Trash Therapy

Before the stroke, I did 80% of the cleaning. I thought that would be an exaggeration, but after the stroke my wife was overwhelmed and the house quickly fell apart.

Now don't get me wrong - I think she could have handled it if she didn't have to take care of me and the kids. But she does and she gets stressed easily and I feel so helpless.

Yesterday in the Herald Leader, there was an article about a woman who was charged with neglect for leaving her disabled brother in unsanitary conditions. The trash was piled up so high that the fire department couldn't get the door open when they went to investigate.

As a former Journalism student, I read the newspaper web site every day, and I hate when there's a story that concerns me.

Back when I was still in the wheelchair, they ran a story about a man who was trapped in his house in a wheelchair during a fire and couldn't get out. His neighbors had to listen to him as he died.

The day before the home health nurse had asked me what I would do in case of a fire, and I had been taken aback. I told them, I guess I would roll to the back door and fling myself on the patio and crawl.

They seemed okay with that scenario, but I wasn't.

As soon as I saw the story about the man in the wheelchair trapped in the burning house, I became obsessed with it.

I practiced walking without support and would roll myself to the back door and psyche myself up for when I actually had to flee. My wife began to worry, because I was spending all of my free time at the back door, looking out over the yard.

I didn't want to tell her what I was doing, that I was making sure I could get outside in case of a fire, because I didn't want her to worry.

So, this morning when Robin found a cockroach in the living room, I was ready to clean. I had gone to bed with the story of the disabled man trapped in his own house by piles of trash and woke up ready to clean.

Grace has been watching television in our room and she keeps leaving trash behind the bed. I woke up and asked Robin for a glass of ice water and a drawstring trash bag from the kitchen. Then I asked her to cancel my therapy for the morning and she agreed, saying, "Cleaning is therapy for you."

Indeed.

Television and Brain Damage

I'm just going to come out and admit it - part of my brain is dead.

My wife used to carry around an MRI of my brain in her purse to show to the people who treated me, because it was hard to describe where the damage was. The middle of my brain is (or was) dead.

I said "or was" because the last time I had an MRI done, my brain already looked like it had begun to heal. It's not like I can drive to an emergency room and request an MRI just to see if my brain has finished healing.

Which is embarrassing, because I'd like to think I'm normal. I can dress myself now, and I don't feel any less smart. Not that I'm sure I would be able to tell.

The one side effect I noticed was that, since the stroke, I have become especially susceptible to advertising. Not surprising since in the hospital I started watching more television, since it was the only thing to do.

When my wife would stop by for her daily visit, I would beg her to bring me some Taco Bell or a pizza from Pizza Hut. She would almost always refuse, pointing out (very sensibly) that an excess of Taco Bell is one of the main reasons I had the stroke.

Which is true; they were one of the few places that was near the house, had a drive thru, and was open at 3 a.m.

Cardinal Hill had a contract with Jimmy John's to bring grinders and pizzas to the cafeteria but I would have had to put in my order the day before.

Anyway, when my wife picked me up from the hospital, the first place we went was Taco Bell. I had a box lunch like they had been advertising on the television, all night, the entire time I was in inpatient.

It was delicious.

And now I realize why the brain damage ward was key access only - anyone could have talked those patients into anything.

I still am unusually susceptible to television ads. Right now, I'm sitting at home waiting for Robin to get home and quietly humming the J.G.Wentworth song to myself. I'm not even sure what a structured settlement or an annuity is but suddenly I want one.

And I hope Robin brings me Taco Bell. Or Pizza Hut.

Names

My cousin Mike was here yesterday, picking up stuff and chatting.

I call him "my cousin" Mike because we know so many Mikes that we have to clarify between them. Our friend Mike Fitzgerald was complaining about this the other day on the way to Bowling Green.

He said his parents named him Michael so he would be called something different, but they didn't realize that Michael was the single most popular name for the year he was born.

Robin and I know several; my cousin Mike, Bald Eagle, Corsair, her brother Mike, Michael Fitzgerald, Michael Junior, to name a few. We have the same problem with the names James/Jamie. We know so many that we've had to start giving them nicknames and designations as well.

Uncle James, Jamie Girl, Miss Jamie, and Coyote James are all people we know. Oddly, none of them want to be called "Jim." In fact, Robin's brother doesn't like to be called Jim at all.

Context matters with most of these. If I say "Michael" to anyone in my family, they automatically assume my cousin. If I say "Michael" to one of Robin's relatives, they assume her brother.

I feel sorry for my friend Angie. She married a guy named Michael and has a son with the same first and last name as his father. When I read her Facebook posts, I have to think about context and the situation. If she's talking about school or something about a pet, I assume the son. Anything else and I assume her husband.

Sometimes I'm not quite sure which she means.

Passwords

One of the hardest parts about losing my memory was having to remember my computer passwords. I had a partial list written in a notebook, by the computer, and sent my wife for the notebook. We had a laptop that she brought to the hospital and the hospital had wi-fi.

I was able to connect to Facebook from my hospital room (which was a huge relief for my parents) or I could walk down the hall to a computer they had set up.

That was a public computer, so I felt like changing my password. It's probably good that I didn't, since my short term memory was still unreliable.

Actually, the few times that I did change a password I immediately forgot it, so I guess I was right not to change it. I still can't get into my database for 3and3quarter.com, and I created a new database and forgot that password as well.

My password has always followed a similar pattern, I picked a random word (usually a compound word, something that would be easy for me to remember, like Stormshadow or Starscream) and I would had a numeral at the end, and if the website required an extra secure password, I would toss in a pound sign or a dollar sign, just before the number.

But even knowing that, I haven't been able to crack the database password.

When I was a freshman at the University of Kentucky, I was involved in a "subculture" called the Phoners. Everyone on campus had a "Prime" account but only a few could log on to the Phone software. It was basically a chat program, but it evolved into a social network. I met my first girlfriend over Phone, and spent way to many hours chatting with her on it.

I don't remember what any of my passwords on Phone were, but I could tell you what some other people's passwords were. My friend Suzanne used her pet's name, Brownie, and I borrowed that as my password for a while.

I also borrowed my brother's password and I occasionally use Robin's.

My PIN number in college started out as my prom date's phone number, then I rearranged it into another number that was easy to remember. It's still my PIN today, which is why I don't want to even give a clue about it.

My second blog

My parents came by the house today and wanted to know when I'd be posting my next blog. And my wife had breakfast with my friend Kim today also, and she wanted to know about my memory problems.

But I'm still not sure what I'm going to write about.

Idea #1 - Blog Title
Were you aware that Blogger.com blocks the word "stroke" from blog titles. My original title for this blog would have been "Stroke Boy."

Idea #2 - Bathroom Problems
It's amazing how after a stroke your life suddenly revolves around the bathroom. A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in a handicapped bathroom stall and realized that it was the first bathroom I used by myself after the stroke. My in-laws had driven me to the doctor's office one day when my wife was busy, and they sent me in the bathroom by myself. I was very proud of myself.

Last weekend was also the first time I peed standing up, but that was as much because my brother-in-law's toilet was low to the ground and dirty looking.

Idea #3 - Why I'm Doing the Blog
Short answer: my speech therapist suggested it. Long answer: I was trying to learn to write again and my parents brought me a spiral notebook with the handwritten title, "The Story of Andrew."

Idea #4 - My Adventures in Inpatient
Blah, blah, blah... Robotic arm... Blah, blah, blah... Loco-mat... Blah, blah, blah... Thrown out for threatening a nurse... blah, blah, blah...

Idea #5 - My First Day Out
I couldn't walk, I was still mostly non-verbal, and I had to skip a funeral for a friend because I couldn't talk. Or walk.

But I've decided not to go with any of these. Or more specifically, I decided to go with all of them.

My stroke and such...

On August 10 of last year, I had a stroke. I only know this because when I got to the hospital, that was the date on my bracelet.

That may have been the date of my admittance to the hospital, or even the date of my transfer from one hospital to another. I don't know. I was non-verbal for most of the summer.

I also have holes in my memory. For instance, I don't remember the stroke itself (although my wife, Robin, told me about it afterwards). Apparently I pissed myself.

I do remember the ambulance ride afterwards, but only in flashes. It was the first of many ambulance rides of which I can't quite remember. They all blend together after a while.

Up until the stroke, I had only ridden in an ambulance once, when I was nineteen and wrecked my parents' minivan. I remember that time distinctly - I ran a stop sign and was hit by a drunk driver. He had only been drinking because he had a new son and had celebrated with champagne. The accident was completely my fault but the insurance company blamed him.

He called me at home once on a Sunday morning. I apologized but I still felt guilty. When my parents got home from church, they were angry - apparently he wasn't supposed to call me directly.

I've long since forgotten his name, but at one point I tried to look him up on Facebook and offer his kid a scholarship.

But I digress.

It was a problem before the stroke and it's more of a problem now. I can't focus or stay on subject, which
wouldn't have been a problem except I was a writer.

I say "was a writer" and "not am a writer" because although I've written quite a bit (pre-stroke) I have only had five or six things published. (And I self published a couple of books, but I've never thought that counted.)

As a matter of fact, I self published a book right before the stroke and my wife edited it. In hindsight, editing and publishing that book may have caused my stroke.

I think of something at least once a week that "caused the stroke."

My son is convinced it was a level of Super Metroid that I was playing a day or two before the stroke. (It was the boss level and I got extremely frustrated and kept dying.)

Robin swears it was my diet (as I had a fondness for salty, unhealthy foods.) She still won't buy me butter so I can cook creole. My jambalaya was my favorite dish to make.