Comment: On this day two years ago, I counted my lucky stars.
Drunk and without a helmet, I was struck by a car while riding my bike late at night on a university exchange in Lyon, France.
Somehow, I escaped – I thought at the time – relatively unscathed. I spent the night in hospital, but with a “mild head injury” and a sprained ankle I was sent on my way the following afternoon. Honestly, given the circumstances, I felt OK. I had a sore head and a hefty limp but other than that I was happy to be alive – I was ready to shake it off and continue to revel in my overseas adventure.
I want to be careful not to exaggerate, although there really is no need to. I have experienced chronic headaches, debilitating anxiety and soul-crushing depression. There were times when I truly couldn’t see a way out of the endless well of despair in which I felt trapped, where I deeply contemplated whether a life like this was worth living. It took too long, but I have found the medical treatment that I need in order to get back to living a normal life, and finally, I feel that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
Nevertheless, I wanted to write this piece so that other victims of head trauma don’t suffer in the same way that I did. So they can seek swift and proper treatment.
READ MORE: Doctors sound alarm over shortage of lifesaving treatment, now being rationed
Effective concussion and post-concussion syndrome multidisciplinary clinics are few and far between, as I have experienced, but I am optimistic that as conversations grow around the issue, so too does the number of medical professionals and effective treatment facilities in this country.
I had never heard of post-concussion syndrome or persistent post-concussive symptoms at the time of my injury. I had absolutely no idea of the raw and fierce torment that was to become so incessant in the days ahead. But when I felt that I made a quick and complete recovery in the weeks following the accident I believed that normalcy had returned.
Friends and family contacted me from home expressing their shock and concern, to most of whom I replied: “I’m all good. Like actually fine. Just a few cuts and bruises. Will make a full recovery.” My mum flew straight over to be with me. It was four days after the accident that she arrived. “Really, I’m fine, mum. You shouldn’t have bothered”, I told her.
Mostly, I was annoyed that I had to reschedule my university exams. I missed out on the end of semester celebrations – most of the exchange students at my university had returned to their native countries. It was my dream to study in France and I was having the time of life, but it had been abruptly interrupted. “Just annoying ’cause I should’ve been on holidays now. Oh well. Could be worse,” I declared.
I look back at that mindset with great envy. What a joy and privilege to be concerned with such trivial matters.
A month later I completed my final university exams, and I passed with flying colours – another indicator that, really, I was fine. I received my bachelor’s degree and began to think of the accident as little more than a minor albeit very irritating inconvenience.
But little by little I began to feel off. My arms and legs jittered, my veins pulsed, my head pounded when I drank my morning coffee. The sun beamed into my eyes with overpowering brightness, nearby voices reverberated as if through a megaphone, and I felt claustrophobic, lightheaded and dizzy when walking crowded streets.
The burning desire I had to make new friends and experience new cultures began to wane. I couldn’t be bothered to partake in the celebratory farewells with the great and lifelong friends I had made over the preceding four months, with whom I had experienced such intense happiness and established myself as a source of energy and positivity.
I felt no desire to partake in their celebrations, but at the behest of my friends, I did.
The walls closed in on me at a trashy Parisian nightclub. The thumping music caused my ears to quiver, and my head felt like it was going to implode. For the first time, these new and jarring sensations got the better of me and I bolted for the door.
I knew now that something was wrong.
So, I did some googling. The vast majority of search results returned: ‘Concussion symptoms: headache, depression, mood swings, anxiety. Typically lasts eight days to six weeks. Rest and recover.’
‘Phew’, I thought. What a load off my chest. What I was experiencing was totally normal.
‘It has only been a month so I’ll just take it easy for the next couple of weeks and everything will be fine.’
I had plans to work and travel indefinitely in Europe at the conclusion of my studies. My friends from home were due to arrive in a month to embark on what is supposed to be the happiest time in a young person’s life. So, with that in mind, I decided to stay and booked a hostel in Nice for a few weeks to lie low.
Despite the endless sun and salty bliss of the turquoise-blue Mediterranean, I was far from happy. But my physical symptoms diminished somewhat – I experienced dull aches in the front of my head on a daily basis, but the initial sensitivity to light and sound had undoubtedly lessened.
I thought I was on the mend. ‘I’ll feel even better when my friends arrive’, I told myself.
Sure enough, I did feel better when I reunited with my girlfriend in London. It was now two-and-a-half months since the accident and in my mind, I was back. However, that night I had two beers, slept horribly and awoke the next morning with a headache that you could sell to science. I say that in jest, but at the time I was deeply concerned. My energy was depleted.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Retrospectively, I absolutely should have come home, if not at this point then far earlier.
Nevertheless, I still didn’t know that there was such a thing as post-concussion syndrome. In truth, I had no understanding even of what constitutes a concussion. The hospital had labelled it a “mild head injury”. There was no conversation between myself and a doctor at the time. I remember saying to my housemate: “Do I have a concussion? What actually is a concussion?” to which she replied: “I think so, because you were knocked out.”
As it turns out that is true, but ultimately, I was more concerned by the possibility that there was something more sinister at play.
‘Maybe I have a brain bleed’, ‘maybe my brain is swollen’, I thought. The hospital in Lyon had conducted a CT scan which cleared me of any significant physiological concern, but still these thoughts began to take over.
I didn’t have the heart to tell my girlfriend and friends that I just wanted to go home. For their sake, I put on a brave face, and when they enquired about the accident, I told them that “it was no big deal. Really, I’m fine.”
As silly as that reads, it is difficult to articulate the sensations. At this point, my symptoms were not overly debilitating in a physical sense. Unlike being in a cast for a broken leg, I looked completely fine and able. There were days that I felt 80 per cent like myself, most days were half that, some days I was a shell.
My headaches ranged from dull to severe, and the panic and sadness came in fleeting moments. Nevertheless, it was enough to sow the seeds of doubt in my mind: ‘maybe it’s PTSD’, ‘maybe it’s a bleed.’
Looking back, I didn’t want to confront the reality that something terrible had happened to me and I wasn’t OK. Still, I didn’t allow it to be seen by those around me. I was on holiday in the middle of the European summer, surrounded by my closest friends who were having the time of their lives. I told myself to be stronger, that people fall off their bike all the time. I kept my feelings to myself.
I reflected in my notes: “I haven’t felt like myself since the accident. I had an incredible four months in Lyon, but it soured my time there, and it’s been a roller coaster of emotions since. Some days I feel fine, other not so. Mostly, I’ve tried to ignore the constant headaches and mood swings. My God, it’s tiring. Add in the travel and it’s exhausting. I’ve lived out of a suitcase since May: boarded trains, planes and buses up to three times a week. Travel is supposed to be fun. I feel like a brat for complaining, but all I want is to come home.”
I could no longer hide it when, on the morning of my girlfriend’s birthday, in an Airbnb with six friends, I couldn’t physically get out of bed. We had celebrated the previous day and I had pushed through the festivities despite a nagging headache and serious fatigue. I lay in bed that morning and pondered calling an ambulance as my heart raced so hard that I was sure it would burst through my chest. The nerves in my head pulsated so viciously I was certain they’d rupture. The world spun around me as I attempted to stand, and when I finally could It felt like I’d been clubbed between the eyes with a baseball bat.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I spent the next week curled up in bed in the Airbnb. For five days I didn’t leave the bedroom, plagued by severe nausea, headaches and a chilling fever. Isolated and afraid, I went to the internet for more answers, but none of my searching led me to discover that a significant minority – around 30 per cent – of patients with a head injury go on to experience persistent post-concussive symptoms.
Finally, four months after the injury, I aborted my travel plans and booked a flight home to Melbourne. Despite my concerns, I was optimistic that some proper rest and recovery and an appointment with my doctor would do me some good. I told my friends that I would be back to normal by the time they finished travelling in a few months.
The long flight and ensuing jetlag wreaked havoc on my symptoms. I couldn’t sleep for days, felt constantly queasy and at times thought I was about to pass out.
I booked in to see my GP, where I was referred for a brain scan and to see a neurologist who specialised in head trauma. The earliest appointment was three months away.
My headaches mellowed and my body calmed over the ensuing days and when the CT scan cleared me of any damage, I actually thought that this might all be over.
I immersed myself in activities I love – what I had missed while away. Yet, nothing felt as it should. Surfing made me woozy, running gave me a headache, weights made me light-headed. I was working as a furniture removalist and just picking up a chair or going over a speed bump in the truck caused my head to throb.
I was utterly exhausted after days of work where in the past I had relished the long hours and demanding physical nature of the job. On several early mornings, I was forced to call my boss and apologise that I wouldn’t be in that day because I was ill. I spent those nights in a state of wired delirium. Not a wink of sleep was had as my brain vibrated and my body convulsed. I had no confidence to do anything because I was worried about doing further damage.
Gradually but surely my mental health deteriorated. I felt down. There were sporadic moments of confusion and fear, where my angst and worry paralysed me. I was so tired but constantly on edge.
In the past, I had found relaxation in saunas, but now exposing myself to the heat caused my body to feel like it was about to shut down. I was short of breath and could hardly muster the energy to stand. I experienced my first of many anxiety attacks here. I was so flustered, panicked, confused, paralysed: ‘What is wrong with me?’ I thought.
I tried to maintain a social life as best as I could, but it all became too difficult at a crowded pub at a friend’s 21st birthday party. Just one sip of beer sent my head into a spin and the thumping music made my ears crack and shudder. I left with haste and collapsed into a flood of tears when I got home.
I was totally broken and hopeless. I was the life of the party and now I could barely leave the house without the vicious and endless cycle of rumination taking hold. It was a struggle just to get through the day.
I had never felt so alone. Most of my friends and my girlfriend were overseas. I watched on as the friends that I had in Melbourne all got full-time jobs, played sport and went to parties. Meanwhile, I couldn’t get through a day without panic taking over, nor could I go for a run, to the gym or have a coffee or a beer at the pub. I became overwhelmed by doing even the simplest of tasks. I felt lonely, useless, afraid and weak.
Desperate for answers and still months away from my appointment with the neurologist, I booked in to see a physio who had connections with the AFL. I was asked questions like “What day is it?”, “What are the months of the year backwards?” and to follow a pen with my eyes. I passed with flying colours and was given no answers other than that I wasn’t acutely concussed. The physio suggested that perhaps it was my neck that was causing the headaches and wrote a letter to my GP recommending psychological therapy.
I took the advice on board and went to my GP for a mental health care plan and a referral to see a psychologist. Over six sessions I left appointments with more questions than answers. I felt even more alienated.
I couldn’t wait any longer to see the neurologist. I went to an osteopathic clinic with a “tailored post-concussion program” in order to treat my headaches, and honestly made huge physical improvements over the course of a month. The osteopath performed some eye and balance tests and from them asserted that my symptoms were the result of whiplash and post-traumatic anxiety. I was relieved to hear that concussion-wise, I was a “green light.”
The osteopath treated my neck and I returned to work, running, surfing, tennis and the gym. My headaches vanished, I felt strong, and my energy returned, albeit very briefly.
Despite the physical improvements, I was sleptical that a ten-minute assessment in which I balanced on one leg, followed a stick around with my eyes and recalled words backward could deliver an explicit medical diagnosis. I was a completely different person from before. It was more than anxiety alone that was responsible for my state.
It had been seven months since the concussion, but I regularly woke in the middle of the night due to body spasms, I constantly felt depressed, tired, light-headed and I couldn’t control my ruminations. I tried psychology, meditation, breathing techniques, frequent physical exercise and nothing helped. I was extremely hopeful that my appointment with the neurologist at the concussion clinic two weeks later would provide some answers.
Nevertheless, when the time came, I was crushed to realise that I had waited three months to receive exactly the same assessment as before. “Follow the pen with your eyes”, “stand on one leg, eyes closed for 30 seconds,” “Recount the months of the year backward while walking in a straight line”, “Rate your headache out of six.”
The less-than-60-minute assessment was disappointing. “I’m not worried about your concussion,” they told me, “What I am worried about is the post-traumatic anxiety. Why not try anti-depressants?”
They sent me on my way with a check-up scheduled for three months’ time. The only advice I was given was to “avoid alcohol.” I left that appointment feeling more confused than ever.
I was prescribed medication and I took a quarter of the lowest-prescribed dose.
Within hours I felt extreme side effects: seizures, cold sweats, nausea, dizziness, headache.
I consulted with my GP and together we made the decision to switch medications.
I was distraught, helpless, hopeless. There was no way out. I was certain I would be like this forever.
I learned that it can always get worse.
I became too scared to be alone, to socialise, too tired to walk down the street. There was no distraction from my panic. No matter if I was reading a book or watching TV, its claws were set deep within me.
The light projected by my phone and laptop were suddenly too sharp and too bright and my eyes buzzed with even the slightest glance at them. My ears shuddered when I listened to music and the slightest physical exercise made my head hum. Everything that once brought pleasure now brought pain. I attributed it to anxiety.
When I did make it out to see friends, many asked me: “Where’s your beer?”, “Where’ve you been?” I kept smiling and told them that “I had a concussion.” I was never honest about how immensely I was suffering, and despite their best intentions, any advice just made me more paranoid: “No more footy, or you’ll get CTE”, “No sport, no screens, no going out. Just get better.” I felt like I became defined by my concussion.
Similarly, it was around this time that concussion was becoming a major issue in the AFL and the media. The deaths of prominent ex-footballers Danny Frawley and Shane Tuck, both by suicide, were huge talking points and consumed my thoughts endlessly.
‘I could just end my life’, I thought. ‘I’ll probably wind up dead as a result of this eventually anyway.’ These thoughts made me shudder, and while I was never close to acting on them, I felt powerless, like I wasn’t in control of my narrative – that is what scared me the most.
From my perspective, there was no chance of a happy ending.
As an antidote to my purposelessness, I applied to study post-graduate law at the University of Sydney. As I had been medically cleared of the concussion, I couldn’t see a reason why full-time study would pose an issue. A prestigious degree in a sun-soaked city: I saw it as the cure for all ailments. I was lucky enough to be accepted into the course, to commence in February 2023. I was thrilled and I could hardly wait.
Two weeks prior to my departure, the summer holidays were in full swing and my symptoms had waned. My headaches were present but mild, only slightly disconcerting when on screens. I was surfing and running, and while I tired easily and felt slow, I put it down to the anxiety that I had experienced over the preceding nine months.
I have learned how big an impact stress can have on a concussion. It is easy to feel relatively OK when sitting idle on a beach, then wake up the next day to go to work and be inundated with an array of unpleasant symptoms. For this reason, it is impossible to overstate the importance of objective testing for concussion.
The only objective testing I received at my follow-up appointment with the neurologist was a blood pressure test. It was sky high, but I told them what I thought they wanted to hear: “I feel so much better. My anxiety has improved so much. This is just a one-off because I’m nervous.”
I just wanted to get out of Melbourne and leave all the trauma behind.
So, when asked to rate my headache out of six, I replied: “Zero.” I allowed myself to believe the lies because I so badly wanted to be healthy again.
I also divulged my reaction to the anti-depressants, to which the reply was a raise of the eyebrow: “Mmm, strange.”
I shouldn’t have understated the severity of my symptoms, but I’m not the first person to tell a doctor what they want to hear. In truth, downplaying concussion symptoms is an all-too-common occurrence. A recent AFL Players Association survey found that one in 10 male players who received a potential concussion in 2023 did not report their symptoms.
Quantifying physical and emotional sensations is very difficult, and when jobs are on the line there is even more incentive to downplay or downright lie about them.
Although I was delighted to be cleared by the neurologist and thereby set free from appointments, I contemplated that there must be better tools and techniques to test for concussion.
Sure enough, there are countless.
In the USA, concussion and its associated health risks have been on the national conscience for decades, and as a result there are hundreds of specialised treatment facilities. Most centres have a multidisciplinary team which covers a wide range of therapy (speech, cognitive, occupational and physical) and specialised equipment for diagnoses and treatment such as fMRI scans and computerised vision and balance tracking technology.
I arrived in Sydney to begin my studies. I couldn’t help but feel proud when on orientation day the course administrators explained that the Sydney University Law School is among the most distinguished in the world.
It was enough to deter me from the sharp pain that I felt in my forehead each time I looked at my computer. I figured it must be a learned response. However, when I arrived home that afternoon, I was so exhausted that I went to bed before sunset. I didn’t sleep a wink, and when the learning began the following day, I became inundated with horrible sensations. I couldn’t concentrate at all.
It was 30 degrees in Sydney, yet I was so depleted that I slept that night – at least tried to – in socks, tracksuit pants and a jumper. I suffered that night through incessant convulsions and delirious rumination. I spent the next few days too tired to leave the house. I couldn’t hold back the flood of tears when I called my mum in Melbourne to tell her what had happened.
“I physically can’t do it. What is wrong with me? When will this end?” I pleaded.
I deferred my place in the course. I felt useless, distraught, weak again. I have since been explained the physiological process, but at the time I couldn’t comprehend how a head injury could cause such an intense full-body response.
Despite my doubts, I wasn’t strong enough to openly question a doctor’s ruling. I attributed the symptoms to anxiety and when my friends asked, I simply told them that “law isn’t for me”.
Although I was besieged with headaches, brain fog, light-headedness and constantly nervous, I tried to treat the change of scenery as if it were rehab. I was so shattered that I couldn’t be at uni, but I was at least happy to be away from the grim concerns of my Melbourne bubble.
My concussion made me feel weak and alone – I couldn’t talk about it without becoming overwhelmed with grief.
Although there were days that just stepping into the sunlight whipped my heart into a frenzy, my symptoms improved again over the next month. The vicious cycle of ups and downs has been a demoralising experience. I felt OK for one or two weeks at a time, only to come crashing down again after trying to reengage in a normal life.
It was March 2023, just six weeks since the failure of university, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when, after accepting a job in a North Sydney high-rise, I once again became overloaded with symptoms.
I knew immediately that something was wrong as I stepped from the elevator onto the office floor. I felt eerily unsteady, as if the ground fell out beneath me as I walked. The fluorescent office lights were so bright that I had to glue my eyes to the floor. Just looking at the computer screen made my brain buzz. I tried to push through but at the end of each day, I was so miserable and exhausted that I went straight to bed.
I hardly slept but I tried to rejuvenate myself with a hot shower in the mornings, where my body spasmed and convulsed again frequently. I made it four days before I embarrassingly had to call it quits.
My mental and physical health reached an all-time low. For the first time, it wasn’t just me who was implicated in my inability to function – I had let down employers and colleagues, too.
My girlfriend implored me to seek another opinion regarding my concussion. At the recommendation of a friend who had experienced a similar story to me, I was referred to a Melbourne-based clinic that specialises in nervous system rehabilitation.
I heard several stories of others who were incorrectly cleared by neurologists, who went on to receive treatment at this clinic and rediscover their lives. I was cautiously optimistic that it may hold the answers. Nevertheless, a small part of me still hoped that it would prove pointless, that nothing was wrong, after all.
I attended an initial consultation roughly a year after the injury. My symptoms were at their peak.
It is truly bewildering the differences in care, understanding, testing, and technology at this clinic in comparison to those prior. There was no standing on one leg, eyes closed for 30 seconds, nor using a paddle-pop stick to track eye movements. I wasn’t sent on my way after a sub-60-minute assessment. No, I was put through my paces in a rigorous three-hour examination, and in it discovered that many things were in fact very wrong.
The clinic employs computerised technologies such as Infrared goggles, the RightEye eye-tracking test, Balance Tracking Systems, heart-rate monitors and sensorimotor coordination tests in order to deliver an objective diagnosis, which for me outlined four areas of deficiency that clearly explained my symptoms.
The light sensitivity and aversion to screens were the result of my eyes’ inability to accurately fixate, maintain a steady gaze and correctly track targets, likewise causing persistent headaches. I performed in the bottom 22 per cent of males my age in these tests. I experienced dizziness and disorientation as a result of deficiencies in my vestibular system, where testing placed me in the bottom 19th percentile.
The fatigue, brain fog, nervousness and light-headedness could be explained by the dysregulation of my autonomic nervous system: my heart rate rose by as much as 59 beats per minute when I transitioned from lying to standing, which are grounds for the diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.
Finally, my practitioner diagnosed dysfunction in the cerebellum, responsible for cognitive impairment and balance and motor skill deficiencies.
Along with the Post-Concussion Symptom Scale, I was given the Concussion Clinical Profiles Screening Tool, Patient Health Questionnaire, Generalised Anxiety Disorder Assessment, Central Sensitisation Inventory and Headache Disability Index.
Not only did these questionnaires help me understand and convey my symptoms, but they also gave my practitioner a complete scope into the way in which they were affecting my life. Irrespective of the way in which I quantified my symptoms, it was impossible to dispute the results of the objective tests. The deficiencies in my vision, vestibular, autonomic nervous system and cerebellum were responsible for my inability to perform mundane everyday tasks like going to work and playing sport.
Undoubtedly, there was an element of traumatic stress involved also. The technical term for a concussion is a mild traumatic brain injury, thus the traumatic nature of the experience is inherent. Whether I knew it or not my brain was stuck in a constant state of threat which was causing immense and debilitating anxiety. My practitioner stressed the importance of psychological treatment as part of the rehabilitation process.
The importance of this testing program cannot be overstated – it takes the onus off the patient to articulate what are very subjective and unique sensations. Sometimes I just don’t feel right yet struggle to find the words to identify the anguish. With tests like RightEye and Balance Tracking Systems, it may be enough for a patient to present with the complaint that “I just don’t feel like myself” or “I have a headache.” A qualified and up-to-date practitioner will be able to tailor an individualised rehabilitation program based on the tests.
It honestly felt like I’d stepped into a time machine and emerged 20 years later to discover this clinic, but in the United States and other countries, this is the standard. I was given an individualised rehabilitation program to work on from home.
I began attending weekly appointments with a psychologist who has a great understanding of the effects of head trauma. It has been a profoundly beneficial experience. My psychologist explained how common it is for head trauma victims to spend years searching for the right medical assistance. Likewise, he explained how prevalent feelings of grief and loss can be among brain injury survivors. A concussion can shatter your foundations, deprive you of the pleasures that make life worth living – mine unquestionably did.
Finally, I felt understood, like I wasn’t alone, that it wasn’t just in my head.
The combination of regular psychology and monthly telehealth appointments with the concussion clinic helped me to achieve my ultimate goal of diminished anxiety and depression within just three months. My cognitive function, energy levels and mood improved enormously, and mentally I felt like myself again. I went back to working a few days a week and although I wasn’t symptom-free, I was so happy to be living a relatively normal life again.
For so long I viewed my anxiety as the direct result of the concussion, and the physical symptoms as the result of the anxiety. My practitioner had explained in no uncertain terms that this was not the case, that there were clear physiological deficits which caused headaches, light sensitivity and dizziness.
Prematurely, I leaped back into the activities I had so dearly missed. I began surfing, running, going to the gym and socialising again. Although my symptoms were not as severe as before, they were undeniably still present.
I worked in a retail store where the ceiling lights made my eyes sting, radiating sharp pain through the back of my head and into my neck. It was incredibly uncomfortable, but I was at ease mentally, and that was enough to deter me from the physical duress.
Realising I’d jumped the gun, I lightened my load. I returned to my prescribed rehabilitation of 20 minutes of daily exercise on a stationary bike, along with visual and vestibular exercises. I saw steady improvements and enjoyed several months of very relative bliss. My symptoms were still present, but unquestionable reduced.
Nevertheless, the neck pain and light sensitivity persisted, and as the novelty of my rediscovered mental health began to fade, I became increasingly perturbed by their stubbornness. I was keen to stay in Sydney, so I continued catching up regularly via telehealth with my practitioner in Melbourne. He explained to me that neck pain is a common symptom among concussion victims, in turn that manual therapy is an important part of the rehabilitation process. He recommended that I get some light massage to relieve the tension.
I obliged and tried relaxing massage, osteopathy, acupuncture and sensory deprivation tanks – all of which proved not only ineffective but aggravated my symptoms.
Frustrated, I researched better alternatives and discovered a clinic run by physios that provided “expert treatment based on the latest research for those affected by concussion.” I booked an appointment in the hope that they could offer some manual therapy to complement the program I was receiving from Melbourne.
In the initial consultation, the practitioner rightly took the initiative to offer some basic testing. Once again, I followed an ice-cream stick up and down, side to side and stood on one leg. They likewise evaluated my neck and from the various tests concluded that it was responsible for my physical complaints. Whether it was the result of stress or whiplash, it was unclear, but it was “very tight” and giving me headaches and placing stress on my visual system.
In objection, I showed the practitioner the results of the vision and balance tests that I had received in Melbourne, to which they argued: “maybe you had them before.”
I was conflicted once more, and highly doubtful, but in the slightest hopeful that there may be a path to recovery that didn’t involve strenuous rehabilitation. ‘Why not’, I thought.
I received some neck massage and after one or two sessions there was minor improvement. However, my symptoms swelled to intolerable levels as the massages increased in frequency and intensity.
I cancelled my appointments and wallowed again in misery. My headaches raged, my neck ached, and my eyes quivered at the slightest glimpse of blue light.
I was just getting back to work and sport, now I could barely make it through a shift or go for a walk without pain. I was loaded with anger: physically I felt like I was back at square one.
While my anxiety remained at bay, it is difficult to articulate the frustration that I felt at this point. For so long I didn’t have the energy nor the desire to get off the couch and live my life. But now all I wanted was to go for a run or get a drink with friends.
Mentally, I was myself again, and I envisioned that all of my afflictions would dissipate when I reached that goal. Nevertheless, I was physically totally impaired, and with so many setbacks I pondered whether a return to a normal life was even possible.
As 2023 drew near to a close and I began to see being in Sydney as wasted time. I no longer look at it that way as the mental liberation it offered me was monumentally important, but returning home to focus solely on my recovery was a decision that had to be made.
I returned to Melbourne at the start of this year, and in that time, I have seen drastic improvements in quantifiable and objective health measures.
My eyes no longer tremor when focussing, my balance has improved enormously, and my heart rate is in keeping with more – though not yet – normal levels. I have to take regular breaks from my computer as the light sensitivity and headaches are still present, but my concentration levels are good, so, toom my mood and energy.
Most importantly, with improvement in objective testing tools, I feel more than ever like I’m getting my life back. Neurological rehabilitation is an arduous task and there are no shortcuts. But there is clear evidence that although the effects of a concussion can be devastating, every victim who suffers long-term symptoms must never lose hope that a return to normality is achievable.
Still, I shouldn’t be in this position. With effective early treatment, I would have returned to work, sport and a healthy and happy life far sooner. The concussion may well have been a small blip in the story of my life.
The conversation in Australia is admittedly changing, but too many continue to suffer.
Every person who endures the debilitating effects of post-concussion syndrome must have simple access to effective medical treatment, and as it stands that is not the reality in this country.
This article is not a substitute for professional health advice and is not intended to be used to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease or as a substitute for your own health professional’s advice. If you have any specific questions about any medical matter you should consult your doctor.
If you or someone you know is in need of support contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue. In the event of an emergency dial Triple Zero (000).
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