My mother was strict, and from 3-years-old until she died, she told us all to say “thank you” even if we loathed what were being presented to us, like pajamas with feet attached when I was 11 (with feet attached!), a bride doll at 13 (from someone who knew I had outgrown dolls at 7), knitted wool scarf at 14 (from somebody who knew I was allergic to wool). Loathed it all. Yet “thank you’s” followed the presentation–always.
Then I had a stroke many years later. And I couldn’t talk at all. Beginning to talk again, a process called aphasia recovery, involves exhaustive speech therapy to help the brain repair itself and build new neural pathways.
But you can’t do that in a day or two. Building neural pathways is a long process filled with “no can do’s,” “I give up’s,” and “to hell with this or that.” It requires patience, a word I have come to revere. But back then, I didn’t have any patience, none at all.
When I had my stroke in 2009, at 4am with convulsions, a type of seizure characterized by involuntary, uncontrollable shaking of the body due to brutal electrical activity in the brain, I was taken to an acute rehabilitation hospital, which turned out to be for almost 4 months, mainly to get me, who was a public speaker on consumerism and lifestyle, talking again.
There I was, week after week, in rehab, having to go with same routine daily, each of them for 1 hour: Arts and Crafts, Physical Therapy, Occupational Therapy, lunch, Physical Therapy, and then, ultimately, Speech Therapy. I would go to Speech Therapy happily because, after all is said and done, that was one of my goals–to speak again.
About a month later, an special LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse), one who I had never seen before, who had LPN proudly displayed on her tag, came in my room to ask me what I needed. I pointed to the pillows and motioned, as best I could, that they needed to be higher. She went out and within less than a minute, returned and came to my bed.
“I think this will do,” again beaming with the plumpest pillow I had ever seen.
I smiled with a crooked grin for the first time since I had been there.
“Happy to help you,” and turned around to leave my room.
“Th-th-thank you,” I muttered repeatedly and it was loud enough for the LPN to hear.
She turned around sharply to make sure the words were coming because I kept saying them, and perfectly made “you’s” dramatically by cupping my mouth with my only functioning hand. She went into the hall.
“Joyce just talked!” she screamed with anybody within earshot. A bevy of nurses came to my room and each had congratulatory gestures.
“You knew it would happen eventually,” one delighted nurse said.
But I said to myself, “That’s only the beginning. There’s more. I just know it.”
And there were more. Since 2011, I’ve been writing the same blog that you have been reading. Many times I read portions of the blog out loud to friends who have come to understand me. You know what? It’s not perfect English, the same English as I was trained to speak, but it’s English nonetheless.
Three months later, I addressed the stroke group at Hershey Medical Center, PA, all by myself, and celebrated, in abundance, with Hershey’s Kisses, Kit Kats, Twizzlers, and sucked the life out of Jolly Ranchers hard candies at Hershey’s Park. Many stroke and TBI groups were addressed afterwards.
Patience paid off. And I’m glad my mother taught me to say “thank you.” This time, I really meant it!
Dear Joyce, this is beautiful, showing the determination and pain of your recovery and the hope and optimism you hold to keep working on recovery when the cards are down. I needed to read your words today, too many quick visiting therapists are hinting I have dementia to look forward to when they don’t understand my TBI. It makes me so angry. I need an advocate, these words can be dangerous in the med records. Thanks for sharing your personal story! It helps us so much! Kate
Great story…..Thanks for sharing!!!!