Portrait: Antonio
Antonio Iannella is a writer and published author. In this exerpt from his memoir, Antonio writes about the impact of stroke. Left paralyzed from the neck down, he navigates the shocking reality of recovery in a foreign country, grappling with the physical, emotional and psychological toll. Through humor, vulnerability and raw honesty, he reflects on the meaning of ‘normality’ and the long road to healing, highlighting both the struggles and the unexpected moments of grace that come with redefining life after a traumatic event.
Stroke? But you’re so young!’
I often heard that at the beginning of my recovery. Even thought it myself at
first—What the ...? But I’m only thirty-eight! In my brain’s infinite wisdom, it decided to have its stroke while I was travelling through Vietnam with my young family, leaving me paralysed from the neck down. Talk about pulling the rug out from beneath you, bursting your holiday bubble, squashing that travel bug—you get the picture.
There we were on an adventure of a lifetime, six months in planning and weeks of learning to say ‘thank you’ in Vietnamese—‘cảm ơn’. Organising a holiday takes longer than the holiday itself, but we often don’t remember that bit. Our mind wipes it from our thoughts, deletes it from our files. In this case, it was our family holiday that was almost entirely erased from our memories.
A near-death experience is likely to overshadow tales about cruising across the muddy waters of the Mekong River, after all, or walking through fields that once staged a horrendous war. One moment I was listening to the tour guide talk about how the Viet Cong ambushed the American soldiers and the next, shortly after, I was lying in an Intensive Care Unit listening to doctors speak about stroke.
Stroke is such an unglamorous name, but then I guess there’s nothing glamorous about it; it just takes possession of you. I was a complete stroke novice before it happened to me. Suddenly, I was thrust into a world of needle jabs, oxygen masks and medical terms I couldn’t spell.
After the initial shock of almost dying in a foreign country, I made some decisions. Firstly, I wanted to understand what the hell happened and learn about this illness, what caused it, how it affects your body and, most importantly, how to fix it.
Secondly, I decided I wasn’t going to let stroke consume me. I’d just get on with it—battle through.
Writing this story felt like a natural progression. Having been a musician/songwriter for over twenty years, I often thought about writing stories, and now I had my own real-life tale to tell.
I eagerly began writing about my experience in the shape of a book. When I arrived at thirty thousand words, I came to a grinding halt. Almost head-butting my laptop screen, I quickly realised—with the help of others—that in all those pages, I hadn’t even mentioned the word ‘stroke’!
So, there it is, the very first word of my story in all its glory. Six tiny little letters making one HUGE word that gate-crashed my life in a boisterous Vince Vaughn fashion. I had been so caught up marvelling about the past, I’d navigated away from the present. Like the great Bono from U2 once said, ‘We glorify the past when the future is grim,’ or something like that. It’s summed up perfectly in the book The Power of Now: ‘The past gives us identity, the future brings us fulfilment, but we rarely live in the now.’
I’ve always been attracted to things slightly unique, offbeat, not so obvious. The one amongst mates who preferred to watch a Robert De Niro/Martin Scorsese film rather than a Spielberg blockbuster. The one who loved track nine on Radiohead’s OK Computer rather than their hit single. The one who drove a classic 1963 Falcon—three-speed on the column—rather than a new Commodore. I have always searched for life’s beautiful abnormalities, loved things slightly worn around the edges.
During my recovery, however, the thing I longed for, craved, and desired most was ... normality. Things like my old nine-to-five job, washing the dishes after dinner, walking up three steps without having to hold on to the rail, being able to open the jam jar without pressing it against my chest.
A stack of years into my recovery—I still refer to it as ‘my recovery’—I have started to question it: When does a recovery period end? Is it when you are fully recovered? When you’re satisfied with where you’ve reached? Or is it when you just stop trying? The truth is, I don’t know. I still search for ‘get better’ exercise techniques. Still do my home physiotherapy routine, read biology books about the brain and go for regular walks trying to improve my stride, hoping the flashing sign above my head broadcasting ‘MAN WITH DISABILITY’ fades as I trundle through a busy shopping centre.
A quick thought: I’d vote for a political party that introduced a policy giving people who have been through the wringer, like I have, a Gold Pass—something that excuses you from life’s daily annoyances and expenses. Police pull you over—‘Excuse me, driver, do you know you changed lanes without indicating?’ Gold Pass. Have to fill up your car at the petrol station? Gold Pass. Car rego due? Gold Pass. I’m sure you get the drift.
Language warning! I don’t often swear, but #@$%, after what I’ve been through, I think I’ve earnt it. Sitting silently in front of my laptop, I type with my one good hand: my right. My fingers don’t have to stretch very far across the keyboard to write that particular expletive—F and C are just above each other and the K is only four keys to the right, the U just above the K. Easy.
Some people talk about the defining moment in their lives, a period that changed them forever, like watching the birth of their firstborn or graduating from university. My own personal BC/AD (before Christ/after death)—or, as I have called it, BS/AS (before stroke/after stroke).