Last night reminded me how quickly ordinary life can turn on its head.
I was finally relaxing, curled up on my beanbag watching television and eating chocolate after dinner. Suddenly there was a loud bang and the power went out. Using my walking frame, I made my way to the fuse box in the dark and repeatedly tried resetting the switch, unsuccessfully.
After noticing a strong metallic smell, I began calling family members for help but couldn’t get through to anyone nearby. Eventually, my interstate sister answered. She was able to coordinate local help.
Next, smoke was noticed coming from my bedroom and emergency services were called.
Before long, firefighters were walking through my house while I stood outside in the rain in my dressing gown before ending up in the back of an ambulance.
Thankfully, everything was okay in the end. The problem was my bedroom heater which now needs replacing. It sounds simple enough, except it didn’t feel simple to me.
After everyone left, I walked back into a freezing cold house, shut all the windows, and sat beside a tiny bar heater trying to thaw out. Sleep barely came. Between the cold, lingering smell, and adrenaline, I felt deeply unsettled.
What surprised me most was how much the experience emotionally affected me. For many people, a blown fuse and a faulty heater would simply be an inconvenient story. But for me, the helplessness of not being able to physically manage the situation triggered something much deeper.
It weirdly transported me back to the acute post-stroke environment after I woke from my coma unable to move, speak, or swallow. I vividly remember lying propped up in bed with cot rails raised on either side, feeling trapped inside my own body. I would try desperately to get the staff’s attention and fail, experiencing the deep loneliness of dependence and the frustration of needing help for things I once did automatically.
I write in my book about waking up from surgery:
I’m awake internally but my body won’t budge. I try to stir it again. Move! I command. I want to yawn and stretch out long and then turn onto my side in a warm foetal position. But I lie still. How do I instruct this body? It feels detached from my thoughts. It throbs, but I don’t know where this awful sensation is coming from. In fact, I can’t figure out where my body starts and ends. The pain seems to morph into the hard surface I’m lying on. It’s an endless blur of agony.
Reinventing Emma, page 85
Last night unexpectedly brought fragments of those feelings rushing back. The situations aren’t comparable in severity, but emotionally, the sense of helplessness felt entirely familiar. I’ve never considered myself someone who gets “triggered,” but last night genuinely impacted me more than felt rational.
This morning, despite being exhausted, I woke up desperate to get outside. Partly to escape the lingering smell inside the house, but mostly because I needed fresh air and momentum. I needed to feel capable again, and swimming gave me exactly that. The freedom I feel in water is hard to explain. The water gives me a sense of independence and empowerment that can feel harder to access on land.
You can read about my swimming experience here.
Sometimes it’s not the major catastrophes that shake us most deeply, but the small moments that unexpectedly reconnect us with old fears. Recognising that and finding our way back to the things that make us feel powerful again, is what matters.