I have an idea for both, but I realized last night that I'm probably not supposed to do that. I'm sure my supposedly excessive bleedy-ness makes it a no-no. However, I want to commemorate this experience in some way. Sure, writing about it is something, but a tattoo seems in order. It seems a different representation, more emotional. Since I tend to deal with things by intellectualizing them (no my therapist didn't have to tell me that), I feel like a tattoo would represent something more.
In a complete change of subject, here's an excerpt of intellectualization:
On the rehab floor they are quite serious about patients not getting out of bed. Since most of us had had a brain injury and didn’t have the best motor skills it’s understandable. One night, when I knew the DH was coming to stay, I heard a pounding on the door at the end of the hall. It was late. I didn’t know if they locked the floor. The nurses didn’t seem to hear it, so I did what any polite person would do, I got out of bed to answer the door. Two steps from the bed to the sink. Then I could use the wall to help me get to the door. I didn’t even make it to the sink. I fell and ripped out my i.v. Nurses and nurse technicians swarmed around me. Someone asked, “Did you have to go to the bathroom?” I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, so I said, “yes.” It didn’t matter what I said. From that point on I had a bed alarm. A strip was placed in my bed and my wheelchair. I had to call a nurse technician every time I had to go to the bathroom. A piercing alarm went off if I tried to get up at all.
Of course it took me about five minutes to figure out how to turn off the alarm, but I always, always called for help so no one would know that I’d turned it off. They would just assume whoever was on the shift before forgot to turn it off. The rehab ward was my home for two and a half weeks. As I got better, it became more and more difficult to handle being cooped up.
There was a television in my room, but it has the same six channels twice. Once I got into my wheelchair and dressed for the day, I tried to keep the television off. Some people have a habit of trying to credit me with my recovery. “Oh, you’re so brave and you’ve worked so hard.” Not really. I was lucky. That is really all it was. However, if they absolutely must credit me with something, I didn’t turn on the television. Granted everyone else on the floor was at least twenty years older than I am. Their former daily routines probably included the television. Before the stroke I was busy all day. Well, I would sneak in a nap, but I really didn’t watch day-time television.
Not watching television meant I had to find other things to do. Much to the staff’s chagrin I started to do laps of the floor in my wheelchair. I would wheel out my door and down the hall to the common room, down the far hall, and then turn around and turn back to my room. I visited other patients I met in therapy session. The goal of all that wheeling around was to help get my strength back. I’d make different rules. One time I could only use my arms, the next time I could only use my feet. When I was in my room I’d roll back and forth just using my left arm or left leg. I’m sure the nurses going by thought I was crazy.
When I was bored with rolling around and there was no one to visit, I’d sit in my room and do crossword puzzles or color mandalas. It was hard. The book of puzzles was the Dell “Easy” puzzles and I knew I should be able to get them. It frustrated me. At the beginning coloring inside the lines of the mandalas was hard. As I recovered my motor skills came back and it became easier. The puzzles also became easier. The brain is a lot like any other muscle. Although, my stroke was relatively mild, I did my best to exercise my brain. If there is one thing I think really helped my recovery I think it was turning off the television.
Being on the rehabilitation ward was also beneficial. It meant that I could get some therapy everyday. Everyday I had at least half an hour, if not more, of physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy. After about two sessions, I didn’t need the speech therapy any more, but I continued with occupational and physical therapy. Occupational therapy is kind of a misnomer. It’s really about re-learning to care for yourself showering, dressing, cooking, cleaning. It dealt mainly with my arms and upper body. Physical therapy was about learning to walk again and strengthening my lower body.
In occupational therapy we would often be a part of a group and play games. The games always seemed really childish. For example, we would hit or kick a balloon back and forth. It sounds easy, but try doing it with only your left hand or with a walker in front of you. Since the majority of patients on the rehab floor were older and trying to get home, we would often cooking things in the fake apartment. I remember my first day I baked muffins. It made me laugh because I love to bake and usually make muffins and things from scratch. Here I was in this fake kitchen making muffins from a mix. All I had to do was add water.
The day that really stuck with me was when a group of us 3 patients and 2 physical therapists made pudding. Although something like making pudding does make you test your memory of where everything is, your ability to read and follow directions, and your patience I was really frustrated. For lack of a better term, it felt “beneath” me and my abilities. In fact that is really my one criticism of the rehabilitation ward. Not many patients would be able to articulate it, but I am sure I am not the only one who often felt infantilized by the activities.
It was not necessarily the activities themselves. When I understood the nature of the activity, and how it would help me, I was fine. Often, however, I was asked to play some game or do something clearly labeled for toddlers. One day, in physical therapy, I was asked to shoot baskets with a basket ball and a “Little Tykes” basketball hoop. As I stood there, shooting basket after basket, I realized, “They should really have a hoop that doesn’t say ‘Little Tykes” on it.” Yes, many of us, were like toddlers in our development, but it is a blow to your ego and motivation to have others treat you like that.
This was the brain injury rehabilitation floor. It was populated by people in their 70’s or 80’s, who may have had a stroke or fallen in their home; younger African-American men, who may have had car accidents or some other trouble, and myself. I was certain I was not the only patient bothered by playing a Memory game for 2-4 year olds. It’s probably cheaper to get the stuff for toddlers, but it is at a psychological price.
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