Recovery?

a sign

Maybe it was the heat of the sun, but this idea came to me in the desert.

First we were invited to tag along to an Aids benefit kick off party. Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres were at the home, well the court yard to said home, of this benefactress, Jackie Lee Houston, or simply Jackie Lee. In prepping for small talk with Della Reese, Mary Wilson and the lord and lady angels of Palm Springs, Brian googled her.

That is when we discovered that besides patronizing the PS Film Festival, the PS Art Museum, and the Aids Assistance Program (Ruby’s on the board), ONE of the other irons Jackie Lee has in the fire is named the Stroke Recovery Center.

Brian mentions this, we both say hmmmm, we put it in the back of our vacation muddled minds. Soon after, he strolls, I wobble, out to the pool deck to sip our morning coffee. Picking up the local Desert Sun newspaper what should I behold but an article about a fund raiser for THE Stroke Recovery Center?!?

It was then, coinciding with my amazement at this coincidence, that B brings up the Center in conversation, mentioning that he looked it up and its 8 minutes away. I say “I’m just looking for further guidance”; their motto “We begin . . . where others leave off”. Strange?

Fast forward, interview, tour, nice garden, nice people, Ruby offers free bed. Did I mention cost is FREE? Donations optional? I’ve been praying for help, but this is sudden. I call, someone picked up.

Whirlwind.

Just like “that” I’m in. The place is a godsend. The woman doing the interviewing asks me if I’d agree to them using my nameless statistics to impress the need for places like this around the country. She read my fogged mind. “Why? WHY aren’t there more places like this? “ Surely I’m not the only one who is wobbling through life. The hospital took care of my life. Rehab took care of getting me off the walker, now what? Goodbye, good luck.

What do I eat? How do I get strong enough to get off the couch? Are there exercises I can do? I’m inoperable, OK, am I condemned to death? I have a lot of questions.

So, I am looking into living in the desert for awhile, who’d have thought? Leaving the comfort of my garden, my dogs, my sister, my HUSBAND and the sofa and the TV. Did I mention I found an oasis?

Discuss.

http://www.strokerecoverycenter.org/Index.html

- - - David

Taken For Granted

A Simple Gift: Washed, rinsed and drip dying

A rush towards the door, no time to pour a to-go cup, too hurried to put on his coat it’s enough that he has it in one hand, the two panting dogs receive a quick dismissal.

“David will feed you.”

Four words. Presumption never sounded so good.

Six months ago I was flat on my back, only allowed strained hospital food. Five months ago my therapy included placing pegs into a board, throwing a ball and reciting phone numbers. Opening a can was an unspoken aspiration.

Did I mention the drooling.

This morning, as he sped out of the house, I was once again an option. I would take care of things, not just be taken care of. At 8:00 I wobbled to the kitchen, successfully avoiding on the frenzied Weimaraners, carried the bowls, opened the cans, remembered the meds, fed the grrls, and washed up after. A Simple task. I’ve done it before. It was the assumption that I hadn’t heard in a long time. Music, my ears, you know the feeling.

Last December, I was repeatedly whining about my limitations and my lack of improvement, my sister Karen sent me a list of my simple “successes” that I saved and even put on my computer’s dock to click on for motivation.

I look at Karen’s list, my growth chart, when I need a reminder of how my wounded brain is still taking care of me.

I will mentally add feeding the grrls and Brian’s parole from this prison I created to her log.

- - - David

If You See Me Walking Down the Street

When I was a kid and I got to go to the Hospital Emergency Room for a broken collar bone, I thought it was VERY exciting. Even when I had to take Brian in for a food allergy intervention ten years ago it was a bit of a rush.
Now I feel a little bit differently.

Over the past few months, I’ve talked about little else: Stroke, Stroke, Stroke. I must sound like the guy in the bow of the boat yelling to his team. For the last six months, I’ve thought about little else. Myself, my condition, my limitations: me, me, me. But now I can get around better. I am still messed up BUT I have started to get out of the house.

Therein lies the rub. You, dear reader, may happen to see me soon. I am compelled to yell out to my team, give some direction, WARN you what to expect.

I wobble. Remember how I used to walk on that rare, rare occasion when I had a little too much to drink? It looks a little like that but slower, more deliberate and more careful of obstacles. The subject of alcohol brings me to my next point

I drink a lot less. One beer can last me a very long time. It’s economical. I’m a cheap date. I already walk funny (see above) so the end visual effect is the same.

I don’t smoke at all, do you think it’s related? Not smoking is the one piece of advice I got from spending weeks in the hospital and thousands of Brian’s dollars. The house, the cars and the dogs all smell better now or at least more natural.

I don’t control my emotions like I used to. (it is a good thing I drink less.) I will sob during the most inane TV shows. I will chuckle uncontrollably like a 3rd grade kid in the back of a classroom. I can’t stop. It’s kind of fun, as long as I can breathe.

That's the good side. (It is?) The bad side: I can also easily loose my temper. The Banks? WHEW! Can't find my wallet? WHOA! Poor Brian had seen this a lot. Can be entertaining,(well, to ME, once the storm has passed).

I lost my BIG laugh. It’s just gone. It’s not that I don’t think things aren’t funny, (see above), It’s just not there any more. So if you liked it, heed the warning, remember to enjoy things while you can. If it bothered you, relax, it’s gone.

Although it takes me longer, I am happy to do the things that would have driven me crazy before. I can happily sit there and find stones in the lawn and toss them back on the path. I learned patience as a patient. I had no choice. I learned that fuming and swearing at 6 in the morning don’t make Lattes from Starbucks and a NYTimes magically appear. It was much like breaking a horse, but I learned. E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y.

I’m fatter. In the hospital I discovered that I couldn’t hold-in my stomach. (Yet another indignity of a nurse assisted shower.) I have gotten better control of my core “muscles” but I am still fatter. Benefit: no padding required to play Santa. Disadvantage: reliance on sweat suits.

Consider this a warning.

I am sure that there are other changes to my appearance/demeanor. (like I talk funny, I tire quicker, I sleep more, I’m addicted to facebook) If anyone would like to add to the list, it would be appreciated.

Ah, the brain, it’s full of mystery. I am living proof. If You’re listening, thanks for that.

- - - David