spasticity [spas-tis´ĭ-te]
Definition: Spasticity is a constant and unwanted
contraction of one or more muscle groups as a result of a stroke or other insults to the brain or spinal cord. Over time spasticity prevents the
normal voluntary contraction of affected muscles.
I don’t recall if I’ve previously explained spasticity in my posts. I am open about what I can and can’t do and
try to explain what my struggles are like, but I should give you all a better
idea of why that is.
I turned to Google for a decent definition of spasticity and
found quite a few. I chose the definition above from About.com because it’s simple, accurate, and I love that it refers
to my stroke as an “insult to the brain.” Well
no shit! You don’t say!
What it means is that when part of my brain was killed off
by the insult, er stroke, the rest of my brain wasn’t sure how to talk to the
right side of my body. Some things it
has figured out, some things it won’t communicate at all (paralysis), and yet
for other things it won’t shut the hell up. Spasticity occurs when the brain won’t
shut the hell up. It keeps sending
signals to the nerves (in my case, my shoulder, fingers, and toes) so they are
constantly tightening without me even knowing it. Imagine flexing your bicep as hard as you can
and not letting it go to relax. Hold
it…hold it…yeah, like that…keep holding… for several years. Do you know how difficult and painful it would
be to force yourself to extend your arm after that?
I realize a medical
professional would probably explain this much better and give you a far more
accurate analogy. Despite how awesome I am, I am no professional.
The muscles in my shoulder are constantly contracting and
tightening up. As numb as I am, I do
have some feeling. It can be
excruciating to reach for things, to let my arm hang at my side, and if you
want to know just how many swear words are in my vocabulary, pull my arm back. It hurts like a motherfucker. I have a serious fear of getting arrested
because of this. Wait, what? MAN, YOU DON’T KNOW ME.
The best thing I can do for it is stretch. Stretching doesn’t cure it, but it helps
loosen the muscles just enough to ease the pain. Gravity pulling on my arm makes it too hard to
lift it well, so I have to lie on my back to get it moving. I sometimes need someone else to help lift it
when it’s an especially bad day. The
other problem area is my toes. They don’t hurt because I can’t feel them. Winning! As I walk, my toes start to curl under. I don’t notice until I start stepping on my
toes and falling over, launching me into Human Pinball mode. Human Pinball mode
is when I ricochet back and forth between the furniture until I can safely come
to a stop. If this were a sport, I’d be
a World Champion.
I have mastered the art of not falling. That is not to be confused with the art of
walking. I walk, but I stumble; only I
do it with grace and skill! Bing bang
bong, bouncing down the hallway I go without ever hitting the floor. Like a ninja, I grab at tables and chairs and
you don’t even notice I’m doing it! Maybe
you do and you just don’t say anything because you are polite and your mama
raised you right, but still! In these
past four years since my stroke, I have only fallen – like seriously hit the
floor – three times.
Two of these falls occurred within 48 hours of each other.
And those happened this week.
You could say I’m on a roll. (You see what I did there.) I’m laughing at myself right now, but the second
fall was a bad one. I completely ate
shit. There was a box of random crap
that needed to go to the dumpster. It
wasn’t heavy; it weighed about the same as an empty cardboard box. I figured I could at least get it out of my
living room to just outside the back door. Due to the drop foot in my right ankle, I use
my hip and knee to kind of fling my foot in the direction I need to go. I realize that doesn’t sound terribly
efficient, but remember I’m a Master Ninja. I got this. Well I did, until my dragging foot
caught on something (chair leg I think) and sent me flying forward through the
back door. I took out the screen and
everything! My arms, which had been
holding the box, slammed down on the metal, sliding door track and my knees
took the rest of the impact.
Falling as a grown-up sucks. It takes a minute for your brain to realize
that your body has had the audacity to pull such bullshit. I mean, really.
REALLY? I’M ON THE FLOOR? THIS JUST HAPPENED? Consumed with indignation, I
forgot to breathe. As I started to pant,
I started to cry, partly from the pain but also because I was just so
overwhelmed with that are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now feeling.
My husband was still home, thank goodness. He ran over to me, scared shitless, and tried
to help me up. I couldn’t talk yet, but
he could see that I needed a minute. I
needed to just sit there on the floor and breathe and cry for a minute before
attempting to get up. Once I was up, I
sat in the chair that had brought me down, and I sat there for a long while.
This is my normal. I
forget that my “new normal” means there is also this piece that sometimes feels
crappy and comes crashing in my face with a rather aggressive, unfriendly
reminder that I’m still not invincible. If
it weren't rough enough having thoughts that won't simmer down, now my brain
won't stop talking to my muscles behind my back. I am grateful that most of the time I get
them to tone it down just enough to stop trying to kill me. Eh, that screen door needs to be replaced
anyhow.
