How is it that the last six months of my life feel like they've been at least 6 years?
It probably has something to do with learning to walk and pee by myself again. In fact, my recovery has been amazing. I think becuase my recovery has been so amazing, it's easy to forget where I was six months ago. The forgetting happens for myself and for everyone who sees me everyday. As I begin to do more and take on more, I look more like my old self and there is an expecatation that I should be doing even more.
While I joke all the time about using my "brain injury" as an excuse for stuff, the joke masks the fact that there are still somethings for which I still want an excuse. It's nothing concrete like not being able to add, or walk, or anything like that, but there are times when I want the consideration I used to get.
Of course all of that is at odds with my own need for independance. The point is that at six months the hardest part of the recovery is wanting to have my cake and eat it too.
A few weeks ago I heard through the grapevine that people were wondering what the final hospital bill was. It seemed weird to me until I remembered these people had all donated money to help with that bill. Another time I will write about the strangeness of asking for/taking donations.
The point is that this week I sent out an email to everyone titled "Final Update." Belatedly, I realized I was ready for that. As much as I have said here (over and over) that I feel back to myself and completely normal, this time I really do. More importantly, this time I think everyone around me is starting to feel that way too.
While we drafted the email my friend asked if I should say that I am fully recovered. I told her I don't like to say that. Saying "I've fully recovered." feels like jinxing myself. I know that it really takes about a year to recover as much as you will from an injury like this; consequently, it feels like I may think I'm recovered now, only to discover something I can no longer do. Additionnally, it feels like a dare to the universe. Trust me I do not need another six months like the last six months. However, I think I've really gotten back to where I was. A filter was lost there somewhere and I swear a little too much, but other than that, there are no lasting effects of my condition. In fact, some friends are coming to visit in May. It will be a year since they've seen me and I don't think they will be able to tell anything has happened.
The odd part to me is that even now everyone wants to attribute my recovery to something I did. How much, or how little, I recovered was decided well before I ever woke up. I'm just reaping the benefits.
Moshe's cast came off yesterday. We had to take him back to the vet today for some xrays. They were also concerned that he was not using his leg properly because of nerve damage.
He seems to be using his leg fine now, so I think it was just a matter of not knowing what to do with it. For most the last three weeks of his 12 week existence he's had a cast that was longer than the rest of his legs and weighed as much as he did. It makes sense that it might take a while to get used to not having it.
He's pretty funny limping around, and pretty quick. Watching him randomly stretch his leg straight back or tentatively put it on the ground, makes me think back to my first days learning how to walk again and my first days at home. When I go up and down the stairs now, I forget how hard it was for me at the beginning. All my movements seem normal again, but I remember that first day home and how hard it was to slide across the bed or get up from the couch. Because I didn't need it for that long, sometimes I forget how much I really did need the cane.
I didn't really expect it to happen, but in many ways I've already begun to take my recovery for granted. Even the shower chair in the bathroom just looks like another spot to hang towels or store reading materials.
For the most part I spent the last three months anxiously awaiting the new semester. There was that brief "between the holiday" period, but we don't talk about it anymore.
Anyway, although when I think about my progress I'm amazed, I still say I was ready to go back when I left the hosptial. I couldn't do everything and it would have been rough, but I was ready to teach. I'm still ready to teach. However, this process has been more like jumping in that wading. Sure, I'm only teaching one course this semester, but I"m also interning in a course and trying to write an article and a dissertation.
Instead of just being on campus MWF. I am on campus every day. There is always an appointment or meeting or some other such nonsense and that wears me out. My class turned in essays on Friday. Essays I should have graded this weekend, but I didn't. I didn't do anything this weekend because I needed to just sit.
I know I'll get used to the schedule again, but until then. I am officially tired of being tired.
It's not that I am overly tired or anything like that, but I have had to be on campus EVERYDAY for the last couple of weeks. It doesn't seem like it's going to end anytime soon.
Initially, my big concern about returning back to school was my stamina. It hasn't affected me at all. It's just that being on campus right now feels like an imposition. It puts me out. That is certainly not the mind-set I need to have, but it's there for now.
This week and last week I've participated in taking various candidates out to lunch. On the way to lunch last week, I realized that all of it makes absolutely no difference to me. Sure, I'll see these people in the hall next year, but other than that - they will make no difference in my life.
There is one professor, who seems super nice and is always very friendly to me, but I don't like her because she is in Dr. Snarky's office. How stupid is that? I know it's stupid, but I cannot help myself.
A few weeks ago I received a letter from the hospital. It asked me to contact my insurance company because it had not responded to the hospital's claim. I didn't get around to it right away and two days later I received a card in the mail from the insurance company saying that they knew there was a claim and not to contact them. So, I left all alone.
Then, yesterday, I received another letter from the hospital asking me to contact my insurance company. So, I called the number on the letter to tell them the insurance company told me not to contact them. I talk to an exceptionally rude woman who treated me like I told the insurance company not to pay. She said, "Well, it's been since October and they haven't paid." As politely as I could I got off the phone, but now I'm really pissed. The hospital has an entire office of people whose JOB is to deal with insurance companies. It's not my job! Seriously, people. What if I had died would they hound the DH like this?
I just got a call from the neurologist. The MRI looked good. The disection has healed, which means...I get to come off the rat poison and start taking 325mg of aspirin. Woo Hoo!
Yesterday I spent some time in a tube. Not THE tube. A tube. It was MRI day. It wasn't that bad when I felt better and knew what was going on. They put this cage over my head that made me feel a little like Hannibal Lecture. They had to do one test over because I moved to much. But, I am telling you I didn't move AT ALL. From then on they told me not to even swallow. Do they not realize the one effect I can say I have from the stroke is an excess of spit. Really. All day long it's like someone stuck a big juicy steak in front of me. I'm afraid I'll drool on myself without noticing. So, you try it. Don't swallow for 6 minutes. I think they'll call me later with the test results. Frankly, I was so glad to be out of the noisy tube that I forgot to ask. Dumb. I know. Eh.
On a better note... I get to watch the new BSG today! Whoo Hoo! Other obligations kept me from watching last night. Actually a sleeping pill and the best of all sedative (The Empire Stikes Back) kept me from watching last night. Anyway everyone is coming over today to watch, which is good because now we can fast forward through commercials! It is, however, also bad because now I have to clean the house.
About The Empire Strikes Back, is there anyone else who cannot watch this movie without falling asleep before they make it off the ice planet? Sleeping pill or not, all I have to do is put the dvd in and I am out. It's like they've secretly embed opioides in it.
The psychiatrist finally called me back to go over my test results. He didn't give me an actual IQ, which is fine. The good news is....I am not an idiot! It is a load off my mind.
He did say that the time I take switching from subject to subject is a little slow. We'd already talked about that. He seemed concerned that a question during a lecture might throw me off for a few seconds.
Well. I try not to lecture. And. I've always taken a few seconds to get "back on track."
He also said that it's only been three months and this will probably get better over time. Until then "avoid multi-tasking." Ha!
Time to resume the inappropriate humor. As you may, or may not, know one of the signs of a stroke is lack of muscle control on one side of the body...this includes the face.
What you really may not know is that I have a sleepy right eye. It's really hardly noticeable unless I'm tired. The more tired I am, the more that eye droops. Once you figure it out, I really can't lie about my state of being. Jokingly, I used to call it my "stroke" face. Really. Do you see the irony?
The DH told me that one of things I said in response to being told about my stroke was, "I guess I can't joke about my face anymore." Or, something like that. You know, it's really weird to be told things you've said, but don't remember. Normally, I can at least remember the situation, the people involved or something like that, but when other people tell me things I said in the hospital, I have no idea what they are talking about. It's odd...to say the least.
The DH says he knew it was bad when I asked him to get me a People magazine. I typically don't read People.
Fortunately, my face was fine after the stroke. Since, I am super tired today, my sleepy eye is in rare form. I declare "stroke" face back in session.
I know from South Park it's not supposed to be funny for 20 years, but I am not that patient. Plus, it's my face and my stroke. I think that clears me for decision making.
As a rule, if it is past 5:00pm, I do not nap. Really. I try to be a "good" sleeper - keep my naps to 15 -30 minutes, don't nap too late, only use the bed to sleep and you know. Do not sleep on the couch or anywhere else. I don't have non-stroke related sleeping problems, but I think it a good idea not to tempt fate. Mostly, I think I try to be good because the DH's sleep habits are soooo messed up it's ridiculous.
However, tonight after dinner, I laid on the couch and fell asleep for about an hour. This day just wore me out. Initially, I thought I'd have to go to school way early...so, I was up and ready before we negotiated a later start time to my day. Let me tell you, I hated teaching at 1:00pm even before it started.
I like to teach in the morning because, like most other things, I like to get it done. Can I do that at 1:00. No. I sat around the house, trying not to be nervous. When I did manage to get out of the car without the DH pinning a note to my jacket...just mittens, I went to the bookstore and the coffee-shop. (They are both in the student union and connected.) It all took about 20 minutes, but I kept feeling like I was late for class. Grr. Arrgh.
The first day of teaching went fine. There are a couple of things I'll need to mention on Friday, but no major disasters. As the DH has noticed, I'm a little snarkier than I used to be. I think the one thing I lost in the stroke was a filter or two. Since I don't plan to tell this class about the stroke, I had to think of another way to explain all of that. I told them there is a teaching rule about not using sarcasm in the classroom, but that I am not very good at following it. I told them that mostly I'm kidding. That if I unintentionally offend someone they need to talk to me about it. I kind of stress the point. They probably thought I was nuts, but...oh, well.
Like with most things about my life, I'm not actively trying to keep the stroke from them. I just didn't want to open with it. To me, that would seem like a gratuitous plea for sympathy, which is not what I want. I'm sure it will come up sooner or later. I'm not very good at self-censorship. Since, I bought the most OBVIOUS medic-alert bracelet you've ever seen someone will ask sooner or later. It didn't look that bad when I ordered it. I swear.
I realized I need to let you in on the joke. Well, it's not really a joke, but it needs some clarification. In the hospital they began my treatment with an iv of heparin. Heparin is a fast-acting and strong anti-coagulant.. It is delivered by iv because it's effects do not last long. My understanding is it is a first-response measure during a stroke. As I was on the heparin, they began to give me coumodin to help keep my blood thin and keep it from coagulating. As I was released from the re-hab ward, the doctor called the coumodin rat poison. He wasn't kidding.
Technically, I'm not on coumodin anymore. I'm on the generic version warfarin. Here is what wikipedia has to say about warfarin.
Warfarin (also known under the brand names Coumadin, Jantoven, Marevan, and Waran) is an anticoagulant. It was initially marketed as a pesticide against rats and mice, and is still popular for this purpose, although more potent poisons such as brodifacoum have since been developed.
Wikipedia is not the most reliable source in the universe, so here is what the OED says about warfarin.
A water-soluble crystalline anticoagulant used as a selective rodenticide, and as a prophylactic against embolism in the treatment of thrombosis; 3-(3-oxo-1-phenylbutyl)-4-hydroxycoumarin, C19H16O4; (also warfarin sodium) the sodium salt of this.
Please note the fancy words for rat poison. So, while I do try to avoid weird chemicals, I am not kidding when I say I take rat poison everyday.
If you cross section a vein/blood vessel there are three layers the tougher outer layer, the muscular layer, and then a thin layer between the muscle and the area where the blood actually flows.
Apparently what happened to me is that the thin layer tore/ruptured somehow and the blood then made a path through my muscle layer. That path can cause a blockage in the flow of blood through the regular area. Sometimes it can create clots that are then pushed through and end up in the brain causing a stroke. There is a big fibro-muscular something or other name for all of this. Once the stroke is relieved the vein can either repair it self - start flowing normally, or the brain will develop other routes and sources for blood. Or the area will continue to be blocked requiring a shunt.
In order find out if I require a shunt I'll have to have an MRI. If the MRI shows a normal blood flow, then everything is good and that is that. If the MRI is inconclusive, I'll have an angiogram to test the area. The angiogram will show whether or not a shunt is necessary; and, if it is necessary they can put it in right then.
But, the MRI is first. Yeah, noisy small tubes in my future. I know I had an MRI when I was first in the hospital. I don't really remember what it was like, but I do remember it because it was so noisy. Maybe I'll actually get to use the earplugs I received in a care package during comps.
A friend mentioned that she wants another tatoo, but she doesn't know what. I want another tattoo, but I don't know what and I don't know where.
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 thecommon 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.
Today was the day of my big Psychological tests. For some reason, I was terribly worried about them. It wasn't really that bad.
They did a few reaction tests and an I.Q. test. The psychiatrist will call me with the results, which strikes me as a little wierd.
The best part about today was that they made me play with blocks. I had to look at the card and make the same pattern. I felt like Dudley from The Royal Tannenbaums. Of course I cannot tell time! (It's just something from the movie that the DH and I joked about.)
That was actually the second best part, the best part was when the psychiatrist told me I was "emotionally incontinent." Yeah, I almost laughed out loud.
There was more math to do in my head. Yuck. And who the hell just happens to know the speed of light? At least I got the question about who wrote Faust correct.
I know you thought I might shut up for just one day, but you were wrong.
I probably would have shut up, but the DH is making me sit on the couch and watch football with him. Football. Although I used to twirl flags during halftime, I have no idea about football.
Today, in an attempt to cheer myself up, I tried to think of a list of all the things I am able to do now.
pee by myself.
Heck, after all that the CP has been through, I should just be happy to pee at all.
Be alone. The twenty-four hour watch was it's own kind of hell.
Go up and down the stairs one foot over another. (You try it one step at a time.)I'm also allowed to do so without calling the DH when I switched levels.
DRIVE BY MYSELF. I've been to two, count them two, different stores all by myself. The first time I had to go to the grocery store for some sugar. Sugar. It was all I needed. I walked up and down every aisle of that store drunk with the knowledge that no one was waiting for me. Today, I braved the manic conditions of W----- to go to the yarn store. I know, I know, yarn is the last thing I need; however, the CP had a pretty clear request for her impending birthday and I actually didn't have the appropriate yarn.
The trick to driving by myself is telling the DH while he is asleep and promising to call when I get there. I know it's tricksy, but I have to do it. Sometimes a girl just needs to be alone.
Tomorrow is the big day of psychological testing. I am nervous about it. Don't worry, I'm sure you will hear all about it.
A friend of my from MN recently got back in touch. We've been emailing back and forth. In the process, I've had to explain my dissertation topic. Whew. If I didn't already know what a farce this degree was, I'd have been in for a real shocker.
We, yes I'm using the infamous 'we', all want to believe that what we do matters and that we'll make an impact on the world. The reality is that we sit around and talk about what is best for others...whether or not we know who they are. It's going to piss off some of the lit people I know out there, but I do think that we come the closest to really achieving anything in R/C. However, I still don't think we get anything done. No one outside our profession reads about what we do. We're philosophers without the degree. If we, both Lit and R/C people, are lucky we help students to write and think. It's all we can do. It's all we can hope.
It's why that guy from California is wrong. When we teach writing we teach the ability to use a tool. To properly use that tool, we have to understand it's components. Rhetoric, when used in the classroom, helps us to use the tool that is writing. The ability to identify to whom we are speaking/writing, what will appeal to them, and to craft our message accordingly is an important skill. It will not automatically make you a brilliant Victorianist, but it will get you through the class about the Victorian that you need to graduate.
While it doesn't do us any good to think that our work is going to change the world, we should at least keep trying. As we teach students to write, and therefore to think, we need to remember that the skill is enough. Everything else we attempt to package with it is just fluff.
I know I've mentioned being against it before, but I think at my appointment next week I am going to ask to be put back on anti-depressants. As I mentioned, one of the things I've noticed is that I am quite a bit more weepy. I've always been an easy crier, but this has to stop. I also know it's normal to be depressed about it all, but I need a chance to move on. I also need to be able to hold it together in front of a classroom. It would just be nerves that made me tear up, but since I don't plan to talk about everything with this class, I'd rather not.
If my psychologist agrees hopefully I can get started and be evened out for the beginning of the semester. I don't anticipate this being a long term project, just a month or two. I just need to be able to hold it together for a semester. This summer, I can fall apart again.
Okay, so I cannot let it stand. I have to post something with at least a little content. Although, there has been precious little in the way of content around here. What the heck, it's the holidays.
Today, started with a trip to the coffeeshop. The mom & pop place up the road is closed until tomorrow, so do you know how far I had to go for coffee? A long way. The good part about the long trip to the coffeeshop is that I got to use a gift card for Christmas and it puts me right next to the bougie grocery store. As a result we're having good steaks for dinner tonight. We also went to the new bookstore in that area. It was okay.
It's been hard today. One of the things I've noticed since October is that I am more weepy. (I hate that.) If you add to that a time meant for reflection and it's a recipe for a girl just barely holding on to her cookies all day. I know it's natural to be all weepy about almost dying and stuff. But, I'm all weepy about seemingly unrelated and stupid things. I don't mind a good cry. I just want to make sure I don't have to do it in public. Most people consider tears a weakness. I just want to be able to suck it up again.
Monday, I have to do the big psychological testing day. I've been nervous about that for about a week now. I think it boils down to basic test anxiety, but we'll see.
2 and half pages were all I could muster today. No, not of my dissertation. Although my life didn't flash before my eyes and I didn't see a bright light of any kind, it seems that everything has to be re-lived in order to get the present right. At least I got something done. Hell, maybe I'll edit it all out anyway.
I got Depeche Mode's "Violator" album for Christmas--I still really like it. How's that for a smoke bomb? Changed the subject didn't it.
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