TURNING TOWARD HOME 

Recovery from a stroke was not a bend in the road I could refuse. There was no turning around, no shortcut or alternate route that I could discern. I did, however, have choices. How hard was I willing to work? Would I even bother to try or be content to be dependent, weak, unable to really be me?

So here I was in the rehab unit of the hospital. As is characteristic of me, I was warm and polite to my caretakers there. This, after all, was not their fault. They were there to help me grow strong, if I chose to do so. 

I admit to some grumpiness during late night calls for help to the bathroom. Here is the typical nightly scenario: I woke up, realized this couldn’t be put off, rang the bell for help, then waited. Eventually someone came and there followed the ritual of putting on the hospital socks and being harnessed into the dreaded safety belt. I despised that belt! But its presence around my waist was required. Some care givers were more adroit at “belting” than others. One young man, very large and not very friendly, yanked so hard I lost my breath. 

Meanwhile, the call of nature became increasingly demanding. Finally we walked slowly to the bathroom and I sat. The helper left. “Call when you’re ready.” I did my thing, pulled the call chain, and waited. And waited. Now, my bladder relieved, I longed to snuggle back into my bed. After a while, the dear helper returned, helped me off the toilet, flushed it, aided me in minimal hand washing, and off we shuffled. Ah! Belt off, socks off, hospital gown and covers adjusted, and with any luck, I was back to sleep until the next urge or the 6 a.m. medication or the 6:45 call for breakfast.

One morning the nurse left me gripping the bathroom sink while she attended someone else’s need. I managed to wash my face and shakily brush my teeth. The nurse didn’t return and there I weakly stood. What could I do? My legs weren’t going to hold me up much longer. In what seemed like a monumental moment of wisdom and courage on my part, I carefully maneuvered my body over to the

close-by toilet and sat down. Sounds like such a simple thing now, but making that decision and acting on it was a major step forward.

Another turning point was leaving rehab. I longed to come home, counted the days till freedom, but was terrified. Functioning there seemed formidable. I was afraid to even enter the house. Though using my walker, the one step threshold felt dangerous. How could a place so familiar, which I had helped to create, seem so overwhelming? Every move had to be thought about. Nothing could be done automatically, especially when it involved standing or walking. I felt so vulnerable.

There was lots I could do, like talking and sitting and eating. Yet the weakness in my left side meant that even an ordinary fork felt heavy and I had to “tell” my arm how to move smoothly from the plate to my mouth. The need to be aware of such formerly automatic things made attention to other stimuli, such as casual conversation, difficult and tiring.

The home health care providers were a great encouragement. How thrilled I was then my PT said I could try using a cane. Or when I told the OT I felt trapped in the house and she immediately taught me how to get out the door with my walker. I did it alone. With a walker! Down the step and back up again--twice. It was awkward, but I could do it. Now I no longer felt like a prisoner in my own home.

Perhaps mentors are not limited by time or space. Reflecting back, I believe my mother was a mentor on this part of my journey, though she died in 1998. I inherited some of her inner grit, sense of humor, and resilience. Her stroke left her with major deficits the last five years of her life. I watched her accept her situation with grace. She was pleasant, even funny at times. She was, after all, in her late 80’s and a widow. She was ready. By contrast, it’s as though she’s telling me, “You aren’t ready. You have Robert and lots more life to live. Do it, dear!”