I don't know where to begin. I don't like having had a stroke, I know that much. I want the old me back, and I know that won't happen, and that frustrates me. In fact, what doesn't frustrate me? Everything frustrates me now, including typing, writing, standing, sitting, walking, and especially communicating. The frustration is quickly devolving into irritation. Sometimes I can handle the frustrations, and sometimes I can't. When I can't, I cry, plain and simple.
I cry when I can't do something, like fit an object in the basket attached to my walker. I cry when I try to cook something, like chicken, something I've cooked a thousand times before, and now I can't cook it to save my life. I don't like feeling as if I'm always stepping on a shoestring with my right foot. Heck, I find writing this book to be frustrating because I used to type really fast and now I type much more slowly. Mostly I cry when I'm too tired. The fact that I don't sleep much because of some of my medication keeps me tired most of the time. It's happened so often that now, I know what to watch out for. Unfortunately, I can't avoid insomnia.
I don't have much to say about the early days of my stroke, since I don't remember so much of it. I remember arriving at the hospital at home, but I don't remember having any tests done, including the MRI. I remember being transferred hours later to the hospital in the next largest city, but the two hour drive seemed much shorter than it actually is. I don't remember anything about that hospital except my dreams and the smell of coffee. I learned later that there's a coffee shop in the lobby. I remember nothing of the next twelve days except the occasional person. I recall the Speech therapist, but not meeting her. I also recall my physical therapist, but I don't remember anything we did. Not remembering twelve whole days of my life doesn't bother me overly much, but I do mind forgetting people's visits while I was in the hospital. It's like they never came at all. I had one friend come again because I didn't remember her coming the first time.
Don must have had to make many decisions alone at this time. I can barely imagine how terrible it must have been for him, even if I've heard the stories. It must have been awful, and I'll be honest and say I'm glad I missed it. My mom was wonderful in that she voluntarily came to stay with our young daughter, Ellie, at home while I was away so Don could stay with me, and Ellie went to the same day-care center she always had. We all figured it was good not to interrupt her life too much. Before the stroke, and before Ellie was in day care, I took care of her full-time. After the stroke was a different story. Since I couldn't do much... well, I couldn't do anything... we decided that when we arrived home, Don would take care of her.
In the meantime, I guess I looked pretty horrible. I had told Don that I refused a resuscitate order and a feeding tube. The doctor thought I would probably die, so everyone I knew came to say goodbye, only I don't remember any of it. A lot of the problem was that I was apparently not getting enough information, and once Don figured that out, he made sure to tell me anything that might change my mind.
It worked. Well, something did, as I became aware of the feeding tube while I was at the Rehab. Center. At first, I had those awful dreams, and I wanted nothing more than to go home. I didn't understand the gravity of what had happened to me yet. After all, the stroke hadn't hurt my memories and I wasn't doing anything that might be dangerous. But the truth was that I couldn't move, I couldn't walk, I couldn't drive, and I could wave 'adios' to my teaching career. Don explained it all to me, and the grieving process began. It was one of the few things I could do, and I made sure I did it well! Much to everyone's distress, including my own.