(Originally published 04/08/2008)
After nearly six weeks of hospitalization and seven months of therapy I was functioning better than I, or any of my doctors, ever dreamed I would. I wasn't even close to 100% and according to medical thought thirty years ago, whatever recovery one had after a year was what you were going to live with for the rest of your life. I refused to believe that and never gave up and I never will.
The therapists suggested that if I went to back work, it might help my recovery. Having been a full time mom the past five years, I was, of course, hesitant but I also knew there was a stack of medical bills. We had excellent health insurance but even that has its limits. I agreed to go talk to the people at the state’s rehabilitation agency who in turn sent me for testing with a psychologist for intelligence testing.
The latter was a hoot and began a long acquaintance with Dr. Bob who has been a friend ever since. He volunteers his expertise at the clinic where I get my medical care and I pop in and see him to say "Hey!" or sometimes sit down and talk if the bad guys are beating me down (like last summer when my horrid neighbors were trying to kill me by sleep deprivation).
I said the test was a hoot because it was oral and he just kept asking me progressively more difficult questions on a variety of topics. I kept answering them seemingly forever and I think he sensed I was getting bored and he said, "We can stop when you give a wrong answer." He kept asking and I kept answering a while longer until I finally gave a wrong answer. He sat and laughed when I told him everything about the answer except the answer itself but I couldn't find the phrase I needed. I'll never forget "the Apochrypha" as long as I live. He then told me that he rarely saw IQs like mine. I shrugged and said that I just read a lot. To me, all it proved was that my brain hadn't fried completely.
Going back to work meant that I had to start driving again and I managed to drive one-handed reasonably well in my little Opel with an automatic tranny. My days of driving hubby's four-on-the-floor sports car, however, were done. Sigh.
I did love a stick shift. That done the agency set about finding me a job. They found me a position in a small department of a local bank. It was boring as hell, didn't pay much and my immediate superior was the sort of woman who has to tell you that she's a Christian within five minutes of meeting her and asks where you go to church. I know I gave a wrong answer to the latter when I said Our Lady of Mt. Carmel -- her face showed it -- but I didn't care. I caught on quickly that she was uncomfortable with my disability.
I didn't wear my brace or sling anymore. My gait was pretty much normal unless I was really tired and my left arm no longer hung like a piece of limp spaghetti so I looked normal but I still had trouble using the latter. Anything I did that she found offensive she kept reporting to personnel who in turn would call the rehab agency and I'd be toddling down the street to catch hell. I'd promise to try harder and go home and cry but I was determined not to fail.
After a couple months, one day I was reading some microfilm and the world went away. The next thing I remembered was being taken to the hospital where they kept me until Sunday for observation. I was very upset as Saturday was my son's fifth birthday party and Daddy had to take on a dozen and a half little ones at McDonald's. Thank God for a couple of my friends who stayed to help him.
The docs didn't seem to know what caused what they called an 'episode'. I asked if it was another stroke or a seizure. They said 'no' and my beloved doctor sent me home to rest for a few days and told me to take one aspirin every day for the rest of my life.
I went back to work and nothing improved -- in fact, it got worse -- but I hung tough and tried mightily to ignore the idiot supervisor and I thought I was doing okay until I had another attack a couple months later and again got toted to the hospital. This time they checked me and sent me home per my doctor's orders.
I went back to work and a few days later, health and safety came to our office and the idiot starts with, "Well, Kay keeps having these seizures and we don't know what to do . . ." I lost it and said, "Dammit, you did exactly what you were supposed to do! AND I didn't have seizures! I'm going to sue you for practicing medicine without a license!" Again I had to go see personnel and again I had to go see the rehab people. And I stamped my feet and hollered a lot and went home.
My husband told me to quit. By that time I was so mad I was determined to stay there just to be annoying. They didn't want me there because of my disability and I resented that. A couple days later the rehab people called and told me that they decided the bank people were creeps and that I needed to go in for an exit interview.
I went but I took my husband along as a witness so they couldn't lie. The rehab people wanted to find me another job but after a family discussion the unanimous vote was 4-0 in favor of Mommy staying home. And since I could drive again, I got back into my old routine of bowling, bridge, and volunteer work and taking care of my babies.
And I have never had any more episodes. I since have learned that what I had were what they now call TIAs and were triggered by stress. The real surprise came when I did our taxes. I made just enough money that, instead of getting our usual refund, we had to pay five hundred dollars!!! It was a message that I was right where God wanted me -- at home with my little ones -- and that's where I stayed mostly!
Next week I'm going to share some of the funny things that happened throughout this adventure they call a stroke.
Happy Blogging!!!!!
Kay
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