52 weeks, a tale of stroke-survivor-ness
Until last year, February had been a month of celebrations.
We welcomed our newborn twins on Valentines Day in 2008 and the Squidge on the 28th (nearly leap day!) of 2012. My mother-in-law shares the twins’ birthday and my father-in-law celebrates his on the 19th.
Phew! That’s a lot of cake.
My late grandfather’s birthday, who was by the way, a wily and crazy-like-a-fox kind of guy, was cause for more celebration. He was, and is, deeply connected to me, in a father-like role.
That’s why 20 February, his birthday, seems like an unlikely day to change my life forever. On this day, I suffered a stroke, as a result of a carotid artery dissection.
As this week marks the first year and as we approach my anniversary, I don’t know how I should feel.
What am I expected to feel?
It leaves me confused and, if I’m honest, more than just a tiny bit stressed.
I’m trying to go about my therapies, my errands and my writing as if it is any other week. But should I?
I want to take the time to feel ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.
I want to mourn the loss.
Of my handwriting.
Of my ability to quip.
Of doing simple arithmetic.
Of setting the supper table without having to count and recount the places.
Of being able to run down the stairs.
Of not being afraid each time someone is kicking a ball near to me.
Of not having to ask a friend if my damn nose has snot on it.
I’m sick of having THIS STUPID STROKE.
On my anniversary, I will allow myself the time and space that my stroke deserves.
Deserves? Yes. It most definitely deserves the power to influence decisions and affect change.
It forced its will on me. I couldn't stop it. It is me.
Emotionally, I will not fully recover unless I envelop what it means to me and champion the love and the change that it represents.
So, yes, it deserves a special place in my heart. One which I will always remember and respect.
That sounds quite evolved, since I’m hiding scared in the corner. My year anniversary marks so much more to me.
I remember bits and pieces of that day’s events.
One minute I was asking Johan to take Cleo to the bus, while texting that I would be a little bit late to the PTA meeting (because I just needed to lay down) and the next moment I was looking at my phone, trying like mad to remember how the bloody thing worked and what I was trying to text anyway.
And then there was nothing.
I would like to say that running through my mind were my kids or my husband but actually what goes through your mind when you're knee-deep in having a stroke, is nothingness.
I remember Katja’s green sweater. I remember thinking I should tell her that it is a nice colour on her.
I remember the fear in Johan’s voice, although it didn't alarm me.
I remember waking up from my slumber as the paramedics were taking me down my stairs and again when the ER nurses were tugging my bracelets off of my wrist.
Funnily enough, I remember sitting up and asking for a bar of soap. That got them talking... or rather judging my perception of reality. Still, I persisted. Upon bringing me that bar of soap, I demonstrated how to rub it on my wrist, so that the bracelets would come off more easily.
I remember Johan telling me that I had to stay while they ran some tests. I felt my first anxious moments, because his face, which was normally so calm, had fear written all over it.
I remember the insurmountable dread that I felt when I woke up during my surgery. I couldn’t move because my head was in a vice. I couldn’t talk to signal that I was awake. I just stared wide-eyed at the calmness of what seemed like a dozen surgeons staring at computer screens. And then nothing.
Those hours must have seemed like a lifetime for Katja and Johan and all of the people that were waiting for me to safely come out of surgery. For nearly 10 hours, they waited. They didn’t eat. They only had one another.
I remember, in the wee hours of the morning waking up to unfamiliar surroundings. I was alive, but the incessant urge to see Johan, who had gone home to get some “sleep” was unbearable.
I remember sobbing and sobbing for him. I must have scared the poor nurses to death.
I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move my entire right side of my body. I didn’t know where I was or what was wrong with me.
Those were some dark and very creepy times.
However it also encapsulates my life’s starting point, so to speak. It is like everything has been brought, suddenly, to life and I'm celebrating my one year birthday.
Thru these 52 weeks I’ve had to relearn, just as a baby. I have not recovered yet. And who knows if I will ever fully recover.
I once heard the statistic that only 3% of stroke survivors ever fully recover. 3%!!!! Gee wiz!
What I can say is that my attitude, my stick-to-it-ness and my (slight) addiction to perfection will serve me thru my battle.
If I have learned anything from this crisis, all we can ever do to prepare for disasters is make a solid plan and lean into it.
Getting ready to celebrate this milestone brings on heavy emotions and I don’t think I’m ready to let go. You see, the minute that you let the feeling go, it is as if you’re closing the door on your grief.
So, I hesitate. Not because I didn’t think I would make it. Not because I don’t think I deserve it.
It’s simply because I have never had to face something so vast, so raw, so bitter as death before.
Facing my own mortality changes all that is me.
Somedays, I do it well. I meditate. I visualise. I treat everyone with respect. Part of the bright, new, sunny side of my stroke-survivor-ness.
But, on other, darker days, I really get it wrong. The demons creep up on me and paint my world black.
I write this with hope in my heart.
Hope that with each passing day, the pain becomes smaller in my mind and less significant in my soul, leaving me with yet another celebration.