Recovering from a stroke, one month out:
How did this this happen to me? None of my ancestors had a stroke— cancer, yes; heart disease, yes; Parkinson’s, yes. But no strokes, and I display none of the symptoms. I don’t have high blood pressure; I’m not overweight, I don’t smoke or drink, I exercise, ride a bike, go to bed at 11.
My father worked ’til he was 91½ and died at 97; and he was a piker next to his father, who at age 96 was still riding the New York subway to work three days a week and died at 99. I presumed that I would follow in their footsteps. Now it occurs me that I could follow the example of my great-grandfather, a smoker who died of pneumonia at 58.
Now, everything takes longer. Answering emails. Buttoning my shirt. Dialing the phone. Talking on the phone. Explaining who you are over the phone. Searching for the right words. Analyzing Trump’s views on Constitutional law (just kidding),
And here’s the thing. Therapy for strokes is different from other therapies because above all it involves the brain. So instead of just sitting home and waiting to get better, you must be out actively exercising your brain. In my case, this involves exposing myself to social situations wherever possible.
I hadn’t thought of going to my Penn reunion this month, for example, but I did— for five hours, as it turned out. Instead of eating at home, we’ve been going to the swim club or the Franklin Inn Club, a notable local watering hole for artists and writers. Or I go to Rittenhouse Square, to museums, even the synagogue (which I ordinarily attend only on the high holidays). Whatever, just to get outside and encounter real people.
Who plays Boggle?
Early in my stroke regime, our daughters hired a chef for one night who stocked our refrigerator and freezer with enough food for about ten meals. But then, as I said, we were advised to get out of the house, so most nights we head for the pool, where we have dinner with other members. And I can see that it makes a difference in how I feel, and how my brain feels (not to mention Barbara’s). Meanwhile we’ve got all this food back in the refrigerator.
I’d really prefer to sit home, catch up on my reading, watch a little TV, relax, but no— I must get out and stimulate my brain. Reading is difficult in any case because my vision seems to have been affected. To the extent Barbara and I do anything useful at home, we play Boggle endlessly because, again, it's good exercise for the brain. So is practicing on the computer keyboard, and practicing computer dictation, which I’m learning of necessity in a hurry.
I guess the key question is: At age 83, is my brain still capable of learning new things?
What I need now
Second point: Sometimes it seems that the hardest part of recovering is not the actual therapies but trying to schedule them, especially if you’re not functioning on all four cylinders. I’m now expected to retain more information than I ever did before my stroke, when my brain was indeed working on full cylinders. My internist readily concedes that the profession is overstretched. What I can really use right now are not doctors and therapists but a full-time secretary to keep track of all the doctors and therapists. Presumably everyone else in my situation could use the same.
(To be sure, each frustrating phone conversation with a health care provider is followed with a survey or questionnaire about how we like their service. But who has time to answer all these questionnaires when you’re spending all that time on hold?)
One side benefit: Having a stroke gives me an excuse to ask people who they are. If I were fully myself, they’d be offended.
Getting out has also exposed me to the experiences of others, many of whom I didn’t know were stroke victims themselves. Hearing their stories has been encouraging, especially when I’m feeling frustrated. I’ve discovered that many other people have felt the same way, and then within a few months they’re back in business. An old friend had a stroke five years ago and today, at 82, he’s playing tennis. Another had a stroke in his 50s and today, at 87, he’s still here. One friend even told us he had written his will and planned his estate because he was so despondent, but now he’s still here.
Hope I can say the same someday. But I’m an impatient patient.
Enjoy Dan Rottenberg’s new memoir, The Education of a Journalist: My Seventy Years on the Frontiers of Free Speech. You can also visit his website at www.danrottenberg.com
From reader Kerry Bryan:
So in just ONE MONTH after a major neurological episode, you are again writing cogent, intelligent commentary laced with a nice touch of irony, and you are kvetching a bit?
Even this gentile says, "Oy Vey!"
From reader Ruth Galanter:
I assure you, impatience is an asset in recovering from injury and illness— as long as you don’t do anything stupid like try to skip necessary steps. Impatience will keep you going when you might otherwise just, what the hell, go to bed early and “exercise tomorrow.”