Viva La Gellie

Where does one go on vacation when they’re disabled? Where does one take their bedazzled cane and pimp ass limp? To Vegas, bitches!

My husband and I have been long overdue for a vacation. Las Vegas is about a 3 hour drive from where we are in Southern CA, and we haven’t gone since we had the kid. We’ve been through so much financially, physically, and emotionally this past year. If there is one place on Earth you can cleanse your body and mind of negative energy, it’s Sin City. Playing and laughing shake all that negative shit right out of your system, and alcohol kills the rest. Go ahead and enjoy that juice; I’m cleansing my body with vodka and gin.

The week leading up to our trip, I was a nervous wreck. We’ve been to Vegas many times, but this was my first time going as a cripple. I feared what I was getting into, as I knew it would be a very different experience. I wouldn’t be able to casino hop (or regular hop for that matter.) Vegas is all about walking, even if you never leave your hotel. You still have to walk to get to restaurants, shops, gaming, and although it’s all one building, it’s a long way to go.

We made our hotel reservations for Sunday – Tuesday. This way we not only saved money, but spared ourselves the insane weekend traffic and crowds in the casino.  When we arrived, we looked for the Valet sign, and just our luck it read “Valet FULL.” My husband flashed my Handicap placard and the young man opened the chain to wave us through as an exception. That’s right. I was there 5 minutes and already winning.

This small gesture was a big lesson for me, a lesson that I’m still trying to master.

Lesson #1:  Let people know you’re disabled.

I may have mentioned this before, but it’s important so let’s review: No one gives a rat’s ass that you can’t walk because it doesn’t affect them. It’s a bittersweet moment when you realize that the whole world doesn’t have your disability on their minds every moment of the day. It’s an even tougher realization that most of them don’t even know! Pfft! What?!

Um, excuse me sir, I do realize I have a cool gangsta walk but it’s actually because I can barely walk.

You don’t always have to say “Hey fucktard! I can’t walk that far!” despite how tempting it may be. I’ve found that usually flashing my cane or casually mentioning I need something closer works well. We went out to eat several times and each time we got a comfy booth close to the entrance. The particular tower our room was in was closest to the Front Desk. Check-in time wasn’t until 4pm but they let us check in at 12pm. All these little things add up to quite a bit of saved energy. Energy I needed for the Video Poker machine and bending of arm.

Pre-stroke, my husband and I would go grab a bite and a drink, and then we’d hit the tables. Sometimes we stayed together and other times I’d go play Blackjack or drunk shopping while he hit the Poker Room or Craps tables. It was awesome! We knew where to find each other and if either of us got lost, it was just an opportunity to explore the place better. And collect more drinks along the way of course.

Ah…Vegas. Where I can have booze for breakfast, wear lingerie for an outfit and smoke on the elevators! A glorious place indeed!

I should probably mention that our toddler stayed home with his Nana.

Also, I didn’t have a single cigarette. Not one. Not even a little puff. That has happened maybe…never. Definitely has never happened on a Vegas trip.

Lesson #2:   Let Go of I Used To...

The biggest difference with this trip was that we didn’t have an itinerary. We have always made it a point to see a show or visit an exhibit while we’re in Vegas. I have an overwhelming fear of schedules these days. I don’t know what my energy level will be one day to the next, so committing to something that costs $100+ per person, plus getting all dolled up, plus making our way through a crowd to get to a destination at a specific time is not at all my idea of fun. It sounds painful and exhausting. And that makes me feel guilty because I just ruined everyone else’s fun by being a drag.

We decided that this time it wouldn’t matter. We’d let the whole trip evolve naturally, even if it meant we stayed in bed all day, drunk and watching cartoons. That sounds easy enough. Ha – it wasn’t. By the 2^nd day I was getting anxious.

My old self was clawing at my brain to get out and explore. We had gone out to eat and even had a cocktail at the sports bar, but I felt like we had to do something. We went for a walk through some of the shops but I learned quickly that was a big mistake. My legs started to feel like lead, and it wasn’t just the foot-tall margarita. Luckily there are slot machines everywhere, which mean there are chairs to rest in everywhere. I made my way to a Video Poker machine that was just outside the elevator to our room. I won $150, went to the gift shop and bought a bottle of Grey Goose, then went back to our room. I sat in an armchair feeling like I failed. I was supposed to be partying and here I was sitting in a hotel room. I wanted to play Blackjack, but I can’t sit on bar stools. Playing Craps is a stand-up activity which means I wouldn’t last long, and my arm can’t reach over the side to place my chips anyhow. Everything required my legs and they were the one thing I just didn’t have.

This margarita is sitting on the floor of my hotel room. It stands approx 18" tall. Holy brain freeze, Batman!

My husband reminded me that the whole point of the trip was not to worry about anything. So we took a nap – no, that’s not code for hanky panky. We’re parents on our first vacation without our kid! When I say we slept, I mean we actually checked the fuck out and enjoyed the joyous sound of silence. We awoke 3 hours later, had P.F. Changs delivered to our room, and popped open the Grey Goose. It was about 10pm. I was sitting on our bed drunk, eating Lettuce Wraps, and watching the Star Wars episode of Family Guy, laughing my ass off with the love of my life. It was the best moment ever.

Lesson #3:  Appreciate a Push

In gambling, a Push is a tied bet. If you’re playing Blackjack and your cards show 18, and the dealer pulls 18, you don’t win. But you don’t lose either. It’s a Push. Gamers may breathe a little sigh of relief but they’re typically not happy about a Push, because it isn’t winning.

Medical drama tends to make people reflect on things differently: where they’ve been, who they were, what does that mean now. It’s easy to lump your experiences as a survivor into wins and losses, triumphs and failures. Exploring the world as a disabled person has taught me that most of life is actually a Push. I can’t experience people and places the same way I did before. A year ago I would have considered that a loss. Now I’m realizing it isn’t. The Dealer hasn’t won this hand. She has shown me a hand just as good, only different. I’m not winning anything but I sure as hell am not losing. I’m learning to appreciate the Push.

Mission: The Entire Ass

I’ve had a hellish past few weeks. I did everything I could think of to prepare for surgery on my good hand, but nothing really prepares you for what that is like. I was online far more than I anticipated (shout out to my pharmacist!) but that wasn’t terribly wise, considering I need to heal. Yeah, yeah I know, here I am typing. I’m doing this in chunks to give my hand a break. I tried using voice-to-text software to blog via my phone, but it turns out technology is not a fan of my run-on sentences.

This is an eventful week. It started with the removal of the stitches in my left hand. Yay! My hand still needs to heal a bit more before I have full use back, but I’m excited to not have those ugly black sutures yanking on my skin anymore. There was so much to tell about the whole surgery ordeal, but I’m in a good mood and don’t feel like talking about it. Here are the highlights:

It was really awful, then it drove me into a deep depression, then I got drunk with a good friend and had meaningful conversation. Then my stitches came out, and I tried to be normal. It turns out wiping my ass is now a go, but pushing a shopping cart is not. My 2 year old son has grown accustomed to helping me dress and undress. He now randomly yanks down my pants if he thinks I’m going to take a shower. We’re working on keeping the curtains closed. Oh and my awesome friend, Betsy sent me this badass shirt.

Today, June 7^th, is my one year anniversary. It’s been a whole year since my stroke. I started this blog while I was still in the hospital. Last night I went back and read my original posts. I wanted to remember where I was in my head, what I felt, and how far how I had to go physically. It’s easy to get caught up in what you can’t do. Remembering my days in acute rehab puts into perspective all the ass I’ve truly kicked this past year. So these cannots I’ve got tallied in my head can go screw themselves. I’d like to point out that MS Word just suggested I change "all the ass" to "the entire ass." Clearly it does not believe there is any more ass left for me to kick. Well I disagree, fuck you very much. There is still work to be done.

I remember feeling anxious in the hospital, far more anxious than sad. Those first 8 days in the hospital were about getting stabilized. Physical therapists would come in and move my arm and leg around so I wouldn’t stiffen up, since I couldn’t move around myself. I even managed to give the Neurologist a fist bump when I couldn’t shake his hand. At that point they were easy on me, for the real work was to be done when I got transferred to acute rehab.

My first occupational therapy session in rehab was the first reality check I got smacked with. So far, all my therapy had consisted of not so much therapy, but neurochecks.

Squeeze my hand.

Push my hand with your foot.

Can you wiggle your toes for me?

Now touch your nose…

I couldn’t do most of those things. When they wheeled my wheelchair up to a giant wooden table in the gym, I was nervous but eager. The OT placed 10 little poofy pom poms in front of me. 

These are poofy pom poms. They weigh nothing. And they're stupid.

I was instructed to pick them up, one at a time, and drop them in a shoebox. Piece of cake, right? I started to move my right arm forward, then slowly tried to raise it to the table, then…then…oh for fuck’s sake…My arm was supposed to extend to reach the pom pom. We’re talking about a few inches in front of me. I dropped my arm and I started to cry. I started to whisper “I can’t do it.” She told me to remember to breathe and try again. It took all my strength to lift, extend, open fingers, lower hand, close hand on pom pom, lift hand, move hand over to shoebox, then open hand to drop it.

Each of those steps is a completely different signal for the human brain to master. Each step required tremendous concentration and physical strain. And I had to do it again, and again, until all 10 of those motherfucking poofy pom poms were in the motherfucking box.

More OT: The dreaded Theraputty. I had to pick marbles out of that shit.

I’m sharing that story because it is a pivotal moment for me. It was the first time it hit me in the face just how broken I was. It was also the first time I attempted something and felt like it couldn’t be done. And yet I did it. I don’t ever want to forget that moment. It still makes me cry. Fuck, I’m crying right now. It’s not a sad cry. It’s not a cry of mourning. It’s a rally cry. I think about going from that moment sitting in a wheelchair in a gym, literally sitting on my phone in case it vibrates with a phone call from home so I can hear my son’s voice, and then I think about today. Today I’m cooking chicken parmesan from scratch, carrying my son upstairs for his nap, typing with TWO hands, and yes, even driving.

Last week my husband stumbled upon cheap tickets to the opening night of Elmo Live! We’ve never taken our son to a big event, let alone to a big arena but the tickets were too good to pass up. When I realized I would have to go to the show as a gimp with stitches in my good hand, I went into panic mode. I can’t use my cane with stitches in my hand – how the hell am I going to make it through an arena? Wheelchair access seats were confusing and a total hassle. You can’t use Ticketmaster’s automated systems for anything because there is no way to pick a crippled seat and there are no real explanations anywhere about how to go about picking one. Plus I hate the wheelchair. I’m too much of a control freak to feel comfortable with someone wheeling me around now that I've learned how to walk. I decided there was only one real choice. (Well there were two choices, but I wasn’t going to miss seeing Elmo with my kid.) The only choice I had was to suck it up and walk, really walk, unassisted. Who wouldn't at least try for their kid? I sure as hell am not going to die from walking.

A year ago, family fun time was wheeling mom around a nursing home.

I’ve managed to walk without my cane these past few weeks, but only short distances. I had no way of knowing how far it would be from the parking lot, through the main entrance of the Citizens Business Bank arena, to our section, and then up or down to our seats. No clue. I pictured myself bed-ridden the next day. I pictured myself having to lean on walls and railings and my husband to catch my breath. I pictured my leg locking up and my toes curling under from spasticity. I can’t explain it, but I knew I could do it. I knew it would suck, but it was doable.

Thanks to my handy dandy handicapped placard, we parked really close. I was absolutely thrilled when I made it to the entrance, walked inside, and the usher looked at our tickets and said “Oh. Your section is right there.” He meant literally RIGHT THERE. Like, right in front of us, maybe 25 feet away! Man, I got this!

We had a blast, together, our little family. I've realized over this past year that most days are going to be a challenge. Challenge isn't a bad word. Fuck that noise. I've taken a number of calculated risks because why not? It's worth it. It's do or die and I'm not dying.

I’m kicking ass, but I’m not 100% better. I will never be 100% better. I am, however always ready to try harder, push further, and kick more ass. So that’s my mission: the entire ass. One can never actually kick the entire ass, but that’s not the point. You can still kick a lot of ass. I think of my mission in the same vein as “Shoot for moon. If you miss at least you’ll land on a star.” Or however the hell that old saying goes. There’s a big ol’ fucking ass out there ready for me to kick. And mama’s got her boots on.

June 14, 2011: Day 7 in the hospital. I couldn't hold him, so he crawled into my hospital bed.

June 7, 2012: After 20 tries this crappy photo was all I could get while holding him still. But I held him :)

Look, Ma! No Hands!

It’s been a while since my last post. I’ve had plenty to say. Hell, I always have plenty to say. The truth is I’ve been avoiding my own blog. How twisted and sad is that? I’m going through a weird time and I feared that if I started to write, I would be too honest. When I chose to write about my recovery, I had (and still have) every intention of sharing my story without any sugar-coated bullshit. If this is going to help my recovery, it must be candid and gloriously raw. So that’s what you get.

What I get is all my most personal shit flapping in the breeze. I’m not shy, so I don’t really care. The issue I have is that if I say it out loud, then it’s really happening. And since I can’t shut the hell up, it’s time to talk about what’s happening and let it be real.

I’ll spare you the long “How Gellie’s Hands Came To Be Royally Fucked” story, and tell you this: I have to have surgery on my left hand. I am “right-side affected” as a result of my stroke. That means my right hand and arm don’t work so well. Now I have to have surgery on my left side. This means that recovering from surgery will result in NO HANDS. Well not “no hands,” more like half a hand and a quarter of an arm; Make that a quarter of a T-Rex arm – you know, it sort of functions but can’t reach worth a damn.

When I discussed this with the surgeon, he thought I was nuts. He looked at me confused, speechless, like I can’t possibly know what I’m suggesting.

You do realize what this means…

You won’t be able to use…

Are you sure you…

You really need to think about…

Ah…silly doctor. I should mention that he’s worked on me before. Six months prior to my stroke, I had this same surgery done on my right hand. I cut him off and chuckled. I explained that the thought of this surgery, and the horrors of recovering with essentially no hands has been on the forefront of my mind for weeks, plaguing my sleep, consuming my every spare moment to ponder what I’ll be getting myself into. I assured him that my husband and I have spent hours going over what it may be like and preparing ourselves for 3-4 weeks of complete and utter hell. BRING IT!

Who the hell strong arms their surgeon into slicing open their only functioning hand? ME! Fuck. Maybe I am nuts. I’m doing it because I’m in excruciating pain, and I’m already losing my grip – on my hand not my mind – and if I don’t do it soon, it could cost me my hand altogether. I’ve already suffered irreparable nerve damage so it’s only going to get worse unless I do something about it.

I’m really OK with being disabled at this point. I can’t change it, so eh, whatever. I’ll deal with it. But this shit?! Surgery? I’m freaking out. Every day since that consult with the surgeon I have realized more things I won’t be doing while I recover. Here’s a few (or 20) so you can panic with me:

Brush hair

Wash hair

Actually, I’ll barely be able to even touch my hair so you can have fun thinking of all the other hell this will bring me.

Put on pants

I may be able to take them off if there are no buttons or zippers and I can rub my feet on my legs to wiggle them off. Still unsure of right leg wiggle capability, but we’ll see.

Put on a shirt

Take off a shirt

Underwear…oh god, underwear…

Wipe my ass – yep, I’m going there.

Sadly, there’s no app for that, but I discovered there is a gadget so I’ve got a Plan B(M). Also, pain meds stop me up so I probably won’t have to go anyways.

Walk with a cane.

That means walking anywhere outside of my house, which means not going anywhere, ever.

Change diapers (woo hoo! Hey look at that! A silver lining!)

Do dishes (Not bad, not bad!)

Get stuff out of the fridge.

Ahh, crap! I can’t get anything out of the fridge! My T-Rex arm can’t reach, and my wonky right hand isn’t strong enough to grab anything and carry it to the counter unless it’s the size and weight of a yogurt. I guess I’ll be eating a lot of yogurt.

Blog.

You’ll miss me. You know you’ll miss me.

Open stuff.

I’d be specific, but it’s just about everything you can think of from envelopes to jars to jackets.

Damn it. I won’t be able to put on jackets or sweaters.

I’m cold all the time due to spasticity issues. There’s a whole other blog post on the horizon to explain what that is. Trust me, it’s a problem. 

I’m not looking for pity. I’m just trying to give an honest glimpse into the hell I’m about to walk into. Surgery has been scheduled for Wednesday, May 16^th. That is coming up quick. Panic is running rampant, which is why I’m writing about it. This is me, channeling the anxiety and bad juju out of my system. That’s all.

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t looking forward to lying in bed with my Kindle for hours on end, hopped on prescription goodness. Life may suck balls sometimes, but I’ll be damned if I won’t get a decent buzz and a good book out of it. 

A Disagreeable Woman

I couldn’t do it.

I would die.

I would just curl up and cry and want to die.

People seriously say these things to me. I know they’re speaking from a place of shock, flattery, pity, moral support. It’s usually followed by a “you’re so strong” sort of comment. What I really notice is the expressions on their faces. They become almost trance-like, staring off in deep thought, forehead wrinkled and distraught, looking concerned and empathetic.

I don’t always know how to take that. I don’t feel strong. In fact, if you know me in real life you know I’m pretty damn lazy. The truth is I usually need a decent fire lit under my ass to get things done. I’ve survived having a stroke because having half your body taken from you overnight makes for a pretty decent fire under your ass. I also have a short fuse and little patience. If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself, right? I’m learning to cook because I need to eat healthy and it’s on me to make that happen. I’m learning to walk because I need to be able to get my own damn tampons off the shelf at Target. (OK maybe TMI, but have you tried sending your husband to do this? Ah hell, you would think I asked him to carry a burning stick of dynamite across the store.) I don’t take much shit because I’m impatient and I don’t have time. I can’t stay on my feet long, so if you’re in my way you’ll find out real quick that I need you to get a move on. I can be tenacious, but it’s out of necessity.

When we were kids, my father had an old Webster’s Dictionary. I don’t know what edition or year it was, but we knew it was old as it had a binding unlike any other book in the house. The binding was a faded old green fabric that was slowly stretching apart at the seams. The pages were thin and crinkly, like that of a bible or rolling papers. We had to maneuver it with two hands and drag it across the table, as it was too much book for our little hands to work with. Surely this was a special book. Surely this book would have swear words in it.

Sadly, the great big book of words did not have what we had hoped for under “F” or “S.” We held out hope for “B” and alas there it was: Bitch. The definition of course started with “a female dog” – duh! Boring! Skip ahead. The last sentence, ah yes, there it is: a disagreeable woman.

I was 8 years old and my brother only 6, but we thought this was the funniest damn thing ever. Twenty five years later, we still find ourselves snickering over drinks at the phrase. Lately I find myself embracing it. When I think about how I’ve coped so far with my medical trauma, I have to attribute it to being a disagreeable woman.

The doctor said I wouldn’t walk with a cane. I disagreed. They said I wouldn’t be able to do much on the computer. I disagreed. They still say I may not be able to drive or work or take care of my son. I disagree.

I can tell you the exact moment I felt something rage in me that made me take charge of this. It was Day 3 in the hospital. We had been told on Day 2 the stroke was over. At this point, I could still stand, walk, and sign my name. Yet I woke up that 3^rd morning at 4am, attempted to roll over in my bed, and I couldn’t. My left side moved, but my right arm wouldn’t budge. Naturally, I panicked and thought maybe I was just hazy from sleep. I tried to use my leg to push my body to roll over, and that wouldn’t budge either. I was fully awake now with panic and horror. A moment later I had gone from pure fear to super fucking pissed. That was it. I’d had it. 

Three days of family and doctors convening over my bed, making assessments and decisions about my care and here I was, lying alone in the dark, suddenly completely paralyzed on the right side of my body. Time to light fires of my own under several asses. I started with the night nurse. I was calm but commanding. I demanded a Neurologist come to my room and look me in the eye to tell me I wasn’t still having a stroke. If I was still having a stroke, why the hell wasn’t I being treated for it? My mind was so clear that morning. If being a bitch was going to save my life, then look out.

I can’t explain where this comes from. I don’t think it’s that I’m special or stronger than anyone else. I’m just a cynical sarcastic bitch who gets bored easily. I can’t sit in a room and cry forever. That shit just gets old. I’ve prevailed because there isn’t any other option. There just isn’t.

Those of you reading this that think you wouldn’t be able to deal with waking up one morning paralyzed, I disagree. I used to say that too until it happened. Yeah it sucks. I won’t lie. We all have our baggage and our crap and our darkness and our light. You have to give yourself a chance to acknowledge all of it. If you dwell in the darkness, you’ll never see the obvious: listen to your body, and it will listen to you. (And so will everyone else if they know what’s good for ‘em.)

"Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light." ~Albus Dumbledore

Guilty Pleasures

The other day I had the rare treat of being home alone. I always cherish those moments of solitude, as they don’t come often. I found myself at a loss for what to do. The world was mine! Well not the world, but the living room was mine!

Should I read? Should I write? Sleep? Make food that no one else likes? Dance naked? No. Those are good choices but not great. This is rare so it must be something special, something just for me. So, I did what many intellectual women in their 30s do in secret, but dare never admit…I watched me some E! Channel!

Say what you will about those skanky Kardashians, but I can’t get enough of them. I realize my Feminazi membership card will probably be revoked over this, but I think it’s important I be honest about it. You need to know you’re not alone. I checked the DVR to see what other guilty pleasures awaited, and was delighted to find the Season 2 Premiere of Ice Loves Cocoa.

Does the fact that I've watched Law & Order: SVU religiously for years redeem me in your intellectual eyes? Oh good.

 

I got cozy on the couch with a cup of coffee and an odd feeling came over me. No, it wasn’t my IQ slipping away (although I admit a case could be made for that.) It was something else.It took me a minute to realize what it was. As Cocoa smiled at the camera with her striking bleach blonde hair, it hit me: the last time I overdosed on cheesy reality TV, I was in rehab. (No, not sexy rock star rehab, the other one: old folks’ home rehab.)

If you’ve been in the hospital, you know that entertainment is hard to come by. The TV is typically just plain awful. If you’re lucky, you’ll get 1 – maybe 2 – cable channels that aren’t news-related. (Who wants to forget their troubles watching political debates or bombings in the Middle East? Sorry world sufferers, hospital time is all about me.) The main hospital had the History Channel and a flat-screen plasma TV which was awesome. Perhaps they invested more in that unit since it was part of the ICU, and they knew those of us who were unfortunate to be there wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. (Which is also morbidly ironic considering most patients were paralyzed or in comas.) Rehab, however, did not have the fancy amenities. I had a little TV that hung right in front of my face from a long metal arm on the wall. There was no remote. It hung so close to my face, the buttons were on the unit itself. I hated those buttons. They were stiff and almost impossible to push. I was paralyzed so I had to somehow hold it in place and hit those damn stiff buttons all with my left hand just to change the channel or adjust the volume. 

I stole this pic from my rehab facility's website. I stole for authenticity, as this is exactly what my room looked like.

I realize that sounds whiny. Consider this: I was away from my family for 22 days. I had 3 hours of physical and occupational therapy, mandatory meal times, and the rest of the day to sleep or stare at the wall. When you have that much downtime, you begin to cherish what little glimpse of the outside world you have. I developed a love-hate relationship with that TV. As much as I fantasized about getting my strength back so I could punch out the screen with my bare fist, it was also a great source of comfort and connection for me. There were nights my husband would call and we’d stay on the phone while we both tuned into the same channel. It’s so much more fun to laugh when you’re not laughing alone.

There were 3 shows that came on every day, which meant I often watched the same episode more than once: Ice Loves Cocoa, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and The Voice. Those shows are all back again with new seasons. (OK purists, technically not Kardashians but their spin-off shows are back.) It’s just TV. Stupid, unintelligent TV at that. Yet every time I see a preview or am alone for 30 minutes to tune in, it feels surreal to watch from my own couch this time. I can’t explain why. People say that certain sounds or smells can transport them back to another time. I suppose that is what I’m experiencing.

It’s been nine months exactly today. Nine months since I was sent by ambulance for my extended medical stay. It feels bizarre to say that. It feels like forever ago and just yesterday all at the same time. Maybe that’s why seeing these shows again freaks me out. It’s certainly a reality check that this much time has passed.

If you’re at all concerned about my taste in TV, you may be comforted to know I got a Kindle over the holidays. I don’t watch much TV anymore, but when I do it’s mind-numbingly FAB-U-LOUS. Like seriously, I need me a Soulgee.

Soulgee: Fabulous sidekick extraordinaire

Awesomesauce

I had posted a list back in October of things I will probably never do because of my stroke. When I posted my Can’t Do list, a friend of mine said she couldn’t wait to see the list of new things I could do because of my disability. It struck me: have I – can I – acquire a whole new realm of awesomeness?

It’s been 4 months since that comment was made. I had planned to come up with a list in a follow-up post to Breakin’, but I wasn’t quite feeling it. My list just wasn’t that awesome. Until now!

I’ve never been very domestic. I can’t cook, I suck at cleaning, and my inferiority in both realms had led me to despise both almost equally. Last week marked 8 months since my stroke. It’s finally sinking in that my life is in my hands. It’s time to grab it by the balls and make some serious changes. My first big change is being more active. It’s finally getting through my thick skull that “active” doesn’t have to mean the gym. It doesn’t have to mean aerobics, Tae Bo, Zumba or any other workout craze (although random shaking of one’s ass and punching imaginary people in the face is always highly encouraged.)

I’ve always been a shitty housekeeper, so I decided that since moving around the house is exhausting, I should do it more often. Twisted, isn’t it? I figure if doing things around the house leaves me short of breath, then it’s raising my heart rate, and isn’t that what exercise is? And maybe, just maybe, I’ll do something useful. It’s win-win.

I’m doing well so far. I used to be able to wash a few dishes at a time. Now I can clean the whole kitchen. I still suck at cleaning the floor but everything else is coming along. (And by “everything else” I mean the kitchen; please don’t look at the rest of the house.)

The other big change, that I always knew had to happen, is my choice in food. We used to eat out all the time. I never really learned to cook and I also worked a stressful full-time job, so most of our dinners consisted of take-out. When I was especially tired or lazy, we’d have it delivered. Shortly after we were married, our microwave blew up (possibly from overuse?) and we panicked because surely we would starve.

It’s been easy for me to say, “Look at my blood work. Everything checked out. How did I have a damn stroke?” It is true that whatever created the blood clot that got stuck in my brain stem is unknown, but I can’t act like I didn’t set myself up for this.

I’m doing so well with the kitchen that for the first time in my life, I’m learning to cook.  Thanks to the Internet, there’s no excuse for not knowing how. I have an amazing circle of online mommy friends, a few awesome recipe websites, and YouTube for when those mommies and websites use cooking terms like “Dutch oven” and “winter squash” that I’m not familiar with. Learning to cook always seemed like a daunting task before my stroke. You can imagine what it’s like learning for the first time and being disabled.

Today I had my first real injury. I burned the crap out of the index finger on my bad hand. It hurt like hell which is weird because I don’t have much feeling there. The weird thing about injuring a paralyzed part of the body is not knowing how bad it is. I sat there staring at it as if it belonged to someone else who couldn’t tell me what was wrong. It’s like when a baby is hurt but you have no idea how bad so you watch closely and cross your fingers that nothing turns purple or falls off. (So far no bubbling and it hasn’t fallen off so I think I’m good.)

I just embarked on this whole cooking thing a few weeks ago. I haven’t poisoned anyone (yet) and surprisingly haven’t had many complaints. I stumble around quite a bit and occasionally need help stirring but my left hand is picking up the slack better than I thought it could. Here are a few of my triumphs so far:

Arroz con Pollo - nothing used from a box or can. Even the leftovers didn't stand a chance.

Chicken Enchiladas with Mexican Rice. Don't be fooled, it's healthy. The only cheese used was a little on top.

Pulled BBQ Chicken. HUGE hit in this house.

Broccoli n' Cheese stuffed Chicken Breast with Homemade Fries. (Healthier than it looks.)

One of those "Winter Squash" things. Yup. I roasted one!

Not bad, huh? It takes me about 2 hours to make a 30-minute meal. My blood sugar usually drops somewhere in the middle and I stumble a lot, but swearing helps.

This journey into domestic prowess has inspired me to complete the list I set out to make a few months ago. This isn’t about things I’ve relearned, it’s about brand spankin’ new things that I would have never learned had I not been disabled. Here it is. My list of other newly acquired wicked awesome skillz (spelled with a “z” to emphasize level of awesomeness:)

1. I can put on my socks with one hand. I’m learning to use my right hand again, but for the first few months my right side was too paralyzed to be of any use. I had to learn how to pick up my paralyzed leg and set that foot on my “good” knee then use my left hand to open the sock and slide it onto and up my foot. Oh and yes, I’m right-handed so this was loads of fun to learn. The nurses usually gave me some alone time for sweating and cursing during this part of my morning routine.

2. Handicapped Parking. Boo-yah! I got a PERMANENT handicapped placard. OK that’s not a skill, especially since I can’t drive yet, but it’s an awesome perk and it’s mine! Forever!

3. Wrangle a toddler one-handed. This is tricky but needs little explanation. I somehow get superhuman strength in my left arm and hand when my kid becomes unruly and needs physical intervention. If this were a professional sport, I’d hold a World Champion title.

4. I can put on all my make-up with my left hand. It takes time, but I can do it all – eyeliner, shadow, brows, foundation, blush – with my left hand. Sounds like no big deal? Try holding the hand you write with behind your back and then get ready for a fancy party. Tell me how easy it is.

5. Organize my kitchen so it makes sense. I never spent much time in there (aside from reheating take-out in the microwave of course) so I’m taking pride in this.

6. Cook from scratch! No boxes! No cans!

What’s the matter? You think I cheated by adding #5-6 when I just made you read an entire post about #5-6, don’t you? Well tough. They’re the biggest accomplishments I’ve made, possibly ever in my adult life so I’m stating them again. I honestly feel more proud about taking on cooking than I do about learning to walk again. After all, I’ve walked before. This cooking thing is completely new territory. And I’m doing it!

Why yes, as a matter of fact I am yelling with my mouth full – full of deliciousness from my own kitchen. BAM!

The Showdown

My toddler has figured out how to strategically position himself on our king size bed so that I cannot possibly reach him. I’m only 4ft 11in tall so my arms don’t have much reach. I can’t run so if I hobble quickly to gain an advantage on one side, he quickly scurries to the opposite end. He finds this hilarious. I’ve been tempted to climb on the bed and scurry after him, but I can’t crawl, and walking on a bed is a hell-no with my crippled leg. I won’t risk getting us both hurt. So here we are. A boy, naked and crouching against the wall, dead center at one end of the bed; a mother seething with frustration, clutching footsie pajamas in her one good hand and panting from the chase, both staring each other down trying to anticipate the other’s next move. Clint Eastwood’s got nothing on this kid.

My son is only 2 ½ so he doesn’t know what “disabled” means. Even if he did, he wouldn’t care. I’m his mom, and whatever I can and can’t do is normal to him. We have our own way of doing things out of necessity, including bathing, nap times and even discipline. There are steps I take to ensure our safety and minimize drama, and sometimes these steps take much longer than an able-bodied parent’s methods.

I manage to give my son a bath in the evenings. It takes a lot out of me to do this. Once he’s bathed, he gets a good half hour to play with his action figures in the bath regardless of how late it is. While he plays, I get a chance to rest my body and catch my breath. I sit next to him and we talk and sing songs. Meanwhile, I’m psyching myself up to manage pulling him out of the tub. Getting him out of the bath is tricky. It’s much like a choreographed fight. We know the routine, who’s going to win, but we go through the motions none-the-less.

Are you ready to get out?

No.

Are you sure?

Mom, you get towel?

OK. Here’s your towel. Let’s get out.

No. I don’t want it.

You said you were…

I DON’T want it!!

Alright then.

*wait 5 min*

Are you ready to get out?

No...

(We may have this conversation 1 time or 3 times. I believe the current record is 4 times respectively.)

Some would say this is ridiculous. We dilly-dally too long. Well what you can’t see is my toes curled up so bad inside my socks from paralysis and spasticity, that it takes great effort to stand on it. You can’t see the excruciating knife-stabbing pain in my shoulder leaving me barely able to move my arm because I just put everything I had into washing his hair. You probably wouldn’t notice how hard it was for me to not fall into the bath with him because my vertigo started to kick in as I bent down to grab the soap. And you may be wondering why the hell I don’t ask for help. Why the hell do I put myself through all that every night?

The easy answer is because I’m a mom and that’s what we do. But it’s more than that. My doctors and therapists have taught me that the path to normalcy is being normal. I have learned to bathe my son because I made myself do it. I take 5 times longer to do it than my husband does. So what! This is our normal. I do that song and dance of getting him out of the bath every night because I am not physically able to just reach down and pluck him out of the water. Have you ever grabbed a naked, wet, squirming toddler? It’s like catching a greased piglet! So no, I won’t “put my foot down” as some folks have been so condescending to call it. I’ll do the song and dance and get him out with some level of cooperation because it’s the safe, nurturing, drama-free way to deal with my kid.

I think people look at me like I’m nuts because I choose to pick my battles, as if I coddle my son. It’s not coddling, it’s parenting in a way that keeps me sane and effective. He’s an intelligent strong-willed boy and I’m proud of that. I’m not catering to his whims. I’m teaching him the virtues of cooperation and negotiating. And here’s the best part: it’s all therapy for my body. It is truly incredible what my body can do today, which it couldn’t do a month ago. And THAT is why I do it.

As for the showdown on the bed, you may be wondering who drew first. I did. I’m mom. My weapon of choice? His beloved Brobee. No one is allowed to hold Brobee, not even me. I resorted to holding his beloved hostage in exchange for him getting off the damn bed and putting on his pajamas. Just because I’m patient doesn’t mean I won’t play dirty every now and then.

Final Score: Mommy 23 Toddler 6

Not cool, mom. Messin' with a boy's Brobee like that.