Going home

The week before Christmas, five weeks after my stroke, the rehab doctor came to see me one morning. By then, I was able to stand on my own. I had started to climb the stairs in the gym, hanging on to the railing. I could pedal the stationary bike for 15 minutes. And I was now able to transfer myself to the toilet without assistance.

Sure, I sometimes became morose, but I had taken a vow: to remain positive and happy. And recover.

The doctor said to me, “Would you like to go home for Christmas? Then if things work out, you’d return in the New Year as an outpatient for three months.”

I was both elated and a bit scared. “Who’ll take care of me?” I asked.

“Pat. Your wife? You do remember her, don’t you?” he said, and then he smiled. “We think you’re ready. Pat’s keen to give the idea a go. We’ll supply all your medications and requisitions for the aids you need—wheelchair, walker, anything to make your home more comfortable.”OK, I thought, being home was a good choice. As the doctor turned to leave, he smiled and said, “Merry Christmas.”

I spent most of Christmas Day sleeping. Nicole arrived the next day with her partner, Iain, and their daughter, Flora. As soon as my grand*daughter saw me, she frowned. What happened to Poppa? She was intrigued by my wheelchair. And fearful.

“They’re my legs,” I told her, “until Poppa gets better.”

The sorrow I felt choked me, and 
if my lips had parted, the whole neighborhood would have sworn they’d heard a lone wolf cry in the wilderness. As they were leaving the next morning, Flora said, “Poppa, please get better.”

A year would pass before she felt confident enough to approach me and wrap her arms around my legs. By then I was walking with a cane.

Meanwhile, my weeks of outpatient therapy were monotonous, but the benefits were immeasurable. I pedaled a stationary bike, climbed steps, and did leg lifts, squats, and arm pulls. I was finally able to pronounce a word without confusing the vowels and consonants.

My emotional control was still 
fragile. I would weep when I saw scenes of poverty on TV. The silliest jokes could give me unstoppable giggles.

The author and his wife, Pat, who nursed him through his recovery
Courtesy Peggy New

The author and his wife, Pat, who nursed him through his recovery

I’ve learned that there is nothing smooth or predictable about stroke recovery, but there’s also no limit. The old notion that there is a finite window in which to achieve rehabilitation is simply false. So, like most stroke survivors, 
I expect full recovery. It’s unlikely I’ll return to being the person I once was, physically, mentally, or spiritually. I have both lost and gained things that define who I am as a person. But with the advances in treatment and therapy, I believe I can continue to repair and rebuild, and find a place for myself in my reconfigured world where I feel both valuable and valued.