My unexpected anger and frustration with my recovery
One thing which I find exhausting, complicated and sometimes really no picnic about my stroke, and yet the most rewarding aspect, was my choice to rehabilitate at home.
This was not an obvious choice, nor was it easy for me to wrap my head around it. Circumstances along the path of my recovery took an about-face and sort of led down that windy and twisted road.
At my stroke’s severity level and as I still needed 24-hour care, the doctors were quick to suggest a rehab facility.
I remember the day, like it was yesterday, when I toured Tokyo’s leading rehabilitation centre. Johan and I were almost giddy with anticipation.
Oh, did I stump you there? Here is the thing, when you are so many weeks in the hospital, the next stage (even if that stage is rehab) means that you’ve actually made it to the next stage. And that, my friends, is cause for a moment (albeit brief) of cheer.
It was my first morning out of the hospital, with a hall-pass until lunchtime. With my mother in tow and a very kind Japanese friend to translate for us, we were ready to take on this next stage of my development.
Our expectations were set high. From the doctors raving about famous athletes who recuperated there, to my own image of myself getting “fixed” there, nothing could have prepared us for what we found.
The sheer breathtaking sense of despair of this day and the panic that ensued, will haunt my memories for a long time to come.
The patients were all seemingly locked in a jail, for a crime that I can only assume they did not commit. None of them looked in any way happy, in fact they were like zombies. I found it difficult to envision myself living side by side to these shadows.
I envisioned something totally different. Not that there is anything wrong with it, because let’s face it, we are all going to be old one day, but in my mind I kind of pictured young ballplayers instead of people with the average age of 94.
It was hard to see. There was no life, no joy. Just listless souls, succumbing to their environment.
Still, I persisted.
Then we came around to the part of the tour which I was actually looking forward to, the part where all the baseball players would fight to recover and I myself was going to make leaps and bounds on my own recovery, the sports complex.
When the tour guide told me that I could use the gym two hours per day and only then under close supervision of my trainer, I wanted to scream! What????? How the hell would this benefit me!!!! I was sick with the thought….
I was motivated, able and doing significantly more exercises than that already!!!! I couldn’t stand the thought.
And still, I persisted.
I think I started to lose the plot around the time when we started to discuss what my daily life would look like.
I would have undergo a medical exam to see if I could shower alone, or if I would need an aide to help. As I was already showering alone, I found this completely frustrating.
I would have to eat every meal in the cafeteria, side by side with my classmates. Think about it, who would I speak to? Who would speak to me? I pictured myself that loser that the old-cronies would have to draw straws to sit next to.
I would have to have permission and a special pass to go outside. Not getting a breath of fresh air, at ones will, seemed like a slow form of torture for me.
Aside from the two hours in total which I would have my therapy, I guess I would be stuck like a rat in its cage.
All of these things I could possibly live with on their own, maybe even two or three, but throwing me off was the combination of them all.
And then wait for it, wait for it…. because the kicker, the biggest culprit, the culminating factor was that there was no private room with a bathroom attached available. So my shower would get presumably crowded by my aide, myself and all of the oldies running about.
You can stand anything for one week but three months is a long bloody time.
I left with the feeling of doom and aggression and a feeling of helplessness that rose from my stomach and rested in my throat.
The rest of that day became one which I cannot, and should not, forget. I took my anger, my rage, and turned my destructive behaviour on anyone that was in my way.
I fought with my mother, my best friend and my husband, as well as any doctors or nurses who dared to get in my way. I was unstoppable, on a path leading to my own destruction.
The day was also a turning point for me.
On one hand, I just wanted to kick myself that I believed in the hype of the rehab centre. I mean how stupid could I be? Everyone knows that Japan is a greying population, and everyone knows that old people generally get strokes and I should know that I would be kidding myself to think that handsome ball players would meet me, decide in an instant that I was the bee’s knees and shower me with season tickets in the owner’s box.
I saw everything blocking me from my recuperation and didn’t yet see the opportunity.
So I gave in to my stroke that day. I moved aside for the demons to take over. There were so many of them and they were crashing down, so I decided to let them win.
You see, someone might walk the same walk that I did that day. And that someone might have a very different reaction to that day. But, here’s the thing, when that someone is dealing with a brain injury, she just sees red. (See my previous post for more on that one!)
Now that I’ve dragged you down the rabbit hole with me, perhaps you wonder how it is that I am rehabilitating from home. Well it was a long, drawn-out process...of course it was... but I will save it for next time.
It starts out with a fire under my ass, me considering that there has to be a better way and then turning all sorts of Stacie about it… because like my grandmother says, “When you are this far down, the only way to go is up.” And she is not just a pretty face.
Til next time.
Sx
