The Film That Blew My Mind

Of all the films I’ve watched, the only one to blow my mind was Birds of Prey. Six years ago, I sat in the cinema with my wife, Charlotte. We were watching Birds of Prey and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn. We were about three-quarters of the way through. I felt an intense pressure in my forehead. My vision went haywire. I stumbled out of the screen and onto a couch in the lobby, where Charlotte got help.

I remember the cinema. I remember part of the ambulance ride to the hospital. But at some point, my memory… stops. More than two weeks passed before I could start recalling day-to-day moments again. I know everything from that time only through stories told to me afterward. These were many humorous moments. They kept my family smiling through the uncertainty. I was there and I was the funniest I have ever been. But those two weeks don’t exist for me.

Six months later, Charlotte bought me the Birds of Prey Blu-ray for my birthday. The plan was simple: we’d finish watching it together. The evening arrived. We got closer and closer to that same point in the film. I started feeling uneasy. I went to the bathroom and sat there for 20 minutes. Charlotte reminded me that we didn’t have to finish it that night. Instead, we watched it the next day, in broad daylight.

At the time, we still didn’t know why my stroke had happened. There was a part of me that wondered if the flashing lights, the bright colours, something in that moment, had triggered it. , the doctors were able to determine the cause after many head scans and an angiogram. By elimination, they found it was an arteriovenous malformation (AVM). The mystery finally had an answer two years later, but the fear of that moment lingered.

In the weeks that followed my stroke, I faced uncertainty. I wondered what my recovery would look like. I thought about what I would regain. I feared what I would lose forever. The biggest lasting effects? Permanent double vision and memory issues, both of which make everyday life more interesting. I’ve sought surgical solutions for my vision. But, the risk of complications is too high. This is my reality now: seeing the world twice over, whether I like it or not. About my memory, please understand this. If I ever tell the same story more than once, be kind. I likely think it’s the first time I’m telling it.

But here’s the thing: I’m still here. And that’s something I never want to take for granted.

In the six years since my stroke, I’ve learned a lot about resilience. I’ve learned about faith and the importance of the people around me. I’ve had to let go of the idea that life will ever go “back to normal.” This is my normal now. I still have days where I feel the weight of it, where I wish things were different. But I also have days filled with gratitude. For my family and for the medical care that kept me alive. I am thankful for the support of friends. I treasure the simple joys of life even more now.

My faith has stretched through all this. It’s also deepened in ways I couldn’t have imagined. In my hardest moments, I’m reminded that I don’t walk through this alone. I’ve seen God’s hand in the people who’ve supported me. I’vseened it in the unexpected blessings along the way. I’ve also noticed it in the grace I’ve had to extend to myself. I am navigating a body and mind that don’t always cooperate.

If I could go back and give myself any advice, it would be this: Be patient with yourself. Healing, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, doesn’t happen on a convenient timeline. There will be frustration, setbacks, and days where progress feels impossible. But you will get through it. Not always easily, not always gracefully, but step by step, moment by moment. And you’ll come out the other side with a deeper appreciation for the things that matter most.

So today, I take a moment to acknowledge what happened. I remember how far I’ve come. I give thanks to God. I thank Charlotte and my family. My gratitude extends to the doctors and nurses who saved my life. I am grateful to everyone who has walked alongside me since. Six years on, I’m still here. And that’s worth celebrating.