Hi Darling Ones,
It’s been a week since the stroke upended my life. I still hate it. If I ever get one of them wasting diseases ala Beth in Little Women, don’t expect gentle grace from me. I am angry, impatient, and resentful. I might appear stoic and accepting, but that’s only because I’m choosing to use the very last of my energy to reign in the hot river of bitterness that wants to escape.
Appearances are deceiving, and I really proved that last week.
I woke up around 4-4:30 a.m. last Monday because I have an old-lady bladder. My right arm felt kinda wonky, and I promptly asked Dr. Google what signs of a stroke were — half a saggy face, inability to hold both hands up without one drooping. I passed and convinced myself I had crocheted too much over the weekend. So, I took a shower as one does. I decided if I could shower, I couldn’t have possibly had a stroke. Logic.
When I woke again shortly before 8, I knew something was very wrong. I pulled on some clothes, slid down the stairs on my butt like a toddler, and once I was in a chair I called BFK.
“I need help,” I said as calmly as I could. “I think I had a stroke and I’m really scared.”
“Ok,” she said mirroring my eerie tone.
“Should I call 911?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I thought so,” I said.
“I’m on my way,” she said.
“What if they take me before you get here?” I asked.
“I’ll find you,” she said.
“I was afraid nobody would know where I was.”
Wow, it’s going to take me awhile to get over that. There were an ocean of tears typing that, which makes typing ever more difficult.
I called 911 and they dispatched the entire calvary. At one point there were five strange men in my house with me. That was a different kind of scary.
The ACAB who arrived first treated me like I was hysterical. He gave me the same stroke test I gave myself.
“Smile big,” he said. “Now raise your hands, close your eyes, and count to ten.”
I did as he asked.
“It doesn’t seem like a stroke,” he said.
By the time he was done giving me his expert analysis, the Fire department were here along with paramedics and BFK.
ACAB went outside to let the paramedics know the sitch.”She thinks she had a stroke,” I heard him say through the partially opened door. “She Googled,” he said, his voice full of derision. I could feel his eyeroll from inside.
I did have a stroke, for the record. The neurologist said so. It showed up on the MRI and everything.
That’s all I got in me right now, Darling Ones. I’m not working this week, so I might be able to write more. I might also spend all my time being anxious about Wednesday’s follow-up appointment.
P.S. All your well-wishes and offers of help have not gone unnoticed. I don’t know what help I need yet and I only have limited amounts of typing energy. I will respond more later.