Believe it: A tale of stroke recovery-ness

When I hit my first stroke anniversary in February, I had feelings of elation. 

I had made it so far!

Then the weeks passed by and I could feel my steam lessening with each day, trudging up the slippery slope of my recovery. I found it was work that was beneath me, in some ironical way.

Until today, I’m positively laden down with all of the work I have to do. All of the therapies. All of the exercises. I just fail to see the point of it all.  

Here’s the thing, on the miserable days, I can only see the work that it takes. When those wretched demons unveil their ugly faces to me, I have two choices. I can either submit myself to them, letting them win, or fight. 

What keeps me fighting is a promise. 

That I made to myself. 

That I made to my family. 

And that I made to my village. 

So, I keep writing.

It wasn’t too hard to find that thing which I am passionate about, that one thing that gets me singing my fight song.

I missed using my words, as a process. 

I use my writing to express what I am thinking and feeling, to suss out what it really means and, hopefully, to gel my thoughts with words that can express what’s in my head.   

When I first started writing, in the weeks following my stroke, it was tough. I would spend two hours with my speech and language therapist and the only result was a rough sentence or two. 

I couldn’t know that I would be a writer again someday. However, between my passion and the profuse magnitude of the brain’s capabilities, that’s me, slowly plugging along each and every day.  

I keep running.

I was reading back thru my first blog post after my stroke. 

In it, I mentioned how I realised that it was only the beginning of my recovery. Flash forward many weeks, steps and kilometers later and it still is only the beginning. 

I can still remember those first steps I took around my hospital floor. I was walking with my IV stand for balance and my mother for confidence. Around and around the nurses ward I eventually made one lap and then another, until I was unafraid to walk without my IV stand or my mother.

The results are not as drastic anymore. 

Hell, I ran 20 kilometers this week alone, but those first steps in the hospital felt more momentous. 

The point is, it was a grueling task to get where I am today. I kept working even when I didn't want to. I still have a way to go if I am going run that marathon! 

I keep doing it for me.

I want to fully believe in the results, even if I don’t see them on a day to day basis. 

I believe in me. 

Because there is no alternative.