A Song in My Heart

There’s a song in my heart. Unfortunately, it’s stuck there.

Me and my boyfriend,  pre-BS

One of the most infuriating aftereffects of last October's brainstem stroke (BS for short. And I’m no longer saying “my” stroke, like it was some lovely, autumnal gift) is a wacked-out larynx (voice box). Inflammation behind the larynx, probably from reflux caused by a weakened esophagus, gives me perpetual hoarseness that gets more pronounced as the day goes on and fatigue sets in. 

Within the larynx, my vocal cords—those miraculous paired harp strings that vibrate together to produce music—are not cooperating. For most folks, speech and singing cause the vocal cords to move toward each other, meet in the center, and vibrate. My right cord, however, just doesn’t want to come out and play: It vibrates okay, but it doesn’t feel like moving, thank you very much. The result is a breathy voice without much fine control or even tone. I sound like a tone-deaf chain smoker.

I’ve been singing all my life—20+ years in bar bands—so losing my singing voice is a lot like losing an arm. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone through the five stages of grief over it, although I’ve only accepted it FOR NOW.  Yes, I know my singing voice may never come back (one oddity of stroke is that not even the “experts” can say which aftereffects will be temporary and which will be permanent). But the fat lady is not singing yet. 

My friend from junior high, Cindy Kessinger (http://singinglessonsbycindy.com/), a voice teacher in Colorado, consulted her voice association friends. Then she came up with adduction exercises, recorded them in her own sweet voice, and emailed them to me to help strengthen my right vocal cord. Who’d a thunk when we were singing “Our Day Will Come” together in the 7^th-grade talent contest, she’d be helping me heal up from BS today? Bless her heart.

Grow up...these are vocal cords.

In the mornings, when no one’s around, I do the exercises. Then I play my geetar and sing with wild abandon (good therapy for my clunky left hand, too). Then I crank up my house surround system and Joan Armatrading, my personal vocal therapist, works her magic. While I cook or do laundry & dishes, Joan and her playlist waft through the bacon-scented house (day 5 of a no-carb diet), and we sing our hearts out. Well, Joan sings (she’s the world’s most underappreciated musical genius). I croak out harmonies. And by gum, I think all the therapy is working…

Last night, I dreamed I was hanging out with friends in the storage room of a hospital (as you do). Ray played “Cajun Moon” on a geetar that appeared from nowhere, and I couldn’t help it—I started singing. To everyone’s surprise (including me), it was beautiful. I could still FEEL it when I woke up. So I’m declaring this a prophetic dream that my voice will come back. But I’m a realist, too, so I have a plan B: I’ll backcomb my hair into a giant red bouffant, get some sailor tattoos, put on my bustier, satin stretch pants, and steel-toed boots, and croak away in back-alley sleazy, smoky dives. My heart WILL let loose its songs. You may want to bring your earplugs. And some hand sanitizer.

Birthday Brain

South Dakota Peacock Museum (my dining room)

I recently had a birthday. Yes, another one. That makes well over 35 of them now. And birthdays, like everything else in my life, are different since last October’s little BS (right ischemic brainstem stroke). My birthday gave me ample proof that my brain has become a whole 'nother can-O-worms...

It used to be that on my birthday, I wanted a BIG fuss—a 60’s themed Annette Funicello-ish beach party (girls in high-rise polkadot bikinis, boys with bongo drums); non-stop sushi & sake with 25 of my loudest, closest friends; a spontaneous roadtrip to Area 51; cliff-jumping in Mexico. Okay, maybe not cliff-jumping, but something wild and memorable. This year—and this is Proof #1 of an altered brain—I wanted home, calm, low lights, no drama, peace.

The SassCam 9000

Proof #2 was my birthday wish list. Past lists included things like guitars, clothes, shoes, jewels, a winemaking kit, or a sequined princess costume. This year, I’d already gotten Mom’s gift—a fabulous trip to Louisiana to see my nieces—and the only other things I wanted were a new Kindle I could read outside in bright light, and a digital trail camera. Seriously…what midlife woman in her right mind wants a Sasquatch camera for her birthday?!

Anyhoo, Ray gave me a Kindle Paperwhite and a lovely, relaxed dinner out with good friends; my youngest son gave me a frameable work of peacock art, friends gave me bird/peacock accoutrement galore, and…ta-da! My older boys gave me a 4 MP Simmons Whitetail Night Vision trail camera—my “SassCam.” I will finally catch (on SD card, at least) that Sasquatch, wolverine, hyena pack, chupacabra, pride of lions, or pteradactyl that’s been picking off our peacocks!

Where's my pattern for knit coyote sweaters?

So here’s our new routine: every evening, we walk the dogs and find a new spot for the SassCam. Every morning, Ray retrieves the camera, so we can see what was slinking around the night before. So far, we’ve “captured” coyotes, raccoons (many…often), and a feral cat, all potential pea-snackers.

Hamming it up for the camera.

We’re not big on shooting things (we’re a disaster at it, actually…see http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-case-of-disappearing-peafowl.html), so we’ve come up with an alternate plan to protect our dwindling flock of four peacocks (possibly three…we haven’t seen our nesting hen for quite a while): Ray will “mark” our territory everywhere we’ve spotted wildlife, and I will dump cayenne pepper in any burrows we find. If that doesn’t work, I’ll knit some cozy catch & release snares. If that doesn’t work, we'll wire the pasture for sound and play Tiny Tim’s “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” 24/7. If that doesn’t work, we'll give up peacocks and start raising raccoons for the pet industry. If that doesn’t work, we'll import—only as a last resort, mind you—a velociraptor. (Proof #3?)

Stroke Recovery & Teaching: the REAL Catch 22

I am TOTALLY grateful (to the point of weeping whenever I let myself really think about it) that my stroke last October was a mild one. A mild right ischemic brainstem stroke, to be precise. My left side was affected. But 8 months, lots of doc visits, oodles of PT, and tons of rest later, I can walk, talk, think, write, cook, knit, mow my lawn, and my singing voice is finally starting to come back. In fact, anything I could do before the stroke, I can do now…just slower, clumsier, and with occasional difficulty.

In some ways, folks like me who have mild strokes are caught in a Catch 22. From outward appearances, we look fine. So people who don’t know about my stroke expect me to be my former stress-driven, obsessively perfectionist, overachiever self: Another nap?!? are you kidding? do you have the flu? are you narcoleptic or just lazy?

Even people who know about the stroke forget that outward appearances can be deceiving. What they can’t see, they forget about, like the mysterious fog that sometimes settles around my brain. My memory can be spotty, and some things my brain stored pre-stroke are probably gone for good. I sometimes momentarily forget really basic stuff, like how to brake the riding mower I’ve operated for 6 years, or why I put a spoon in the freezer.

The old me.

Most people also can’t tell that depending on how tired I am, my nervous system load, barometric pressure, planetary alignment, or my crapshoot theory of life, the left side of my body may or may not cooperate. My left foot sometimes thinks it has cleared the next step, when it really has only lifted an inch off the ground. My writing & emails can be full of supplemental “S”s, upper-case letters, or random numbers/spaces, because my left hand (for now at least) doesn’t always navigate space with the precision I used to take for granted.  Other stuff people don’t see? My constant companion fatigue, an occasional locking jaw, sore or stiff muscles (sometimes from breathing or holding myself upright), rare but annoying confusion…the list of minor gliches is long.

The Catch 22? I’m not “disabled” enough to qualify for disability (even a neurologist can’t “see” most of what’s going on in my brain); in less than 6 months, I used up 15 years’ worth of accrued sick leave, so I can’t work reduced hours anymore; I need my job benefits (O nationalized healthcare…where ARE you?) too badly now to lose them switching to part-time adjunct; I live in South Dakota, where a less rigorous, less stressful full-time job probably pays 3 live chickens and a sack of flour...per year. So, because I have a mortgage and a car, and because I must have only the darkest, oiliest decaf coffee beans on the planet, I’m going back to teaching full-time this fall—a very hard decision.

I recently asked a friend how she managed to teach 6 classes in a semester and not jump off the student union building. Her answer was an “AHA!” moment for me. She said, “I’m a good teacher, but I’m not great.” I think she’s lying, and she probably IS great, but the AHA! for me wasn’t that I need to lower my standards; it’s to be less hard on myself.

The new me.

Here's the deal: the job will not be less stressful or demanding this fall than it was before the stroke. So I will have to be different. I'll manage stress better (meditation, sleep, good nutrition, as much exercise as I can manage). I'll rest when I need to. I’ll be honest (even with myself) about my limits and occasional need for help. I'll cast out my overachiever, competitive, perfectionist, SuperWoman demons. I'll say NO when I need to. I'll focus more on my students, less on my need to exceed. I'll laugh more. I'll relax more. I'll bring my humanity back into the classroom. I'll watch this Taylor Mali vid once a week - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU. I'll be less tired, more inspired. I'll be a good teacher.

Roadtesting the New Brain

Mortar-less flint walls are everywhere

Last weekend, we had Summer’s first mini-vacation. We drove to the Flint Hills of Kansas for my nephew’s high school graduation gathering at my brother’s lake cabin, and to spend a couple of lazy days on the water – a treat, since we’re fairly land-locked in our corner of the prairie.

Girl & Chessie share hair color gene

I was a little worried about such a long (it’s a 7-hour drive), high-stimulation trip, but I did surprisingly well.  The visit was excellent physical therapy—hauling stuff from the car to the cabin, walking up and down the small hill from cabin to dock and back, climbing into and out of a large jet ski tube tied to the dock, etc. There were 7 adult-ish people (plus one extra on the last night) and 3 dogs (a small poodle and two very large Chessies) in the 2-bedroom cabin, which seems like potential disaster, but it worked out fine.  We spent lots of time outdoors, which is the point of a lake cabin anyway. And my sister-in-love brought her espresso machine to the cabin and made us lattes every morning. And my brother strung blue sparkly lights absolutely everywhere. A wee slice of paradise.

Lest you think it was picture-perfect, though, BS (my brainsplosion) did toss a couple of minor monkey wrenches in the works: 

Supermom jets off

(1) New Circuits/Misfires – Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had occasional, sudden intense pain in my left big toe, shooting up my leg, but only when barefoot. One day, I had fleeting jolts of fire, as if someone was jabbing my left shoulder blade with a fork (testing for doneness, perhaps). Another day, my left eye twitched sporadically. These sensations are momentary and come & go with no pattern or regularity. So either random nerves are waking up, clicking back online & off again, or someone has a voodoo doll made from my old socks. 

(2) Not-Drowning – Last Sunday, I’d been sunning on the tube and decided to roll off into the water for a swim. Quell surprise! Apparently, in my post-stroke brain, the proper sequence of holding one’s breath BEFORE going under water is no longer instinctual. Fortunately, the tube blocked me from everyone’s view, so there will be no FoolTube video of the uncoordinated chubby redhead gasping, choking, and flailing for the dock ladder.

This non-swimming revelation kept me from riding my brother’s new jet ski, but my 77-year-old mom braved it and looked positively sporty & fetching cruising around the lake. I think Mom is secretly sneaking up on my 80-ish aunt’s para sailing record, to which I say (in begging, whiny tone), “Please please please let these genes be in me too.”

lake at dusk

When we got home, Ray’s sister, who’d been house/pet sitting, had cleaned, weeded, pruned houseplants, tended to our dog’s sore nose, and left us an old wooden ladder she’d painted and turned into a work of art. It’s now a gorgeous garden trellis. It was like coming home after the shoemaker’s elves had been there.

ladder trellis art

The trip was fun, but it also tested my recovery progress and zapped me good. (When I get tired, I transform from a seemingly normal woman to a lame, stammering, Kwasimoto with advanced dementia.) So I’ve been recuperating for the past week—physical therapy, low-stim days, lots and lots of rest. Mom and I are planning a short trip in June to Louisiana to see her new great-grandchildren, so for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be perfecting my 15-minute power nap. Beautiful bayou, Pain perdu and café au lait...here I come!

Manic Much? (foodie edition)

Bulgher/Quinoa Tabhouli

I’ve long suspected (as have most people who know me well...hey…don’t you LOVE parentheses?) I may have a weensie bit of OCD, a smattering of adult ADHD, and a pinch of bipolar disorder. Or, maybe a more accurate label (because we can’t have too many labels, right?) would be climepolar disorder: fluctuating by climate—depressive in winter, euphoric in summer. Right now, semester has crawled off to hibernate till fall, South Dakota is twirling in her gorgeous flowered petticoats, the apple & plum trees are in bloom and alive with much-welcome bees, and life is grand!

Kongnamul Bab

Now that the fog of trying to teach while pretending I didn’t have a stroke is lifting, I’m shifting my focus back to recovery. My awesome PT person just wrangled a few more sessions out of my insurance company. I’ve seen an ENT, an ophthalmologist, a podiatrist, and a pulmonologist since school got out, sizing up the residual effects of BS (my nickname for my pesky brainsplosion). I’ve cut my meds as low as I dare, to try and get rid of this mind fuzz and to kick-start my stalled metabolism. I sang with my friend L last weekend!!! And my friend M and I have vowed to spend more time at the gym.

I’m also continuing to adjust, monitor, modify, supplement, and detoxify my diet. Yesterday, Ray and I took Mom to Omaha, so she could catch a ride to KS for my nephew’s graduation. But before we rendezvoused with her ride south-er, we did some intensive shopping in support of our nutritional therapy…

(1)   We hit Trader Joe’s for nuts and salmon oil.

(2)  At Whole Foods, we snagged raw greens superfood for our breakfast smoothies (frozen organic berries, fresh raw kale, a spoonful of yogurt, whey protein, superfood, a packet of Emergen-C, and water).

(3)  At the Asian Market, I found shaved bonito fish (for making homemade dashi, the fish-broth base of miso soup, since we’re trying to add fermented foods to our daily diet – see http://www.lafujimama.com/2010/01/how-to-make-dashi/ for recipe).

(4)  Our last grocery stop was at Penzey’s Spices, where I sniffed the saffron, re-stocked my spice rack, and got some berbere to make this chicken & lentil dish: http://www.feastingathome.com/2012/11/crispy-berbere-chicken-with-ethiopian.html#.UZjwW4LkAy4).

Tofu-Mushroom-Seaweed Miso Soup

I’m not much for baking (I’ll take savory over sweet any day) but I LOVE to cook. Pearl Bailey said, "My kitchen is a mystical place, a kind of temple for me." I get that. For me, cooking is the perfect combo of chemistry, meditation, prayer, occupational therapy, love & magic. A Reubenesque shape signifies survival, safety, security (clearly, I have food issues, to which the swishing of my generous thighs and flapping of tender arms will atest). I chop/slice/dice/julienne by hand. I put spacy new-agey instrumental music on the house system. I sip strong coffee or red wine, depending on the hour. Sometimes, I wear a dress, an apron, and cowgirl boots while I cook. I cook enough to give at least half away.

Packrat Discovers Penzey's

2nd Picking

Today, however, we’ll eat our 2nd picking of fresh garden asparagus, and we'll clean up leftovers: For breakfast, I had an incredible miso soup my son-in-love made with mushrooms, tofu, and kombu. Later, we’ll have kongnamul bab (one my all-time favorite foods…Korean soybean sprouts & rice – my recipe’s here: http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2013/02/rice-and-greens-and-sproutso-my.html). For dinner, we'll eat the last of the tabhouli, with pine nuts and feta. And since I walked at least 20 miles gathering the goods yesterday, I might indulge in reward therapy tonight with a glass of homemade petit shiraz zinfandel and a chunk of the sea-salted 75% cocoa dark chocolate I found.

 Yes, by gum…life is darn-near euphoric, isn’t it?

No well-appointed kitchen is complete without solar hula dancers.

I'll save the world...tomorrow.

For most of my life, I have suffered from SS (Superwoman Syndrome). The syndrome affects mostly women born after WWII and includes a belief that one can—and must—single-handedly save the world, while simultaneously feeding, nurturing, protecting, cleaning up after, loving, and being loved by every skin-y, feathery, furry, and scaly critter on the planet.

Because of the delusional thinking common to sufferers of SS, I thought I could casually stroll back into teaching darn-near full time at Little Town U a mere 10 weeks after having a stroke. O, what a poor, misguided fool I was!

I did a fair job (I think) of covering up the lingering aftereffects of the stroke, but covering takes enormous energy and left me running on fumes. And the need to get grades done on time, plus my pesky SS, make especially troubling my post-stroke difficulty focusing, paired with short-term memory wormholes. For me, grading requires total concentration and huge chunks of quiet, uninterrupted time. But this scattery brain can make things take much longer; it’s tough to focus on a student’s argument that Katniss Everdeen is a reinterpretation of the Greek goddess Diana when my thoughts are zig-zagging like cartoon lightning bolts. 

Here’s a peek inside my post-stroke/SS brain:

Google student’s reference to Wingshooter’s Guide to South Dakota.

Cool! Look at that hummingbird nest!

(Ding) Check Facebook.

Yikes! Migrating hummingbirds can’t find enough food because of cold, late spring.

Go outside and get hummingbird feeders.

Put them in a sink full of soapy water to soak.

Do I boil water and add sugar, or add sugar THEN boil the water? Google.

Wow, I should try this dog biscuit recipe.

Grocery list: liver, quinoa, eggs, millet flour, kale.

I wonder if the coffee stain came out of my nightgown?

Yikes! Look at the lint screen!

I’d better change the batteries in the smoke alarms.

(Ding) Check Facebook.

That moth can’t be real. Google “Poodle Moth.”

I wonder if anyone’s ever crossed a poodle with a papillion? Google.

Check Humane Society puppy list.

Find Jada, put aloe on her sore foot.

Take the dogs for a walk on the trail.

Wait a minute…where’d the hummingbird feeders go?

Oh yeah. Scrub & rinse.

Google homemade humming bird food. Make it, put it in the fridge to cool.

I should grade a paper while it cools.

Google student’s reference to Wingshooter’s Guide to South Dakota.

Ad infinitum…

Hope springs eternal, though. After chewing me into a ragged cud, Semester spit me out yesterday when I turned in my final grades. (Note: Hitting the “submit” button on the online grade form always results in a bizarre narcoleptic/manic paradox that makes me do things like pass out while micro-planning a 30-day cross-country tour of orchid growers.) Miraculously, I made it through the entire semester without having another stroke.

So today, as my reward, I will stave off my SS, kick back under my fuzzy blankie, keep my iPad open to my email as I wait for the post-grade student shockwave to hit, and watch a Monster Quest or Finding Bigfoot marathon with a dog in my lap and an Icy Hot patch on my bent-neck grading hump. 

Tomorrow, though, I will save the world.

Face Full of Mud

 

How AH you, dahling?

There’s no other way to say this: stroke or no stroke—my friends won’t put up with my shit.

You’ll recall I made a wisecrack in my last blog, something about eye-gouging, plastic sporks, and people who have the nerve to ask how I am. So, I’m sitting there last night at happy hour at our Little Town watering hole, just tapping my foot to the music and minding my own beeswax, when my friend DTLB comes over, reaches out for a hug, and in her best Grey Gardens voice, hollers, “How ARE you?” The thing is, see, she’s wearing plastic safety goggles.

Go ahead. Ask me again.

Five minutes later, my friend Bad B sternly warns it’s coming, then she asks how I am. Then my friend M gives me a cardboard cutout smile-on-a-stick to hold up in front of my face when people ask how I am, so no one will know I’m really gritting my teeth, snarling, and digging through my pocket for a spork.

So thanks a bazillion for the healing guffaws, ladies. And thanks to last night’s dinner guests who, even though it was their collective birthday celebration, gave me a night of feeling like “the person formerly known as me.” Best. Gift. Ever. I laughed the pathetic maudlin right out of me. 

 
It’s perfectly grand to have friends who are willing to knock you out of the pity wagon and rake you through the mud when you need it. Because admit it: we’re all just broken humans, down here flailing in the muck together. As Roseanne Roseannadanna said, “It’s always something”—stroke, cancer, insecurity, death, loneliness, loss, disability, poverty, shaky hearts, youth, boredom, fear, aging—it’s always something. Self-pity only prolongs the flailing.


We ALL need a face full of mud now & then to keep us honest, to remind us that no one is quite as “tidy” as they think. And I think my friend G would remind me that a good mud mask shrinks the pores…

We're just frickin' fine, thank you.

Living off the fat of the...bland?

 

I have not been a tiny little thing since I had my first child a few decades ago. But I tell ya, this dang BS is trying to turn me into Rotunda, the Humorless Wonda.

I am the object of the Universe’s hilarious health hijinks, almost cartoon-like in their wicked irony. I’ve gained at least the weight of a beefy newborn or two since my stroke a mere four months ago. I want to slap my doc every time she says, “eat less, exercise more…try for an hour a day.” She and I both know this is a catch 22 and that her pat answer is just something to shut up my whining. She and I both know this is how the Universe is playing it:

1. Stroke

2. Quit smoking = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain

3. Quit caffeine = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain

4. Beta blocker = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain (one of the most prevalent side effects of this class of drugs)

5. SSRI to combat post-stroke emotional “incontinence” (laughing hysterically at UPS driver; weeping uncontrollably at a falling leaf) = feeling more stable = better appetite = weight gain (also a common side effect of SSRI’s)

6. Clunky left leg & lack of balance = no running/jumping, difficulty walking distances/stairs = less exercise = weight gain

7. Plantar fasciitis = painful left heel (slow to heal due to stroke aftermath) = less exercise = weight gain

8. Holidays = Mom’s sugar cookies & Chex Mix + post-stroke fatigue & obsessive knitting = weight gain

9. Diminished sense of humor (another common after-effect of stroke) + frustration + weight gain = spousal jitters

So, it seems I was maintaining my sveldt silhouette by keeping myself perpetually stressed out and hopped up on stimulants. But isn’t this extra weight putting a strain on my heart? But if I stop the beta blocker to kick-start my metabolism again, won’t my heart rate (and possibly BP) go up? But if I stop the SSRI so I can get back to my pre-stroke stressed out non-eating, will I go back to loud, annoying sobbing in the hardware store? and will the freaked-out stares of hardware shoppers raise my anxiety level and, hence, my heart rate and BP? I have a pack of American Spirit cigs in my freezer (for nostalgic smell-a-thons)…should I start smoking again to boost my metabolism? Should I just go back to my pre-stroke breakfast of a bottomless pot of spoon-corroding, high-test Italian roast and a couple of coffin-nails? But couldn’t that lead to another stroke?

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You get the picture. There’s no good way out of this mess. I refuse to sacrifice my summer vacation for a week at Fat Camp. So for now at least, I’m eating mouse-sized portions of brown rice and steamed veggies. I’m thinking up affectionate nicknames for the hand weights and recumbent bikes at the gym. I'm avoiding anything that might be (a) delicious; (b) comforting, or (c) fun. I’m cultivating a Johnny Cash (the late years) je ne sais quoi: black moo-moo, black stretch pants, black industrial steel-toed boots, black bandido poncho. And if teaching doesn’t pan out, I think poetic psychic medium has possibilities, because this old poem of mine was surely prophetic…

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST              

patron of health spas

Let me burn slowly in the fire

of Midsummer, feed me only

roast lamb and hypericum,

let me sweat off a pound a day

for forty days and forty nights,

wrap the demon cellulite clinging

to my thighs in a pall infused

with kelp, salt, lemongrass, 

let your dizzying mineral steam

drive out this ghostly evil adipose,

stir ashes and dust into rosewater,

a fine holy paste for stubborn heels,

purge these wanton open pores

with fennel and warm clay, anoint

my idle hands with castor oil and lanolin,

lead me beside distilled waters

(my ass will need a miracle).

Let me fit, at last, into that black

crepe dress, the slinky one with

blue glass beads like fading stars,

the one I keep buried

in my cedar chest.

(Amen.)

The BS Aftermath

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It’s been three months since this stupid BS (my affectionate nickname for the stroke I had back in October). And now that I’ve been back at work for a little over a month, I’m ready to admit to the nagging daily interference of BS. I’m not saying who, but some people might have had an inflated sense of their own superhumanness, and some people might have needed more than 10 weeks’ recovery time after a stroke before jumping back into the fray…

Ongoing Challenge #1: Balance. I’m always just slightly dizzy (either from the stroke or all the new BP meds, I’m not sure which). Not long after classes began, I realized that while I’d been home on leave, if I felt especially off-balance, I sat down or took to my bed. But standing in front of 24 students, if the room starts wavering, I have to muster extraordinary concentration and nonchalantly inch my way—while simultaneously explaining the advantage of an unreliable narrator in a feminist reading of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper”—to a desk, a chair, the whiteboard, or anything I can hold onto.

It only occasionally feels like a T-Rex ate my brain.

Challenge #2: Coordination. At home, I keep a clear path, since my left side still doesn’t always know exactly where it is in space.  My left arm & leg sometimes overshoot or undershoot their mark. Ray and I are used to the fact that I will occasionally side-swipe, knock down, catch on, or slam into things. Ray tries not to startle when I suddenly grab for a railing, a wall, or his hair in order to steady myself. But if you’re a daydreaming student, it can be alarming when your teacher sends notebooks and handouts flying across the room with an accidental fling of her wacky left arm.

Challenge #3: Fatigue. At home, my rule since the stroke has been, if I’m tired, I sleep. But I can’t really pull that off at school. And the more tired I get, the clumsier and achier I get. I find myself in my office hours, stabbing at the keyboard as I type things like “Please make sure you drift fodders contin the dfellowin: 0#b8. Tink you.” Sometimes those two hours in class are so exhausting that I go home after classes, take a nap, wake up for dinner, take another nap, and wake up to go to bed.

Challenge #4: Muscles. Back in the hospital, when the neurologist said, “Your left side is affected,” I don’t think I realized just how much stuff I have on my left side. On especially wonderful days, I get up in the morning feeling like if I only had a cape (maybe teal lamé with silver sequins), I could save every gadget-head, non-reading, apathetic late teen soul in the universe. But by evening, I feel like someone has strapped a giant Slendertone belt around my middle, set on “constant punishing contraction.” My stomach muscles hurt from breathing and holding myself upright, my right hip throbs from compensating for my clunky left leg, my eyes ache from trying to focus together, I’m hoarse, my throat is sore, and my left hand wants to curl into a little ball. In one short day, I can go from Wonder Woman to Kwasimoto.

Challenge #5: Brain. This is the hardest one to admit to. I’ve always liked and appreciated my chatty, over-analytical brain. So I really struggle some days with the fact that right now at least, my brain is not the same. It’s hard to describe—I wouldn’t call it “damage” exactly; I can’t say I’ve lost one iota of my cognitive function, though my memory is a tad spongier than before. And other things are certainly different in there. Some things I used to think (obsess?) about—Yeats’ poem “Vacillations;” writing a cycle of poems that re-imagines the “stations of the cross” in terms of mundane daily activities; writing a book-length collection of prose poems about a modern-day Joan of Arc; working out a “stuck” chapter in the novel I’m writing about an alternative healer who stalks Dean Stockwell—I don’t seem the least bit interested in anymore. And my vocabulary wasn’t affected, but the timing of word recall was—it takes me a split-second longer to dig through the brain files (or travel the new neural pathways?) for a word I want, so I tend to pause, stutter, and uh-uh-uh-uh more than before BS. And in spite of my new friend and savior, the SSRI (clinical depression--as opposed to the frequent and perfectly normal WTF-happened?-ohhellno! post-stroke response--is quite common after a stroke), my “new” brain sometimes switches on an emotional shit-storm (beg pardon) that reduces me to a steaming pile of blubbering mush because I didn’t get a pony when I was 12, or because my black shoes need polishing, or because Ray left an orange on the counter.

Lest you think BS turned me into a big whiny baby, you should know that I’m constantly, completely grateful to be in the shape I’m in—I shared the stroke ward with folks who showed me just how lucky I am. I get that. So, as my mother says, “Head down, plow forward.” And thankfully, one thing hasn’t changed: I still love a good challenge.

P.S. Blogging is another good way to avoid grading papers.

Because I'm 18...and I like it.

What My Brain Thinks I Look Like

Last time I was in Omaha, stomping grounds of my youth, I didn’t see a single person I knew. Then I realized I was searching the faces of 18-year-olds. Duh. I’m in my 50’s now, and if the Universe works the way I think it does, my old cronies would be in their 50’s, too.

As it turns out, my time-warp may not be vanity or delusion. In my post-stroke research, I came across this theory: because neurons don’t “mature,” we often feel (internally, at least) younger than we really are, usually young adult-ish. This explains why we’re so shocked when we see that old person in the mirror—the one with the road-map wrinkies, the liver spots (is that one shaped like the a jackalope?), and the swinging basset-hound jowls.

What I Really Look Like

But BS was a giant bucket of ice water that woke me from my illusion of youth. I went back to work half-time last week (I teach English at our Little Town university), after being home since October. My kind and generous department Chair had bent over backward to help me ease back in—I have two back-to-back 50-minute classes on MWF and TTh at home for rest. And both classes are in the same room, so I don’t have to drag Leftie the Leg around campus. Two short hours in class, three days a week in the same room. Cake, right?

What My Brain Thinks I Look Like

Wrong. Immediately, BS reminded me that I am not my former 18-year-old superhuman self. In fact, Day 1 of class was like having an energy suck-meter in my head: Stay upright. Tick. Keep your left leg from drifting away from your body. Tick. Focus both eyes on the same thing. Tick. What the hell is that word you just said? Tick. Don’t you dare drop these handouts. Tick. Stay awake. Tick. Act like everything’s normal. Tick. Breathe. Tick. And, while all of this is going on inside my head, I’m also trying to get 44 skeptical late-teeners excited about literature. Ticktickticktick…

Let’s do the math, shall we? Clunky muscles and body’s uncertain position in space + awkward “tipping” (BS damaged my sense of balance) + attempt to foist love of words on kids who would rather text pics of their new UGGs + a month of course prep + high anxiety over going back to work = crash & burn. I was sound asleep in my La-Z-Girl by 8 p.m. the first night of classes. I woke up at 11 to go to bed and slept till 8 the next morning. Dang near comatose.

What I Really Look Like

But yesterday, Day 2 of classes, things were a little easier. I felt a little less brain-scrambled and more relaxed in class, I didn’t drop anything, I had a decent (slow as molasses) workout after school, and I stayed awake last night till 10 p.m.! Ah, hope endureth! I just have to be patient. I have to trust I’ll get steadily stronger. I have to get better at asking for help. I have to be more honest with myself and others about the extent of BS’s malicious tinkering (yes, dammit, my speech and word recall were affected). I have to remember that I’m not 18. I have to admit it isn’t “One Toke Over the Line, sweet Jesus” anymore—it’s one stroke over the line. Sweet. Fricking. Geezus. ;)