Dom's Journey: A Personal Story of Survival and Recovery from a Brain Haemorrhage

Dom with his family

Overall, I'm very lucky.

I have a nice, busy life, like many people. I’m a husband. I'm ‘Dad’ to three kids. I co-own my own recruitment business. I’m fit and healthy. I like running.

The Day Everything Changed

That's why what happened last June was a real bolt out of the blue.

I was running on a treadmill and didn’t have a lot of time. I was doing interval sprints: quick bursts followed by rest. I set the treadmill on fast and did 45-second sprints, then hopped off for 15 to rest before the next interval. I remember thinking, "I feel strong here."

When I finished, I went to get a drink, my neck aching slightly. Suddenly, I started to feel strange. Then, bang! A horrible, instant headache came from nowhere. I see why it is called the ‘thunderclap’ headache; I’ve never experienced pain like it. It’s hard to find the words to describe the sensation.

I’m still not sure how I managed the short drive home. But when I got there, my wife took one look at me and said, "Something's not right."

I went upstairs and lay down while she called the paramedics. When they arrived, I was curled up in a ball, not wanting to open my eyes. They saw enough to want to take me to A&E.

As I travelled in the ambulance, the pain intensified. Sickness kicked in, and this continued at the hospital. They scanned me, and that’s when they told me they suspected I’d had an SAH (a subarachnoid haemorrhage) – bleeding in the space surrounding the brain.

I was ‘blue-lighted’ to Salford Royal, but my memory of this and the next 24 hours is patchy. I don’t remember much, but I had a CT scan and further tests, and the SAH was confirmed. I was told to stay flat in a dark room and was given suppressants and painkillers.

The Road to Recovery

When I saw the consultant 24 hours later, they told me my SAH was non-aneurysmal and that I wasn't in any life-threatening danger. I remember him saying that if you’re going to have one, this would be the type to have. One in five SAHs are like this.

And that was it—no surgery, just painkillers and time. The process of recovery began.

I spent nine days in the hospital, and the variation in my condition was like a roadmap of what I’m experiencing now. Some days, I felt like it was happening again. Terrible pain in my head, sickness, and dizziness. Other days were tolerable. Although I was lying flat and not allowed out of bed, the pain and sensations were less severe. I barely ate during that time; the thought of food just didn’t register.

Today, twelve months on, I’m still picking up the pieces. Recovering is a journey that’s anything but a straight line. What I'm left with is a brain injury and uncertainty about when, or if, I will fully return to how I was before. In the first few months, I’d frequently lose my thread in conversation. I’d forget why I walked into a room. I’d repeat myself. I still don’t remember seeing my kids for the first time afterwards; I find that part hard.

The Support That Matters

I know I'm one of the lucky ones. I have my family, who’ve been everything for me. I’m working reduced hours and duties thanks to my amazing colleagues. I’m going running. And, I'm here.

But each day now is different. Some days I am fine. Some days I'm not quite myself, finding it hard to function. Social events in big groups, loud noises, being distracted, or multitasking are all very difficult. I haven’t lost the use of anything, and within reason, there’s nothing I can’t do. I just find I do some things differently. I adapt.

But the tricky part is trying to understand the impact of a brain injury when there are no visible signs—both for me and for others.

On better days, in familiar settings, I can feel much more like myself. Thankfully, when I look back now compared to the first nine months, I see significant signs of progress.

That’s why I’m still in touch with the wonderful, talented people at Salford Royal, which I’m lucky enough to live a few miles from. They’ve played a massive part in my recovery—from the brilliant, immediate care I received to their well-structured neuropsychology sessions. For anyone who has been through a similar process and wondered about the help available, I can’t recommend them highly enough.

Finding Information and Hope

In the days following the incident, my wife was trying to find more information about what had happened to me—often to little avail. But then she stumbled across The Natalie Kate Moss Trust website and podcasts, which have been incredibly helpful for us both.

I don’t really think my SAH could have been prevented; it’s just the way I am wired. I didn’t smoke or have high blood pressure. I was healthy. But I think this is why I’m keen to tell my story—to highlight that anyone can be at risk. Swift care and attention, plus a healthy lifestyle, have aided my physical recovery. If my story can help others, that’s a huge positive to come out of my situation.

Conclusion: A Journey of Hope and Resilience

Reflecting on my journey, I realize that recovery is not just about physical healing. It’s about emotional resilience, support from loved ones, and the courage to face each day, no matter how challenging it may be.

I hope my experience resonates with others. If you or someone you know is navigating a similar path, know that you’re not alone. There’s help, there’s hope, and there’s a community ready to support you.

Let’s continue to raise awareness about brain haemorrhages and the importance of swift medical attention. Together, we can turn personal tragedy into positive change.