The story that Slow Ways storyteller Genevieve Rudd never imagined she’d be writing for us
Genevieve Rudd was a woman who walked, not just for wellbeing but as a part of her work and her art. Less than a year ago, at 34, she learned she had a brain aneurysm. Near-fatal complications from neurosurgery radically altered her life and in the months that followed Genevieve took steps towards learning to walk again. In her latest story, she shares her arduous and inspirational on-going recovery journey.
Life pre-diagnosis
“My name is Genevieve Rudd, I’m 34 years old and I live in Great Yarmouth on the Norfolk coast. I am a community artist with an environmental arts practice. Up until recently, I was totally independent. For more than a decade, I led creative and wellbeing walks, and outdoor nature-connection activities with groups. Walking art formed a big part of my identity.
I have never been short of places to explore on my doorstep, having walked from the coastal edges (Stitches in the water) to the vast marshlands (Hiking alone to one of Britain’s least-used stations) and through the urban areas in between. I was reliant on my mobility to engage in the artistic process of collecting materials whilst walking and immersing myself in environments.
In late 2023 I was diagnosed with a giant brain aneurysm and told I needed urgent neurosurgery, around one month away from my initial consultation.
My face like drooping wax
It was to be sooner than this. A few weeks later I walked into A&E after experiencing strange sensations. One Sunday, I started to feel unwell with very heavy fatigue. My face was tingling over the left-hand side and it felt like drooping wax. I had to ask my husband if it looked different as it felt very different to me. He said it looked like it had slightly dropped on the left side.
I stayed at A&E all of that evening, before being transferred to Addenbrooks hospital in Cambridge by ambulance. I arrived at 3am into a ward of sleeping women. I remember a feeling of extreme anxiety at not wanting to wake them up by my arrival on a stretcher trolley.
I woke up the next morning feeling totally alone and burst into tears. I had been living with an unruptured aneurysm, which was like a bowl of lava in my brain that was at a high risk of boiling over and now here I was in a room full of people presumably going through similar experiences.
I had been living with an unruptured aneurysm, which was like a bowl of lava in my brain that was at a high risk of boiling over and now here I was in a room full of people presumably going through similar experiences
I stayed on the neurosurgery ward for about a week watching as other women went and came back from theirs. I wondered what I would be like after my own surgery. Would I be the woman who looked fine on the outside? Would I be the woman who was constantly sedated or the one crying out in pain?
Every morning I would walk up and down the ward corridor, say hello to the staff and orientate myself. I would take myself on themed walks in the ward such as to search for nature or to read the notice boards. It felt so much easier to have my emotional needs met when I was physically able.
After a while, I was moved to a different part of the ward where I could see more sky, to cloud watch and look over at a group of trees. This was the most nature I could find on the ward.
Whilst I knew the risk of the surgery, I had no choice but to take that risk to save my life. The risk of aneurysm rupture was high and potentially fatal. As the first surgery approached, and to help myself feel more grounded, I walked outside with my parents and hugged a tree.
Whilst I knew the risk of the surgery, I had no choice but to take that risk to save my life
Once I woke up from surgery, I was told that there had been complications, and for a time there was the possibility I would not wake up. An emergency surgical intervention triggered a large stroke. I was faced with a long and difficult recovery.
Can’t get up? Fake news!
Feelings of shock, sadness, surrealness, frustration and a gradual process of realising I was unable to walk or mobilise came over me in waves. I had patches in my memory of my time directly after my surgery, which meant my family had to fill in the gaps.
My left arm felt heavy. I had no sense of it belonging to my body. In my confused state I exclaimed to the staff that someone had left a baby on my stomach. Episodes of impaired ‘proprioception’ (not knowing where my affected-side limbs are) have continued.
Once the confusion began to clear and the anaesthesia wore off, I couldn’t really fathom that I could not walk straight away. My brain was telling me I had just walked up and down the corridor and I got more and more frustrated when my family doubted what I was saying. My brain was mixing up memories from earlier in my hospital stay. This was mixed with some delirium and hallucinations, where I had vivid conversations with my friends who were not really there.
I was constantly forgetting I was unable to do even small tasks. My husband has told me I couldn’t understand why nobody would let me get up and go to the toilet and I accused them of giving me ‘fake news’. I asked so much that in the end the physios helped me stand with support and I passed out due to postural hypotension (very low drop in blood pressure from being horizontal for so long). I was very frightened and did not ask again for a while.
Seven weeks after surgery, I arrived at Caroline House, the specialist neuro rehab unit at the Colman hospital in Norwich, transported on a stiff rickety stretcher.
Learning to walk has been even more difficult as I don’t get full sensation or feedback from the floor when I take steps. I also can’t always see the floor or my legs/feet properly due to some permanent sight loss and I need to look at my affected limb to make it move – my brain now needs that extra visual feedback to compensate.
I felt sad and incredibly frustrated when seeing how weak my steps were. I was annoyed at myself for no longer being able to do something that came so naturally before. I didn’t always believe progress was possible, but constant repetition and perseverance has been paying off and noticing my progress gives me a huge boost of motivation to continue this exhausting and seemingly endless process of recovery.
My version of ‘going out for a walk’ is now mostly being pushed along by someone in my wheelchair. Whilst I’m ‘down here’, they are ‘up there’, leaning over me and having a different experience. I’m not at eye level with them or the rest of the world.
Utilities aren’t designed for me. From the hand dryers even in so-called ‘accessible’ toilets, to signage and surfaces around shops, to the pin card machines and seating at tables in cafes. I doubt these are designed by or with wheelchair-users – the world now feels out of my reach. For a long time, I couldn’t get up to hug my family and friends.
I doubt these are designed by or with wheelchair-users – the world now feels out of my reach
I feel like I am constantly pleading with people to help me with the smallest of tasks, like picking up items I have accidentally dropped. It’s simple things like moving objects between rooms or getting into my garden, or not being able to access the upstairs of my house that cause me frustration.
I have given myself permission to be sad about the difficulties I now have. I give myself permission to be annoyed about well-meaning text messages from people telling me being ‘positive’ will mean I will recover quicker (as if that’s all I need to get better!). Whilst I know these are coming from a good place, in the early days I found it patronising as it trivialises the weight of my life-changing trauma.
Walking out of rehab
Despite being ‘full hoist’ as they call it (meaning having no independent way of mobilising or transferring) it was my goal to walk out of the hospital door upon discharge. That day came in early May 2024 – about five months into my stay. I made my way towards the hospital entrance to find the staff all lined up for my exit. I stood up from my wheelchair and steadied my balance with my quad stick.
I started walking towards the bell that is rung to signal a patient’s discharge. It chimed out loudly over the cheering and clapping of those on the ward
Guided by some of my key staff and with my husband by my side, I started walking towards the bell that is rung to signal a patient’s discharge. It chimed out loudly over the cheering and clapping of those on the ward, I carried on walking, past the reception desk and out into the sunshine. I can’t count how many times I’ve watched the video of my discharge walk, kindly filmed on my husband’s phone by my physiotherapist. It makes me swell with pride and has brought tears to the eyes of those I’ve shown it to.
To go out in nature and make art, my community occupational therapist has recently given me an armrest to put on my NHS chair when I’m out. I’ve been using this as a drawing surface.
The core of me has been reaffirmed. I always knew I was someone who was determined, but I would have never imagined I could have got through something like this
Since being in hospital, a new bridge has been built in my hometown. My goal is now to walk the length of it when I’m strong enough. The core of me has been reaffirmed. I always knew I was someone who was determined, but I would have never imagined I could have got through something like this.
Genevieve is currently working on a project called ‘Ambulatory Imaginations’, that incorporate her lived experience and will create inclusive and accessible ways of engaging in arts and nature in Norfolk/ Suffolk with others experiencing similar brain /spinal/ neuro/ mobility/ sight barriers.
You can read Genevieve’s previous Slow Ways stories and artworks here and here. We hope Genevieve will write for us again as she continues to recover.
Genevieve Rudd
Genevieve Rudd is an experienced community artist based in/from Great Yarmouth, on the Norfolk coast. She develops creative projects that encourage closer looking, and that ask about the places and people around us. These include environmental arts, working outdoors, walking and nurturing nature-connection through creativity. Genevieve’s participatory work with people often explores the intersection between arts, health & wellbeing, and climate & environment.
In her own arts practice, she considers themes of time, place and seasonality through slow photographic practices. This includes growing plants to use in her work, capturing seasonal moments and weather events, and creating artwork that can compost back to the earth. Genevieve is a qualified Wild Beach Leader and Founder of Under Open Sky, a not-for-profit organisation exploring our relationships to the changing coastal climate through multidisciplinary approaches, based in East Anglia.
