Carpe Diem

When I realized I wouldn't be able to ride a bicycle during our upcoming vacation in France, my husband searched the Internet and found the TravelScoot, a collapsible electric tricycle. Problem solved, I thought. When my fellow travelers take their bikes off the canal boat to cycle into the nearest village, I'll be able to join them. But further research revealed that the TravelScoot relies on hand brakes — one for each rear tire — and I can't operate a hand brake with my affected hand.

How about a tandem bike? An adult tricycle? Neither is available for rent. I reconciled myself to quiet hours alone on the boat.

Then my husband found the EV Rider Transport — a mobility scooter like you see old men riding along the sidewalk … except this one collapses into a compact unit that can be wheeled like a piece of luggage. It's exactly the kind of disability-related purchase I've been resisting for three years.

I tell my husband: "I don't want to spend a couple grand on something I won't use when I get better." 

"We need to do what works for you now," he counters.

"But it's not even fast enough to keep up with a bike," I argue.

"I'll walk with you," he says.

Good point. I hadn't even considered the fact that I can't keep up on walks — much less bike rides.  

We bought a Transport, and I've discovered other uses for it besides taking it to France. I now take my dog for walks. I race through obstacle courses with my niece and nephew, who ditch their own scooters and take mine because it's "more fun."

My Transport is fun. I call her "Francine." She reminds me not to put my life on hold while I recover. 

Nate and Abby take Francine for a test drive.

Out of my Closet

I used to joke that when I retired I was going to wear nothing but flat shoes and expandable waistbands. But when I quit working, I still liked the way I looked in high-heeled shoes. And elastic waistbands feel so frumpy.

But the stroke has given rise to this once comic version of myself. Waistbands with buttons and zippers are just too fiddly. And my week ankle requires the stability of a flat, solid shoe. The stroke has speeded me toward that moment in all our lives when we realize we are no longer attractive in that particular way that might cause someone to take notice of us across a room.

I can see the upside to facing this moment a little early in life. There is no danger that I will become "mutton dressed as lamb." But more than that, there is the relief of stopping the pretense … of easing the unreasonable demands I made on my body: "Well, if I hold my belly in, these don't look so bad." Or, “I can wear these shoes if I don't have to walk too far."

Recently a friend helped me clean out my closet. Goodbye high-heeled shoes and strapless sandals! Goodbye 501 jeans with the button-up fly and the unforgiving waistband! From now on style will be sacrificed to convenience and comfort. Who knows what I might do with the space in my brain that I free from focusing on my own reflection?

The Value of Acceptance

This time last summer I was in a dark place, exercising four hours every day and still not seeing the results I wanted. My imagined life as a disabled person stretched before me unwanted. Two years, I told myself. If, in two years, I can't stand this anymore, I will jump off a bridge. In tears once again when my husband arrived home from work, I followed him into our sunny garden to talk.

"What I've been trying to figure out," I told him, "is why I was willing to work hard at a job for 11 years to make things better, but I am so quick to give up on myself."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because at my job, there was the promise of something better – a raise, a promotion. But now, I'm working so hard just to get back to where I was."

"It sounds like you haven't accepted what's happened," he said. "You're not trying to get back to where you were. You're trying to move forward from the day you had the stroke."

Oh.

So long as I focused on what I used to be or what I wanted to be, I could not be happy now. I had to realize that exercising like a maniac was not going to get me "there" any faster. I had to find ways to enjoy my life now and balance that with rehabilitation.

I used to equate acceptance with giving up. Now I see it as a gateway to happiness.

That Is the Question

[Q]: How does a non-smoking, non-drinking, exercising, healthy-eating, low-stress mid-lifer have a stroke?

Doctors [A]: Dissection. The carotid artery that carries blood to my brain developed a split in its interior wall. A clot formed and a piece of that broke off and blocked a vessel in my motor strip.

Me [A]: In short, a corroded carotid.

[Q]: Why did I have a dissection?

Doctors [A]: Twisted arteries. Neck stress from yoga and chiropractic. Fluctuating blood pressure.

Friends and Strangers [A]: To learn a life lesson. To find my path.

Me [A]: I have gone over and over things I did that may have led to the stroke. In yoga class the night before, I turned my head while in shoulder stand. A few days before that, I self-administered a neck adjustment that emitted a loud crack. Just months before that I was showing off for my three-year-old nephew by doing a headstand, and he toppled me like a tower of blocks. I’ve also pondered what I needed to learn that took something this drastic to get my attention: Patience. Compassion. Balance.

No matter what I think, or what I'm told, I always come back to one truth: None of the answers can change what happened. And so there is only one question that really matters.

How do I go forward from here?