You may never be the same person again.

YOU MIGHT NEVER BE THE PERSON YOU WERE, the doctor said matter-of-factly. Eight words I wasn’t mentally prepared to hear, and I will never forget them. Whilst processing them in silence, this statement sent a relentless wave of overwhelming questions flooding through my healing mind. Will I be the person I was? Do I want to be that person? Did I even like that version of me? Will a new me be better? Different? How different? Moving forward I refuse to let “The Event” (which is how I refer to what happened) define who I am. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did so that’s that. And what if the worst day of my life turns out to be the best day of my life? Those eight words will inspire me to heal and become the best version of me that is available. The only useful thing “The Event” has done is confirm how important expressing myself through photography is. Making images isn’t just a part of my life, it is an essential part of who I am. It is vital to my well-being and I do not want to contemplate my life without it. And so here I am. It happened. What next? At first, I refused to let myself think about taking pictures again. I was scared. “The Event” completely paralyzed my right side. The intimidating physicality of just holding a camera, let alone operating it, held an overwhelming fear. The camera was a symbol and a brutal reminder of my physical limitations; however, it is the only way I know how to cope. My life cannot be devoid of my images. I have a far bigger fear of taking tablets than taking pictures. I made the decision that photography will be my medicine. It will make me better. The documenting of my personal healing began when a close friend brought in an old compact film camera and put it in my hand. With no idea what I would shoot or even if I was capable of shooting, I accepted this simple gesture. The prospect of photographing again was intimidating, but also provided a hopeful moment of light against the monotonous sense of dread of what laid ahead of me. If this intimate gesture had not happened, the view of the world that I saw then, that you see now through these unedited images, would look and feel very different. There was no reason or plan for these pictures. They served a purpose to help pass time, which I had lots of and little to occupy my mind. I can never recreate what they are. They documented a moment, defined by my mental and physical state at that time. Since “the event” a period of healing has passed. My mind, physical ability, and outlook on my future has moved on, it is in a different place. Like “The event” maybe this was meant to be, just like the pictures were meant to be my way of reclaiming “Me” from it. I can’t remember when “The Event’ happened, or maybe I don’t want to remember. Going running was invaluable “me time”. Time for myself to think about everything and nothing. It always put me in a positive space, ready for another day of tackling work and all that being a husband and dad of four children throws at you. Leaving early was my routine, to make it back before the children woke and not to disturb theirs. 4:30 am, stretch, a drink of water, and out the door by 5:00. But on this day, it was my routine that was disturbed. At 5:05AM on September 6, 2018 I suffered “a left side MCA infarct, thrombus in the left side carotid artery.” A stroke. I collapsed. With no idea what was happening to me, I tried to get up time and time again, but to no avail. With each attempt at movement the paralysis became more apparent. Oblivious to the time spent with this battle, my body began to shut down. Exhaustion took over and I began drifting in and out of consciousness. One final failed attempt to move left me with my right arm limp and twisted behind my back. It was time to stop, to give up. So, I did. Calmly and peacefully I laid still and allowed myself to slip into an unconscious state. After an hour and a half of being alone, a passing woman saved my life. I was rushed to Hospital and underwent surgery to remove a blood clot on my brain. It’s here where the hopelessness of my situation became real. I could not speak. I could not move. Was this the beginning of a void, a sense of nothingness, that my life would become? I felt horror at the possibility of losing my independence and being confined to a bed, staring at walls. The place I found myself was tortuous and lonely. A near lifeless state of limbo as I worked to painstakingly reboot my mind and body from its paralysis. This space was uncomfortable to live in and left me with time for endless questions and fears. My mental state combined with the physical effort to move my right side left me feeling helpless and chronically fatigued. I never set out to document the aftermath of my stroke with photographs. As part of my personal healing process it is important that I accept that what happened, happened - that it should be expressed in the same uncensored, unedited way that I experienced it. This series was shot on film. Prior to my stroke, I had been torn by questions of whether my photography was being stifled by the disposable nature of sharing images online. Should I allow myself the luxury of reviewing, composing and editing that digital photography allows for the sake of praise? Or should I commit to what I see and document how it is? Prior to my stroke, I was drawn toward shooting more with film. I see it as unmanipulated and not manipulative. Film is the one “unknown” in my life – a thing I cannot control - that I happily consent to. This series is a window to the new world that “might never be the same person again” saw in the aftermath of a stroke. I still have deep fears and face challenges every day, but I now have hope. And hope is the most beautiful of all unknown things. As I continue to work out the right prescription of photography “medication” I do see a future ahead. It is a different one, but maybe that was the plan for me all along.