Anniversary

October 21 was my 2-year stroke anniversary, and my wife, Polly, and I were reminiscing.  She said, “Remember during the first days of inpatient rehab when I would push you outside in the courtyard area?” I told her I sort of did, but those early days were pretty foggy to me.   But her mention of that time brought back memories of that place flooding back:  the sounds, the smells, the atmosphere of it, the sensation of being in a wheelchair, the strange feeling of being in that place.  I may not remember some of the details, but I’ll never forget that feeling.

Polly took time off from teaching, so she was there every day with me and stayed late into the night.  I remember taking physical therapy and seeing her nearby and hearing her encouraging me.  I didn’t realize at the time in what bad shape I was, but Polly did.  She told me later that she would go into the visitor’s bathroom and cry after watching me try to walk.  She never revealed to me how she felt, though.  She said that after watching my struggles in the first weeks at inpatient rehab, she would come home and prepare for my homecoming by going online and researching hospital beds and wheelchairs. 

 Neither of us knew then, but I learned later by reading Peter Levine’s blog, that a characteristic of the hemorrhagic stroke I had was severe physical disability at the beginning, but rapid recovery.  And that was exactly the course my recovery took.  One morning in about the fourth week, Polly walked into my room and I pointed to a quad cane standing in the corner.  She said, “You can use that?”  When I said I could, even though I barely could, her face beamed, for that was her first hope that I would be able to walk again.

 But now, after two years, I feel like I’ve reached a tipping point in my recovery to the point that I now consider myself a normal person with a slight physical impairment, rather than a disabled person trying to recover to normality.  Polly often reminds me of what used to be.  When I complain about my limp, she says, “At least you’re walking.”  When I complain about the stiffness on my left side, she says, “At least you’re able to dress yourself.”  It’s good to have the perspective of someone who’s been there and knows exactly how it was.