Due to drug-induced unconsciousness or delirium, there are gaps in my memory. I have asked my family for input, so their perspective will sometimes be included in italics. I had no idea of the nightmare they endured, especially in the early days of my illness.

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6th February 2011 – Flight home from Australia

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My stroke happened on the flight back from visiting my daughter Sara in Australia. Leaving was always emotional, with tears, hugs, then more tears. We flew with Royal Brunei Airlines, a dry flight (no alcohol), so we spent about an hour in the bar at Perth Airport Departures, drowning our sorrows. Everything seemed normal under the circumstances. However, Jeannie later found a $500 withdrawal on my debit card from Perth Departures. When she collected my belongings from the hospital, my card was still in my wallet, but the cash was gone.

The flight to Brunei was uneventful, aside from a young man reclining his seat into my dinner, he quickly faced Jeannie’s wrath. After a three-hour refuelling stop in Brunei, we continued to Dubai. As it was a late departure, we settled down to sleep.

At some point, I woke up and asked Jeannie, “Does my face look funny to you?” She said no. I felt pins and needles in my face, but otherwise, I was fine.

A few minutes later, I went to the loo, feeling slightly off but assuming I was still groggy. It wasn’t until I tried to stand that I realised something was wrong. The idea of a stroke never crossed my mind. My legs felt like they had lead weights strapped to them, growing heavier as I walked back down the aisle. It was as if I were wearing old-fashioned diving boots.

When I sat down, the pins and needles remained. I told Jeannie, and her face went white—my speech was slurred. That was the moment I knew. Strangely, I felt no fear. There was no pain, just the eerie sensation of losing control while watching it unfold from a distance.

I recall Jeannie pressing the call button and asking for the chief steward, who initially offered paracetamol. Her voice changed—firm, insistent, demanding a doctor. After the third call, an Australian doctor appeared and advised that I be moved to lie down. By then, my limbs were failing me. I remember him saying, “He is having a stroke.” A free upgrade to business class, but not one I’d recommend.

I thought I was fully aware of everything happening then, but I wasn’t. A year later, I discovered the whole story through a complaint letter Jeannie had sent to Royal Brunei in April 2011. That letter painted a more transparent, more accurate picture of the night that changed my life

 

Extracts from Jeannie’s complaint to Royal Brunei.

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On 5th February 2011, my husband and I boarded Flight BI68, Which Left Perth International Airport at noon and arrived at Bandar Seri Bagwan at 17:20. We then boarded Flight BI97, Which Left at 21:10 and was due to arrive at London Heathrow at 06:40 (06 Feb). This flight had a stopover of approximately one and a half hours in Dubai and was due to land in Dubai at 01.15 local time. The flight from Perth to Bandar Seri Begawan was uneventful.

During the flight from Bandar Seri Begawan, at approximately 23.15 local time Dubai, my husband began to feel ill, and his condition began to deteriorate. I informed the Purser that my husband was ill, described all his symptoms, and said that I suspected that he was having a Stroke.

At this point, the purser asked me what I wanted to do. Having never had this experience before, I thought he might be able to tell me what he could do. He then asked if I would like him to ask the Captain to radio ahead so that a Doctor and a wheelchair would be waiting on the aircraft when it landed. I said, “Yes.”

Over the next 30 minutes, my husband’s condition deteriorated to a point where I had grave concerns. I contacted the purser again, described my husband’s worsening condition, and he again asked me what I wanted to do. At this point,t I was experiencing a heightened level of stress and had hoped that Royal Brunei would have procedures in place for handling such a situation. The purser then asked if I would like him to put out a call to see if there was a Doctor on board. Over the next 10/15 minutes, two calls were made asking for a Doctor.

After the second call, a Doctor identified himself and conducted an initial assessment of my husband before asking the purser if my husband could be moved to business class so that he could do a more thorough examination.

After this examination, the Doctor said that my husband was having a stroke. The purser reiterated that he had requested a doctor and a wheelchair to be on the plane when it landed. By this time, we were close to Dubai.

Some ten minutes later, an announcement was made that the plane was in a holding pattern over Dubai because of traffic, and the landing would be delayed by approximately 30/45 minutes.

When the plane eventually landed, all the other passengers were offloaded first, and it became clear that no doctor was in attendance, only a wheelchair and an attendant. My husband was made to walk to the wheelchair to be offloaded. At this point, the Royal Brunei staff handed over to the wheelchair attendant and did not accompany us onto the concourse.

We were then taken onto the concourse of Dubai Airport beside the Gate (I believe it was 103) and a cafe crowded with waiting passengers. We waited approximately 5/10 minutes for a team to arrive. They appeared to be the equivalent of Ambulance Assistants in the UK, i.e. unqualified individuals who had been given some training in the use of medical equipment but no extensive training in assessment, diagnosis and treatment.

For approximately ten minutes, these assistants asked questions and examined my husband in front of a gathering crowd as his condition deteriorated further. Eventually, I was placed on a motorised vehicle with a stretcher attached, and my husband was pushed in a wheelchair to the Dubai Airport Medical Centre.

In the Medical Centre, his condition deteriorated to the point where he was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was eventually transported to the NMC Speciality Hospital in Dubai, where scans revealed that my husband had experienced a Bilateral Medullary Infarct ( a bleed onto his brain stem)

 

ICU Dubai

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I woke to find my nephew, Stephen, leaning over me, saying something I couldn't recall. What’s he doing here? Then I remembered, he worked in Dubai. He and the medical team were trying to move me onto another stretcher.

I later learned I had been thrashing about, so I was likely strapped in. I was placed in an MRI scanner. I remember the noises but little else.

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Steve King's recollections:

 

Eddie and Jeanie had just arrived, and I met Jeanie outside, where she tried to explain what had happened. I remember we must have met a thousand nurses and doctors, and she recounted your medical history about a million times. I still don't know what the purpose was.

Then they brought you through to the MRI, and I saw you for the first time. That was the worst. Until that point, I was fairly calm and confident. Everything would be fine, and I just needed to keep quiet and be there for Jeanie while the doctors sorted everything.

But it wasn't very good. I remember you were making hard breathing noises and were twitching continuously.

The staff steered you up into the MRI room. There was a steep ramp, and I thought they would have trouble pushing you up! I was happy at this point - I thought they would test you and find the cure, and all would be well. It looked like something out of Starship Enterprise,

Then things started to go awry. They asked me to come and enter the machine and help move you onto the bed. We lifted the sheet, dam, you were heavy, but we moved you gently enough. Then I went outside, and we met the doctor. Jeannie briefed him again on your medical history. I could almost join in at this point!

Then we waited and waited and waited. I can't remember if I helped you back on the gurney. The only thing I can remember is the doctor sitting us in his office and explaining it was a brain stem stroke...

I didn't realise how serious it was. Jeanie was so calm and collected through it... he might have said you had a cold or grazed your knee. I was expecting him to prescribe a couple of aspirin and send you home...

 

I wish it were so simple: take a couple of aspirin and go home. When I finally woke up two days later, a doctor was by my bed asking me how I was managing. I remember looking at him. Still, my body wouldn’t respond, and my mind was willing. Still, I couldn’t talk. Then, all of a sudden, I could see all these pipes coming out of my mouth, and something was up my nose; I could feel myself breathing. New, it was the machine doing it for me, I must have looked scared. My breathing became laboured. I remember the doctor twiddling with the machine. Have you seen the film Abys, where they used a new technique using a liquid that you take into your lungs for breathing, I thought that was happening; I thought my lungs were filling with liquid, so I tried to relax and let the machine breathe for me. My breathing became more manageable. I must have dozed off again, for my next memory is of John and Sarah standing by me. I can only remember short bursts of reality, and most of it is very clear. I remember them looking at me and trying to encourage me, but I couldn’t respond; my body was just not working. They were talking to me when my eyes reacted to something they said. Sarah, my youngest daughter, said to John, my son, he is in there. They proceeded to write the alphabet on a sheet of paper. We spent several minutes going from line to line for me to spell the word ice; my lips were swollen and cracked, and that’s all I wanted: ice. They went to see a nurse and rubbed my lips with ice for the next few minutes. We spent hrs going through that alphabet; at least, that was what I thought, and often had to start again because they either got lost with what I was trying to say or, more often than enough, I couldn’t spell the word. For those who know me, that was nothing new. I would blink once for yes and twice for no, as I couldn’t move anything else.

 

Delusions

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I experienced many delusions, but two remain vivid.

The first was a giant moth-like insect on the ceiling near my bed. I believed the ceiling was an electric fly zapper, killing insects that landed on it, except this one kept getting closer. Then it stopped, and I assumed it had died. Each day, more appeared, all in a line, heading towards me. I trusted the ceiling would stop them, but I couldn’t stop staring; they were huge. As I was wheeled out on my discharge day, I finally got a closer look. With relief, I realised they weren’t insects at all, they were fire sprinklers. Phew.

The second, I still insist was real, though Jeannie disagrees. One day, I saw a woman in full Purdah gliding past, not floating in the air, but moving like those stage acts where you can’t see the performer’s legs. She later sat near me and spoke softly, knowing my name. Her words terrified me. She told me to go home but warned that the plane would take me to hell, where non-Muslims belong. She would also stand behind the curtain while I was being cleaned, whispering about me to the nurses. It was unsettling. One day, she handed a wad of cash to the sister, and later, another official-looking woman distributed envelopes to the staff. Everyone seemed thrilled. Did I imagine it?

Not all moments were terrible. One particularly moving experience was when a nurse, while washing me, softly sang How Great Thou Art. Her voice was beautiful. Was she my angel?

Later, Jeannie told me about an encounter with Stephen in a shop. After hearing what happened, she became upset, and a female assistant called her sister. They offered prayers for me and promised to ask their friends to do the same. That woman was in Purdah. God certainly works in mysterious ways.

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Pain and Humiliation 

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Every so often, a nurse would insert a tube down my throat, making a strange gurgling sound. I later learned they were suctioning my lungs, a process repeated throughout the day and night for five months.

I was no stranger to pain, having suffered from arthritis in my big toes and a worn kneecap. When the nurses moved my legs by gripping my feet, the agony was unbearable, yet no sound escaped me, and my face betrayed nothing. I thought, Why can’t they see it? Surely my eyes say everything?

Then, a new wave of embarrassment hit me. I became aware of how often I was being changed, wearing a nappy, soiling myself, and catheterised. Because I was fed via a nasal tube, my bed was always at a 45-degree angle, allowing me to see the mess. I had no control. I hated it, the pain, the shame, the exposure. My bed was opposite the nurses' station, and one day, I overheard them discussing who would change me. One nurse called me the smelly old man. They had no idea I was aware of everything. That phrase has haunted me ever since.

Then, without warning or explanation, they decided to shave me, for better hygiene, they said. They shaved my front, then turned me over and shaved my back. The pain, the shame, the humiliation, I still cry thinking about it.

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The Tracheotomy

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I had no sense of time, but after about four days, they attempted to take me off the ventilator. I remember the consultant telling me he would turn off the oxygen to see if I could breathe unaided. In my head, I chanted, Breathe, Edward, breathe.

The next thing I knew, the tubes were gone from my mouth. I didn’t even realise I had undergone a tracheotomy until a nurse inserted a suction tube into my throat to clear the mucus.

After nine days, I was deemed stable enough to fly home, though they warned that I’d not be guaranteed to survive the journey.

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Acceptance

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Many stroke survivors, carers, and loved ones are told early on: You may never walk, talk, or swallow again. Over time, I understood why. Giving false hope would be cruel.

Like many, I was given a bleak prognosis and struggled with sadness. Eventually, I accepted my stroke and its lasting disabilities, though I refused to accept the limits placed upon me.

Let me encourage you, there is a whole world to explore. I can no longer drive, and my walking is poor, but I see and experience more now than ever. Over the years, I’ve climbed my mountain, carried the Olympic torch, returned to Australia, travelled independently in my power chair by bus and train, stayed in hotels, and visited places across the UK, London, Newmarket, Stratford, the Lake District, Kielder Forest, Exmouth, and many more.

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Life doesn’t have to just exist; it can be an adventure.

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Try not to get stuck in the mindset of I’ll never do that again. The journey isn’t easy, but the world is still yours to explore.

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