From diagnosis to the path back to life - An authentic journey through highs and lows that gives courage and shows: There is hope after stroke.
As a successful businessman, I thought: "That only happens to other people." Until that day in Mallorca when a tongue twitch changed my life forever.
I was on a business trip to Tokyo - full of energy, successful, fit. Ten intensive days of negotiations and walks through the fascinating metropolis. Everything went perfectly. Life was exactly as I wanted it.
Family vacation in Mallorca. My younger son Louis was celebrating his twelfth birthday. We rode jet skis - a hard impact on high waves. Today I'm convinced: That was the trigger for everything that followed.
While speaking, I suddenly felt an uncontrolled twitching of my tongue. Nobody noticed it - not even my wife. But I felt it. It was different. Unusual. It was the beginning.
"The next morning I woke up feeling like I'd had a wild party night. Only without the party."
At the hospital in Mallorca, a "tumor" was discovered. I left the hospital against medical advice - we wanted to go home. As our plane taxied to the runway, my phone buzzed:
"Dear Mr. Brandt, you have left the hospital against medical advice and are in acute mortal danger. Please seek immediate medical attention."
The plane took off. I closed my eyes. In that moment began a journey I never could have imagined.
"Imagine a blood vessel that looks like a blackberry. This cavernoma is located in your brainstem." The place where everything converges: movement, breathing, speech, life.
Double vision, numbness, balance disorders. Symptoms like those of a severe stroke. Every millimeter in the brainstem determines basic bodily functions.
A highly complex procedure on the open brainstem. "It's possible that you'll feel worse afterward than you do now." And now was already really bad.
The transfer to the University Hospital. With every threshold, every floor joint, my bed vibrated, and I felt every slightest shock in my head. My skull was throbbing. The ambient noise was barely tolerable.
The chief of neurology explained that surgery would only be possible if the bleeding expanded a bit more and clotted. That sounded completely contradictory. With a stroke, every minute counts – here it meant: wait.
"The procedure is highly complex: A corridor only a few millimeters wide must be guided between nerve pathways and brain convolutions. It's possible that you'll feel worse afterward than you do now."
I listened. I understood. I accepted. I took the pen – with my last strength – and signed the consent forms. In the presence of my wife. For her. For me. For life.
That night I slept peacefully through. As if my body knew: You need this rest.
At six in the morning, a nurse woke me. "You'll be picked up in half an hour," she said quietly. My head was empty. No fear. No images. No thoughts about what could go wrong.
Outside the operating room stood the anesthesiologist. I knew what this moment meant: These were my last minutes of consciousness. Maybe I'll wake up later. Maybe not.
The most important realization before surgery:
I didn't think about missed opportunities, unfinished goals, or regrets. What I had instead was this one feeling: I'm at peace with my life. I'm ready.
Knowing that you regret nothing – that gives incredible peace in this moment.
I remember exactly the moment of waking up. It was like waking up normally from a night's sleep. A slow becoming aware. My first thought was as clear as it was simple: You're waking up – so you're alive.
In the next moment, something else became clear to me: I couldn't move. Neither arms nor legs. Neither my head nor my neck. I couldn't control anything.
"I used to often feel strong. An eagle – that was the image that accompanied me. But now I saw something different. A run-over bird. Flattened on a crosswalk. That's me."
I was alive. But I was at a point I never thought possible. The lowest point you can reach without being dead. And yet I had no panic. No fear. I was convinced that I possessed the strength to come back.
Since waking up, I had a breathing mask over my mouth and nose, connected to a ventilator. My breathing muscles were too weak. And every time I breathed too shallowly, the machine sounded an alarm. A shrill tone, high, piercing – a constant reminder: You are dependent.
At the same time, a tube was in my throat. With such a tube, you can't swallow. Can't speak. I was there – awake, with a clear mind – but mute.
But I wanted to speak. I wanted to communicate. My body was almost completely paralyzed, but my right wrist – I could move that.
My wife understood immediately. She placed a notepad under my hand, clamped a pen between my fingers. Letter by letter. In my head.
A daily puzzle between us:
It became an act of tenderness, patience, and deepest connection. We spoke without voice. But we understood each other. A body that is silent. A head that screams. A spirit that quietly endures.
Life after stroke means above all one thing: learning patience. Patience with your own body that suddenly no longer obeys. Patience with progress that can be measured in millimeters, not kilometers.
My rehabilitation began already in the ICU. Not with big exercises, but with the most basic functions of the human body. I had to relearn swallowing. Speaking. Breathing without a machine.
In the healthcare system, stroke rehabilitation is divided into different phases. Each phase has its own challenges and goals:
The first critical hours and days. This is about survival. ICU, ventilation, monitoring of all vital functions. For me, these were the days of pure existence.
Still bedridden, but the first therapy attempts begin. Speech therapy, physiotherapy while lying down. Small movements that feel like miracles.
The patient is medically stable. Intensive therapies begin. Here I learned to stand, walk, speak again. Every day a small battle.
Preparation for life at home. Daily living training, occupational reintegration. The transition from patient to person with special needs.
"Rehabilitation after stroke is not a sprint. It's a marathon where every step counts, even the smallest ones."
My day in rehabilitation began at 6:30 AM. Washing, dressing – everything with help. Then breakfast, where every swallow was a conscious effort. Swallowing, something so self-evident, had to be completely relearned.
9:00 AM: Physical therapy. At first, this meant someone moved my arms and legs because I couldn't do it myself. Passive movements to prevent the muscles from completely atrophying.
10:30 AM: Speech therapy. The speech therapist worked with me on the basics of communication. Not on complex sentences, but on forming sounds again at all.
Afternoons: Occupational therapy. This was about the simplest hand movements. Grasping a ball. Holding a pen. Movements that a toddler masters effortlessly and that became peak performances for me.
The first independent sip of water after weeks of feeding tube. The first sound that came from my throat again. The first conscious movement of my left index finger. These moments are never forgotten. They are like small miracles in an otherwise difficult daily life.
Hemiparesis means that one half of the body is weakened or paralyzed. In my case, the left side. Life after stroke with hemiparesis changes every aspect of daily life.
Simple activities like dressing become complex tasks. Putting on a shirt when one arm doesn't work properly requires new techniques and above all time. Lots of time.
Walking with a partially paralyzed leg means relearning balance. Every step must be consciously placed. There are no more automatisms.
Besides the practical challenges, there's the emotional component. The frustration when your body doesn't obey. The shame in public. The fear of falling. All of this belongs to the reality of living with hemiparesis.
Life after stroke never affects only the patient alone. It changes the life of the entire family. My wife became the primary caregiver overnight, the spokesperson, the translator between me and the world.
She sat for hours by my bed and observed every smallest change. She learned to interpret my incomprehensible gestures, to decipher my illegible notes. She became my eyes and ears in a world that was suddenly closed to me.
While I was trapped in my own world of survival and slow recovery, my family went through their own phases of processing:
"This can't be true. He was healthy just yesterday." The first hours are marked by disbelief and the hope that everything is just a bad dream.
"Why him? What could we have done differently?" The anger at fate, at the doctors, sometimes even at the patient himself.
"If he can just speak again, then everything else is unimportant." The phase of compromises and desperate hoping for improvement.
"He's not the same anymore, but he's still here." Arriving at a new reality that nobody would have chosen.
"Family members of stroke patients experience their own form of paralysis – emotional, social, and often financial as well."
Life after stroke changes not only the relationship with the affected person, but the entire family structure. Suddenly roles must be redistributed, responsibilities redefined, and daily life completely reorganized.
My wife had to learn to make decisions for both of us. She became the manager of my appointments, the coordinator between different therapists, and the interpreter for my needs, which I often couldn't express myself.
You are not alone. It's normal to be overwhelmed. It's okay to sometimes be angry or sad. You need support just as much as the patient. Seek help. Talk to other affected families. Don't neglect yourselves.
"I was convinced that I would feel better in three, four, five weeks. That it wouldn't stay with this timeframe by far, I couldn't know then."
Life after stroke is not measured in days or weeks, but in small, daily progress over months and years.
Without my wife, who was with me for an hour every day, who deciphered my scrawled letters on the notepad - without her I wouldn't have survived this time.
Life after stroke means learning to accept help while maintaining your dignity.
I used to measure success in business meetings and revenue. After the stroke, it was a success when the nurse understood that I wanted the radio louder.
Life after stroke teaches that the smallest victories can be the greatest.
"And yet I have no panic. No fear. I'm convinced that I possess the strength. That it's not over. That it's a beginning - even if it feels like an end."
Life after stroke means believing, even when everything speaks against it.
What you have read here is only the beginning. The complete journey - from the first symptoms to today - you can find in my book.
No hero story, but the pure truth
What really happens and how to deal with it
Experiences that encourage and give hope
Understanding what their loved ones go through
"It's not about perfection. It's about progress. About dignity. About life."
If you or a loved one has been affected by stroke, know this: There is a way. It's not the way you would have chosen - but it is a way back to life.
"It's easy to be strong on good days. But it's the dark ones where you discover your true strength. When no one is watching. When everything is quiet. And you keep going anyway."
This story is written for everyone who wants to know what it feels like - and that it's possible to come back.