announced that it was time for this AVM to be gone so that I could get on with my life, which sounded like a good plan to me. The anesthesiologist put a breathing mask on my face, asked me to think of my favorite place, and then, like a light switch, I was out.

I will never know what it felt like to wait those eight hours I was under. I was later informed that what was expected to be a six-hour surgery turned into seven hours, and then eight hours before I was put into the ICU recovery unit. I woke up to my mom and aunt sitting in chairs next to my hospital bed. I lifted my hand to the several bandages wrapped around my head. I knew that my procedure would require shaving a third of my hair off, but with the bandages, the only thing I could feel was a long braid made of the hair that was left. My dad arrived shortly after, and in the next twelve hours, I was transferred out of recovery to the neurotrauma floor.

There are many experiences that have contributed to why I want to pursue occupational therapy, but my time in the hospital after surgery was the first. Normally after a craniotomy, doctors are anxious to get patients back to their lives as soon as possible because patients need time to assimilate back into their lives, rest (which doesn’t really happen in a hospital), and if applicable, learn their new limits. My surgery was performed on a Tuesday, and my discharge was scheduled for Thursday. In between, I had a constant headache, but I didn’t want to say anything because I was more than ready to go home. When two occupational therapists came in to test me to approve my discharge, I tucked the headache away and did everything they asked without mishap. I stood on one leg, then the other, walked down the hall and back, walked on stairs set up for patients to practice, and did everything; they never questioned a thing.

I was discharged on Thursday and readmitted Friday morning. During that time, I had consumed too much water, which caused me to become hypotonic, and water began to fill the new cavity in my brain. This pressure caused the resurgence of my previous symptoms—I couldn’t speak again, my left side was now tingling and numb, and I had a slight facial droop. After diagnosing my hypotonia, the doctors put me on salt steroids that would drain the water from my head to my stomach, relieving the buildup in the space where my AVM once lived. I understand that it was my responsibility to disclose my headache during my first round of post-op, but I want to be the occupational therapist who catches the little details my patients don’t share. Having the experience that I have, I know what it is like to just want to go home. However, if my occupational therapists had requested one last brain scan, if they had questioned bluntly how I was feeling, or acknowledged my lack of engagement in the tasks I performed, I might’ve been spared from a readmittance that took another seven days of hospitals, tests, and observations.

During my readmitted stay, I also witnessed the amazing recovery that can come from occupational therapy. As my headache began to clear with the salt draining the water from my brain, I started walking laps around the neurotrauma floor. As I walked, I saw OTs working with several different patients. One patient had lost control over his arm and was reestablishing nerve connection. Another patient was stepping on and over blocks to help regain leg strength. As I witnessed this profession in action, I knew this is what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to help people find their independence and get them back to living their own lives.

Once the water had completely drained out of the cavity in my brain, and after several more tests and days of observation, I was at last officially discharged to begin recovering. Recovery from brain surgery is unique to each person who endures it. If you’ve met one person who has recovered from brain surgery, then you’ve met one person who has recovered from brain surgery. For me, what was supposed to be a six-week recovery on paper actually took two years. As a smaller, athletic woman, the amount of anesthetic injected into my body took about a year to start wearing off. I was also put on anti-seizure medication that took almost double that time and lots of self-advocacy to be tapered off. Those two years of recovery included multiple visits to the ER for random spontaneous symptoms and the intense struggle of building back my strength without moving too quickly to avoid ending up in the ER again. I also had to mourn who I was before surgery and begin to understand who I am now. I am someone who has endured brain trauma, and if you didn’t know me and saw me at the grocery store, you would never know. I carry a medical history that is so extensive for my age, yet it hides itself so well. I am someone who now interacts with a stranger and understands so deeply that I know nothing about them or what they’ve endured. For all I know, they could be just like me.

Fast forward to 2023: I finally felt ready to reenter the education system to pursue occupational therapy. Furthermore, I want to pursue research, which at the time of school selection meant pursuing a doctorate. In the last year, I have completed the required observation hours, submitted my applications, personal statements, and essays, and have been accepted into the OTD program at Dominican University of California for the Fall 2024 term.

However, this is where I need your help to make my goal a reality. Dominican University is the only school that is within a reasonable commute from where I live now, in Sonoma. My husband has recently been hired by the Sonoma Valley Fire District, which means that we are rooted in Sonoma for the foreseeable future. Dominican University is an excellent school with an expensive tuition. As my husband and I will be living off his salary alone, we do not have the means to cover my tuition, and graduate student loans currently have an interest rate that we are not willing to entertain.

If you have been moved by my medical story and feel the desire to contribute in any way, I am asking for sponsors to fund my tuition.

If you have made it to the end, I am so grateful to have shared my story with you, and I look forward to hopefully updating you in the near future as a student in Dominican’s OTD program.