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.

There is No Try, Only Do

I posted a few months back about my follow-up neurology appointment. If you don’t remember or didn’t read it, here’s a recap:

Dr. No (that’s what we’ll call him) was nice but told me I’d never walk, write or work like a normal person. I came home depressed and pissed off, hand wrote a fuck you letter which I posted to show you all what a dipshit he is, because um duh as you can see I just hand wrote a fuck you letter.

Fastforward a few months and it’s time to follow up with Dr. No. I was excited to make the appointment so I could show him that I can walk with a cane (he said I never would,) I can write so that my handwriting looks like it did before my stroke (although I still can’t feel my hand,) and I have taught myself to type 55 words per minute. I couldn’t wait to say, “BAM! IN YO’ FACE!”

Guess what happened. The hospital informed me that he doesn’t work there anymore. WHAT! Overwhelmed with mixed emotions, I quickly brought up the hospital’s website for a game of eenie-meenie-miney-moe because ah crap now I’ve got to pick a new neuro. This should be a good thing. This really could be a good thing. I get to pick one – a rare treat in the world of American HMOs. I can’t screw this up!

The girl on the phone helped me narrow down the choices, and I read their bios. Dr. #1 was a neuro who also belonged to the Board of Psychiatry (barf.) Dr. #2 was a neuro with a specialty noted only as “movement.” Dr. No had tried to push anti-depressants because he said all stroke patients suffer from depression and if I’m too sad I won’t push myself. Obviously, he’s not a golfer.

I’ve been called of a lot of things; “clinically depressed” is not one of them. Now weary of any doctor with a psych background, I chose the movement guy.

I met him last week. I love him. He was the complete opposite of the original neurologist. He heard me out, encouraged me to keep trying, and agreed that pills suck and I shouldn’t take anything that isn’t directly related to stroke prevention.

I will never be 100%. I can say that out loud, I can type it, and you know what? I’m ok with it. My stroke occurred in my brain stem. It is a bit different than other people’s strokes. Brain stem stroke survivors don’t usually have a good prognosis, and many of them never make it to where I am now. From that perspective, I’m pretty damn lucky. I will never be 100%. So what.

My new doctor knows I’ll never be back to my old self, but that was never the focus of our visit. He wanted to see what I could do, but even that wasn’t the focus. His main concern was what I want to do, and how he can help me do it. I can’t do a lot of things. It doesn’t mean I can’t do anything. I’ll continue to follow up with Dr. Do (yes that really is his name) and take it one step at a time.

The Sorcerer’s Stoned

I've been sick on and off for about 5 weeks now. I'm guessing that’s how long it has been because I've completely lost my concept of time. Hence, my blog has been neglected. Oh I’ve had all sorts of drug-induced material floating in my head. Of course now that I’m at the computer I can’t remember much of it. Damn shame because it was some good stuff. I did manage to read through all 7 Harry Potter books for the first time. My mind is still blown. Perhaps it’s Harry’s fault that I haven’t posted. Yeah that’s it.

I suppose some of you are expecting an update on my recovery. Well I’m pleased to announce that on Christmas morning (or maybe the next day – I was high) I suddenly felt saucy and decided to forgo the shower bench. That’s right. I took a shower like a normal person. No bench, no safety bars, no help. In retrospect I probably should have informed someone just in case it went badly but what the hell. I did it! Stepping over the wall of the tub to get in and out is tricky. I admit that while getting out I started to fall over, but thankfully there’s plenty of wall there to break my fall. I managed to ricochet like a pinball back into upright position. Then I did exactly what you’re thinking I would do: I held the towel around me half-assed, did the cabbage patch with my good arm and hobbled to the top of the stairwell to yell down to my family my glorious news! It was a Christmas miracle! OK maybe not, but it felt awesome.

The shower bench is still set aside in my room just in case I have a bad day and need it, but so far it’s become another clothes rack. I still have the wheelchair I came home with too. I haven’t used it in months. Same deal with the walker. I’m really afraid to let these things go. I feel like if I get rid of them, I’ve suddenly made this declaration that I am healed. Don’t get me wrong – I want to be healed. There is just this sense of safety in knowing that I’m not. I have this fear that if I appear to be healed, no one will understand why my body and mind betray me. It’s as if hanging on to these things is the last thing saving me from being thrown to the wolves. I hope I’m making sense. I should probably mention the Tylenol+Codeine I took a little while ago. (I’ve got a damn ear infection if you must know.)

Getting sick repeatedly over the last several weeks has knocked me off track as far as a daily routine. I went quite a while without stretching my spastic shoulder. Surprisingly, I’m not doing so badly. I’ve lost some range due to stiffness but I feel like I can move it with decent precision. It is possible that this strength and confidence is a byproduct of the codeine, but I’m ok with that. Apparently it’s 2012 now. If it wasn’t for my phone I wouldn’t know that. Well cheers. I need a nap.

The Friggin Tree

We bought a Christmas tree. This is only the second time in our 13 years together we have done this. The first time was about 6 years ago and I can’t remember what compelled us to do so. This year, our son is 2 years old and more aware of the looming festivities. I still didn’t want a tree. They’re an unnecessary expense, I don’t like the idea of chopping down a living tree for temporary adornment, and they’re a pain the ass to keep decorated with 2 cats and a toddler in the house. My husband, however, felt inspired to do something fun as a family. Alright you got me there, so off to the tree lot we went.  We found a beautiful tree within minutes. The stroke has left me with severe spasticity in my right shoulder and I’ve learned the hard way that even the slightest bit of cold is not my friend. (It’s plain evil, actually.) Luckily I remembered my awesome bright red coat that I never get to wear thanks to California weather. I’m rather excited that now I’ll have a reason to wear it more often. My son was so happy to be outside at night he swirled around, dancing and singing “kwissmus twee! Kwissmus twee!” It was great.

It occurred to us that we had no idea where our ornaments were. They were in the garage somewhere in the myriad of unmarked cardboard boxes and plastic storage totes. I’ll be honest. This was another reason I didn’t want a tree this year. My husband has so much on his plate. A crippled wife isn’t much help digging through the garage.  We decided to buy 2 small boxes before heading home as a little start-up kit before figuring out where the stuff was. We could always buy more if need be. The first box contained 4 disco balls like this:



If I'm going to have a damned tree, it sure as hell is going to have disco balls.



The other box was of glitter foo-foo ball things like this:


I dig silver and glitter and sunbursts. This had all 3 FTW.



Sweet. Now I’m starting to feel it. Winter has been celebrated since the beginning of civilization. While we have traditionally been more bah humbug sort of people, I think now that we’re parents and especially since my stroke, we’re feeling the spirit of the holidays more this year. Since ancient times, winter festivities have been a celebration of family; that we’ve weathered through difficult times by sticking together and making due with the harvest we have. We take time to appreciate the year that is soon to be behind us and hold out for the year to come.

My husband found the missing box of ornaments a few hours ago. We opened the box and mused over the few specialty items we had to commemorate years passed.

 

There was the Grateful Dead ornament I got from a friend many years ago during my Deadhead days:

The flying pig my husband bought the last time we bought a tree because I love pig figurines, and let’s face it, if we had a tree then it must mean that pigs can fly.

Many of the generic ornaments were scuffed or broken, but there were enough to work with. I handed a disco ball to my son so he could put the very first ornament on his very first tree. He didn’t understand and thought I had given him a sparkly new toy. He ran off with it while I yelled and shook my fist. When you’re disabled you learn not to bother chasing after them. He finally threw it for me to recover and went for 2 gold ornaments instead. He sat down and proudly banged them together, until one of them shattered and showered golden shards of whatever that crap is made out of all over him. Meltdown in...wait for it...3…2…1…WAHHH!!  Oh togetherness…

*Note: I'm still kicking myself for not snapping a picture of this. Yes, I realize I'm a terrible person.

I took him upstairs for a much needed nap. I’m still not sure why or how, but I carried him up the stairs. Perhaps I was so fed up that I somehow invoked superhuman mama strength. Perhaps I was so ticked off that this was not at all the Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver with the Beave fantasy I held in my naïve head, that I didn’t stop to think I have not yet carried a 27lb toddler up a flight of stairs. I don’t think I wobbled or swayed at all. Good thing he knows to hold on. Good thing I do too. We made it safely. He threw himself on the floor of my room and fell asleep. I collapsed in a nearby chair to catch my breath and flex my biceps in admiration of myself.

As I hobbled back down the stairs, I found my husband standing next to the naked tree with his arms stretched out in a “ta da!” pose. He had found the tree topper. We almost bought one last night because we couldn’t remember if we had one. Losing all self-control I put my hand over my mouth and laughed hysterically. It’s hideous! I said as lovingly as I could, “I’m sorry but I hate it. It’s awful.” He laughed too in agreement. Then we remembered. That year we bought our first tree we had done so at the last minute. All the cool tree toppers were sold out, so we settled for the least horrible. Apparently this was it:

I told you it was hideous.

We agreed to keep our eye out for a new one in the coming weeks. I wound up decorating the rest of the tree by myself. I was growing more resentful with every stupid hook my crippled hand had to ply into shape and wrap around a branch. Then I realized that a few months ago I wouldn’t have been able to do this. I’m grateful I am learning to focus long enough on my hand and fingers to bend little wires around those branches. I’m grateful I’ve learned to slowly raise my arm so I can reach the branches higher up on the tree. This Christmas isn’t just my son’s first Christmas with a tree. It’s my first Christmas as a disabled person. It’s my time to reflect on what has happened to me, how it has impacted my family, and how we’re sticking together for the year to come. Even if that means daddy is checking scores online and our spawn is screaming and breaking the ornaments.

 

He woke up just in time to mess with the tree while I snapped a pic of my work.

Cuckoo's Broken Wing

Hi. I'm Gellie and I'm a fat fuck. Big surprise I had a stroke, huh? I've been focused for the past 5 months on rehabilitating the right side of my body. I've had oodles of support from friends, family, and even strangers. If you've read my blog before, you know I've come a long way. I know my weight is an issue but I try not to dwell on it. Most women in their early 30s want to feel sexy but that isn't supposed to be a priority for me right now. Remapping my brain is supposed to be the focus. At least that's how I've felt.

Yesterday a group of my mommy friends started a private group for moral support in exercising and eating healthy to help them lose weight. I thought it was a cool idea but I was also envious. I've grown close to these friends over the past few months and I really wanted in. But that's the sort of thing I don't get to be in because I'm disabled, right? As they kept talking I thought, "maybe having someone remind me that I shouldn't eat a hand full of goldfish crackers every time I make my kid a snack is what I need. Maybe when they workout, I can do my rehab stuff so I can at least tag along."

Ahh the glorious internet! This isn't a local, face-to-face mommy group - we're friends online. This means it doesn't matter when or at what pace they workout, because we're all in different parts of the world anyhow. Then our lovely friend who really got this going posted this:

I stared at this on my monitor for a while and realized if I take each step one at a time, modifying as I need to for my crippled ass, I just might get through it. Last night someone asked what workout are you going to do in the morning? I threw my hat in the ring and said the 100 Workout. I figured if I said it out loud (or typed it publicly in this case) then I'd have to follow through to save face. Let's face it, even at 33 peer pressure is a powerful tool.

This morning after my little one was gone to daycare, I got started. I made little notes next to each item to track how I had to modify it. It occurred to me that if use my hand to actually write my notes instead of type them, well then I'm doing therapy on my hand too! I had previously vowed to practice writing everyday until my hand learned to do it fluidly again so this was perfect!

Here's my notes:

Writing doesn't come easy, but I'm getting there.

SECRET DECODER RING:

100 Jumping Jacks
There is no way I'm capable of jumping jacks so I'll think of something to replace this and come back to it. This is obviously a cardio activity so I'll think of something along those lines. ok NEXT!

90 Crunches
 I did 50. I did 20, rested, then 10, rest, then 20. I never rested more than a couple minutes. I also can't get my right arm behind my head so I clasped my hands together on my chest. This kept my right arm from falling off to the side.

80 Squats
I friggin did it! I did 80 squats! I stood in front of the couch just in case my leg gave out and I needed to throw myself somewhere safe. I also had both of my hands holding onto my cane in front of me for balance. I kind of felt like a fat awkward cast member of Chicago. I need to get a tophat. But I digress...

70 Leg Lifts
Leg lifts are actually part of my physical therapy routine. I lied on my back and broke it down like this: Straight leg lifts, 20 repititions on right leg (bad leg) then 20 on left, then 15 on right and 15 on left. (35 straight leg lifts total.) Then I did knee-to-chest, 35 reps on each leg. Altogether it made the total of 70.

60 Jumping Jacks
Damnit. These again. First I tried stepping up and down the stairs in an effort to do something cardio. After squats and leg lifts this was a stupid idea. I decided to walk in place for 5 minutes. My good leg and hip started to hurt so instead I raised my arms in a jumping jack motion, but standing still. Here's the problem: my right arm cannot complete that motion. It can go just a little more than half way and it's never straight. It's all crooked and kind of floats around. But screw it, I did it anyways to keep my heart rate up. I went on flapping like a bird with a broken wing.

To my surprise (altough I should't be surprised because this is what OT keeps drilling into my head) my arm started to go higher and higher. I won't lie. It hurt like a mofo. I almost couldn't take it. Then I managed to get my right arm ALL the way up 3 times!! Yes! 3 times! I checked the timer which was set for 5 minutes. Apparently I screwed up and set it for 5 hours so I had already been going 7 minutes. Damnit!

50 Crunches
I did 35. I had already done 50 and my stomach was still in shock. As I was approaching 30, I realized I could feel an abdominal muscle on the right side flexing. This is a big deal. I haven't felt those muscles at all in 5 months.

40 Squats
Totally did it (still using the cane.) I seriously need a tophat. And fishnets.

30 Leg Lifts
This time I sat up and lifted my knees for 30 reps each.

20 Jumping Jacks
I stuck with the crippled cuckoo bird move. My legs needed a break.

Walk 10 Minutes
I walked and marched in place and lasted 6 minutes.


Altogether I worked out for about 1 hour 20 minutes. Then I sat at the kitchen table where the 100 Workout picture was still up on my notebook, and cried. I cried because I fucking did it. I cried because I'm one lucky bitch to have a group of women in my life that inspire and empower me in ways they probably do not know. I cried because my body felt things today it couldn't feel yesterday and that means this isn't over. I have so much more I get to do.

This post is dedicated to A.N.U.S. You know who you are ;)

Complicated Badass

Rehabilitation is not a linear process. While the big milestones are hit 1, 2, 3…the fine tuning doesn’t work that way at all. Can I walk? Technically, yes. But how far? Some days I can walk almost a whole block. Some days I can barely make it to the bathroom. Whatever I did yesterday won’t necessarily be doable today. It’s quite a mindfuck really. When I graduated to a cane recently I thought “yes! This is my next biggie! I’m almost ok again.” Pfft! Walking with that cane has been a huge challenge. While it’s a challenge I welcome and am excited to embrace, it’s also a whole other level of frustration and worry. I’ve become more vulnerable with the cane. I’ve had my leg give out a few times in the past week, and a cane isn’t much good in that situation. Luckily I only ate shit once and it was in my bedroom. My 2 year old son was the only witness, to which he shouted “Whoa! You ok, Angie?!” Apparently we’re on a first name basis now, but that’s another story.

I’m also using my right arm and hand more. There are days when I feel like most things are doable. Then I get stuck trying to open a jar or I’m the first one to a new box of cereal. Opening that plastic bag inside the box usually results in me mutilating it with a steak knife in a maniacal rage. It’s frustrating to know there are so many things I have figured out how to do but then other trivial things are damn near impossible. I think it’s those little things that make life difficult and even painful. I can give my son a bath, but I struggle like hell to scratch my own nose. It doesn’t make any damn sense.

So how is your rehab coming along?

That is a difficult question to answer. Yes, I continue to make progress. On paper if I listed what I was doing a month ago and then listed what I’m doing now, the lists wouldn’t be terribly different. It isn’t always about accomplishing new tasks. It’s how I go about each task, how fluid and how strong the movements are that show significant progress. How am I supposed to explain that? Well last week I could reach like this, and now I can reach like that. Umm…yeah ok. Fascinating.

My OT told me that the trick is to make it look easy. Fine tuning is about pretending my movements are normal, so eventually they will be normal. (That's the hope anyhow.) With normal movement, will come strength. If I keep trying to pick up a cup, eventually I'll pick it up. And the fact I kept at it, allowed my arm and hand to build up the strength to lift the cup. So, if someone asks me if I can lift a cup the answer depends on what kind of a cup! You see? It’s a damned complicated question. So far yes to plastic if small and not full, and no to glass - at least not coffee mugs or beer pints. Trust me, I'm working on it. Can I write? Ah hell, yes, I can write my ABCs but if you want a friggin essay or someone to keep up taking notes in a meeting you’re barking up the wrong tree, pal.

I was informed in OT last week that while I have a lot of fine tuning to do, there isn’t much they can teach me anymore. (OT focuses solely on my shoulder, arm, and hand.) He said that it’s clear that I’m working hard at home and he’s shown me all he can. While he gave me his “it’s not you, it’s me” speech I sat there frozen, quickly blinking away my tears. I’m not ready to let him go. No way. I can barely carry a plate from the kitchen to the table. How can he think I’ll be alright on my own?

He said he had one last test he wanted to try. If I could do it, I don’t need him anymore. He handed me a piece of string about 4 inches long, and told me to tie it in a knot using only my weak hand. He chuckled and said even people who haven’t had strokes struggle with it. OK so I’m supposed to use only the hand that I can’t even feed myself with to tie this here string into a knot. Bring it.

Reenactment of awesomeness

BOO-YAH!

You know I did it! He said “You see! You’re awesome!” I’m like, “duh.” Then he said “Do it again” just as he turned to hand something to his co-worker. He turned back around and I already had my palm held out, with 2 more knots tied into it. Fine, OT. I guess I don’t need you considering I’m a badass and all.

Reenactment of further awesomeness

So that’s my latest: I’m an awesome badass that still can’t cut my own meat or put my own hair in a decent ponytail, but I can tie a knot like a mofo. Thank goodness my left hand can still lift a Long Island Iced Tea to my lips until my right hand catches up.