Dear Darling Ones,

Both the March 6ths when I woke up with nothing newly catastrophic happening in my body have been a great joy.

It’s been two years since I woke up to everything inside my body feeling not right, sure I had stroke.

For the official record, I’m not one of the six or seven male first responders believed me and I had to have a friend take me to the ER. I wish all the annoying inconveniences on the heads of those fuckers. Men, please believe women.

Yeah, two years ago I went to bed and woke up disabled. It can happen that fast.

Of course, I didn’t realize the stroke was disabling at the time. I was hopeful and more than a little bit obstinate in my belief that I would make a full recovery, back to walking and driving in no time.

Surprise, I was wrong.

Or, I’m wrong so far. There will always be a teeny bit of me that thinks things will go back to normal, that my eyesight will magically clear, I’ll regain my balance, and the constant wooshiness in my head will disappear. It could happen. Probably not, but it’s not impossible.

Last night, as I was writing this post in my head, I thought the best way to describe the “wooshiness” is like you’re on the verge of being dizzy or lightheaded. You know, that exact second you realize something isn’t quite right. It’s that. All the time. Every minute I am not lying down. It gets worse when I’m sitting on my stool and exponentially worse when I stand up.

And now, it’s been two years of that. I still find myself thinking, at least once a day, I can’t believe I had a fucking stroke!

Every year, um, both years? as the Strokeaversary approaches I think back to those very early days and how scared I was. I was so afraid I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t recover.

I’m still scared. Still afraid I can’t do it. I won’t recover.

What I’ve learned is there are many ways to recover.

Two years ago I wasn’t sure I’d be able to live. I felt so physically and emotionally fragile. Would I be able to live in my house on my own? Would I be able to get up and down the stairs? Feed and bathe myself? Take care of myself and my home in any way?

It took a long time to figure stuff out. I’ve had to adapt how I do a lot things. I sit down to take a shower. I use a wheeled stool to cook, clean, and for laundry. Being unable to stand for more than 90 seconds is a pain in the ass, but it doesn’t make things impossible.

I can take care of me and the cats even if I need help with some things.

Now what scares me is recovering financially.

I’m still trying to figure that out.

Thanks to the people who donated to the GoFundMe, I raised $26,164. That number boggles my mind and I’m so thankful. With help I was able to pay for my $21,000 stroke and have a little left over to help keep the lights on around here.

Because of the GoFundMe the only debt I have is my mortgage. If anyone wants to give me $119,302 to pay to off, I’ll take it!

Even without a lot of debt, I’m running out of money. Living is expensive, y’all. You might not realize this, but eggs are super expensive right now. So is electricity.

Two years since the stroke also means two years without the ability to do a significant amount of work to support myself. I only made $16,000 in 2023. Pretty sure I’ll only crack $10K in 2024. I had a lot of savings in the bank, but now it’s down to $1000.

I’m scared, Darling Ones. What do you do if you can’t work and have no money? I don’t know yet. I need to figure that out.

My initial application to The Dole (Social Security disability) was denied in January. I just checked and they’re still on Step 1 of 5 on my appeal. Thankfully, there’s nothing going on in the federal government that should make me anxious about this.

Insert the cry face emoji here.

Yowza, that got dark fast. I’m gonna paste a bunch of buttons in the P.S. if you have the desire and capability to help out or send me some LEGOs to cheer me up. I’m not gonna constantly hit you up for money. Begging is not a sustainable way to earn money. Maybe I can become a nonprofit?

Despite the poverty and disability I think I may be happier than I’ve ever been. Nothing like an actual catastrophe to make you appreciate life and the people you love.

Often I make myself laugh with how schmoopy I’ve become. I scroll through social media and am all,Oh, I love her. Oh, he’s so great. Who even am I?

Next to butt and fuck, love is the word I say the most (there’s a whole butt song I sing to Wendell multiple times a day). Right round the time my former friend Kari opted out of my life, I decided that I wanted love vibes in my house all the time.

To work towards this, whenever one of the gatitos comes down the stairs I say, out loud, “I love you! You’re a cat.” I want them to remember those two things.

And I want you to know that if you’re readying this, I love you. You’re are probably not a cat, but it’s not impossible.

Happy to still be here,
Jodi

P.S. Here’s the aforementioned begging:

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Dear Darling Ones,

I’ve been thinking a lot about trauma lately.

This might come as a total surprise as I’m such a magnanimous, even-keeled, generous spirit, but I can be pretty judgmental. Thankfully, I’ve matured enough to (mostly) go ahead and shut the fuck up about most of my judgements. Because, who and I to judge, and most of the things I like to judge are none of my damn business. Nobody cares that I get the icks from attractive young couples who have 8 children and do family dances before church to post on Instagram, and yet. . .

When it comes to trauma I also have a tendency to judge. I feel like I should put trauma in quotes because a lot of things people call traumatic just aren’t, but then calling it “trauma” is shitty. Damnit, being magnanimous is hard.

Part of the problem is that we’ve watered down the meaning of the word traumatic by using it for comedic exaggeration. I’m guilty of this. Being funny is fun. But there are some people who describe things that have happened to them as traumatic and again, they just aren’t. Or at least I’m not sure they are.

It’ kind of like people who claim OCD because they like things neat and organized. I particularly hate when people use that term so cavalierly. I have family afflicted with OCD and it’s awful. PTSD is another one I’ve been guilty of using unfairly again for comedic purposes, but it’s not funny. I’m learning to do better and working on removing a lot of the therapy-speak we love to toss around from my own vocabulary.

Which brings me back to why I’ve been thinking about trauma. Specifically, I was kind of marveling at how not traumatic my stroke and its repercussions have been. Make no mistake, this all sucks a bunch. I’m slowly accepting my disability is permanent and not short-term. I’m trying to come to terms with being “disabled enough” to call myself disabled, but we’ll talk about that later.

I subscribe to Bessel van der Kolk’s, author of “The Body Keeps the Score,” theory on what trauma is. If you got 7 minutes, watch this. It’s good.

He talks about the difference between stress and trauma, how the body remembers trauma, and how what might be traumatic to you might not be traumatic to me. He says, “one of the largest mitigating factors against getting traumatized is who is there for you at that particular time.”

And it’s that last bit that made me realize I need to cool it with the trauma judging. The epiphany came when I was rehashing the diet talk I had with my neurologist. I’m still irked about it, and last night I realized, it’s the trauma, dummy.

The two most traumatic aspects of my life have been growing up in poverty and being fat. In both those situations I had no support or safety net. Like most fat kids in the 80s, the bullying came from inside the house as well as from school, the media, etc. There was no support for being fat, and only constant shaming from doctors and my parents. The summer I was 12 a well-meaning aunt offered to give me $1 for every pound I lost. I could give you a million examples, but you get it.

I’m 52 and writing about or discussing my weight is fraught and brings up so many feelings. I can rarely do it without crying. I’d say the body-shame is even worse than the poverty-shame, because growing up poor wasn’t my fault, but everyone thinks being fat is my fault.

With the stroke I’ve had endless support — financially (thanks your readers who recently sent money, I appreciate it so much), emotionally, in all the ways people can show up for you. And it’s all the people — friends, family, Darling Ones, strangers on the Internet — who have showed up.

The stroke’s repercussions will definitely be more far-reaching and life-changing than being fat for growing up poor, but I don’t think it will have as much emotional baggage. At least that’s what it feels like right now. That could change.

In other news, I learned to make sticky buns yesterday because they are delicious and the name makes laugh.

Butts & Boners forever,
Jodi

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She then went on to quiz me about where I work, what kind of writing I do, why I moved from Prior Lake, the pronunciation of my last name, and then told me about her co-worker (who was talking about having to buy herself a pie for Mother’s Day) who just bought a new truck and she used to drive a Cadillac. You would think that I was there for an hour, but she just insisted on getting the exact right driver’s license picture for me.

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She told me that it would only be a matter of time before some sort of writing greatness befell me, after all it was my week.

I think she might be psychic. Today, nestled quietly in my mailbox was a fat $200 gift certificate to The Loft, where I take my fiction writing classes.

I am not sure why I got the certificate. My instincts tell me that it might be some kind of reward being named a finalist for The Loft’s Mentor Series. However, I am not sure. And the one person I can ask (Peabo) is unavailable.

UPDATE: Peabo has confirmed that she didn’t get a gift certificate when she got Mentor Series Honorable Mention.

Hrmm. . . somewhere I need to send an anonymous benefactor a big fat thanks and a hug, because my next Vodo class is on them.

UPDATE 2 (11Nov07): The mystery has been solved. I got a Thank You card from The Wrath (a Canadian former co-worker) and his wife Dana. They are the anonymous benefactors. They felt the need to thank me for being so friendly and welcoming to them in their short time here in the US (after 18 months here they are moving back to Canada in the next week or so).

I didn’t think I had done that much. I encouraged Dana to take classes at The Loft, since when I was lost and without friends The Loft was there for me. I also invited her to join our bookclub. I only did it because I knew she was having trouble finding a job (I guess people with PhDs in psychology aren’t that in demand here in the US) and had left all her friends behind in Canada.

Their kindness and generosity brings tears to my eyes and reminds me that karma is a strong force in my life.

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