It’s ironic that my two-week stroke report coincides with Sept 30th, the feast day of St Jerome. My Gatto Chair position at St Francis Xavier University is to research and eventually write an historical novel on Paula, the rich young elite Roman ascetic companion of, and patron to, Jerome.
I’m not getting any of that work done now, here in the hospital. My dean and chair are graciously paying my usual stipend while we figure things out.
Jerome’s letters are hilarious. He’s a famous braggart about the self-inflated hardships he faced. I’ve been thinking on that when I have to ring a bell and wait on the harried staff here to come help me go to the toilet or move me to my wheelchair. Or just about anything.
I hope I don’t sound like drama-queen Jerome when I report on my week.
I started official physio sessions this week. They will be twice a day, once on weekends. A team of four came in to assess me. They seemed pleased with the progress even since my last charting. I was surprised to hear I might be up to three months in hospital, eventually with times to go home overnight and weekends, depending on my progress. They pushed and pulled and asked me to imagine I was moving my unresponsive arm, and told me they could detect some of the muscles attempting to respond. While one had my foot, behind me another started waving. I turned my head to see what she was doing and apparently passed that test, by proving I still have my peripheral vision.
From my window I can see up toward a white water-tower and Mount Cameron farm, once the spot where the radical and dynamic sisters of Saint Martha raised food for the hospital and the university. Sometime during the week while looking at that I decided my three month goal will be to try to walk up the small rise to that tower with Sara. No one was around when I first thought that and for 30 seconds or so I wept giant wracking quiet sobs, perhaps at the shock of the contrast with a walking pilgrimage just two weeks prior, then got on with life.
My gentle physio coaches, Lee and Jay (who has tattoos of the Muppets) had me going through the movements needed to get my left foot off a bed and on the ground so I can swing myself to a sitting position on a bed … no mean feat with no strength in my left arm for pushing up and nothing for my right to grab. My core strength will be great after this. Sunday (yesterday) at the end of the session, Lee asked me to walk the twenty feet between the parallel bars with no one holding my elbow or waist. It was my first unassisted walking since the full stroke, and scary as hell. But it felt great when I was done. After physio I slept 20 minutes.
My arm, in brief: with a lot of grunting and core tightening I’ve managed to curl my left-hand fingers slowly into a light fist. I can now bring my thumb to my forefinger using intense concentration. Just yesterday I imagined doing a bicep curl and my forearm lifted slightly. I also managed a slight wrist movement for Sara.
The physios said that what I’d already been doing – imagining using my arm and hand in real time, as if they were working – was in fact their initial strategy. I’m already on the right track.
A friend sent me a photo of the candles they lit for me Sunday morning. It means a great deal. For a Lutheran, the extent to which I appreciate and crave candles lit for my recovery is perhaps strange. But everyone’s words and gestures have me feeling surrounded with care. Buddhist friends have let me know they spent meditation sessions with me as their focus, another dedicated a walk to me, there are prayers in congregations across the country, and my name has been read in more than one synagogue in the weekly prayers for health. A letter written in fountain pen, homemade muffins, cards, flowers, a fruit basket, emails, lucky origami stars, emojis, thoughts. They’re all importanyt I’m grateful. Thank you – the support sustains me.
Sara is such an incredible care-giver and coach and sponge-bather and daily smoothie provider and cheer-leader … and yesterday — my jailbuster! Yesterday afternoon was sunny and warm. Instead of taking me to the usual roof-top patio on our wing, she wheeled me right on past into the elevator, then out the main entrance of the hospital into the light and air. We headed for the nearby grotto garden. The bees were buzzing in some purple aster and brown-eyed susans and other late flowers, and we found a wooden gazebo where we read to each other so I could practise improving my speech and enjoy the sun.
Then, before she left, Sara held my arm and hand carefully and I danced to some tunes on my laptop from my wheelchair. She moved my left hand and arm to match my right. If anything will get this arm going, it might be dancing!
I wonder what Jerome would have thought of the first song to pop up on my mixed playlist. It was: “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
somethinggrand 