Chomping at the choke chain – the clock is running

Still no word a week later from The Stroke Association magazine editor. So I’ll soldier on, starting with  setting up one of the interviews.

Let’s see, how do get in touch with an actor from EastEnders?

I used to work with a guy, in fact he’s called Guy Bailey when were at The Open University public relations. Before that he used to work at BBC press office. So, direct message on Twitter and a few hours later I have the name of the woman “who’s all thing EastEnders at the BBC press office” and her phone number.

(Since Guy is also a blogger and a damned good writer, there is a chance here for product placement: Blessay  From America. He is English, who married an American, the total opposite of what I did.)

From the BBC website I caught up with the “Jim Branning” story played by the actor John Bardon:

‘Before suffering with a stroke in 2007, Jim was a regular bar prop in the Vic and a keen gambler. You wouldn’t even trust him with your pint.

His fathering skills leave a lot to be desired too, as locking your young son in a coffin overnight wouldn’t exactly win Father of the Year! Although, falling in love with Dot and marrying her in 2002 has softened his heart.

He almost broke Dot’s heart in 2008 when he suffered a stroke. She feared that she wasn’t strong enough to look after him and wrestled with her feelings of guilt and frustration at her inability to stand by her man in his time of need. But love won out in the end. Jim may be away, but his visits are something to look forward to and he’s the man who keeps Dot standing when times are hard.’

I find myself thinking the thoughts of the production of the interview – thoughts I just took for granted before the stroke (maybe I should refer to my life before the stroke as BS?)

What will I ask him? Where would we do the interview? EastEnders set? (Oh, I’d love to do it there) He has aphasia, how will he respond? Maybe I should talk to the producer? Tape recorder of course; I can’t write very fast. Why feature a stroke victim? How’s Jim stroke affect others in the cast? I see The Stroke Association has a link on the BBC EastEnders website. I still get offended with that BBC phrase: ‘If you are affected by [anything] in the show call our helpline.’

If I call the helpline, could you reverse this stroke?

Pictures? Of course, I’ll bring my camera. I’ll find a person of similar age (non celebrity) and feature them along with the feature.  There’s an idea!

The secret to a speech therapy comeback from a stroke? Getting your brain to talk

I was able to come through my stroke with my sight unimpaired and a re-doable brain. Now, at first I couldn’t understand some words – they just wouldn’t be processed in my brain.

My speech therapist Catherine initially worked with me by giving me a list of synonyms, really basic stuff, but it was not showing a lot room for improvement when I started out getting stuck on three-letter words. Words like (and I’m looking at my notes here): rip.

I remember the thought process of mentally thumbing through my brain’s rolodex searching for the right meaning and the feeling of helplessness of coming up with a complete blank. The closest I came was: rest in peace. I knocked at the door and no one answered, although I knew someone was home; I could hear them. I was excluded from a world I had previously known intimately. I was denied access to my own brain’s archives and the comfort it once brought me. My memory museum was nearly empty.

There were two ways of reacting to Catherine’s synonym exercises: thinking and saying. If you could think it correctly, you can say it aloud (albeit, not perfectly).

The most important thing Catherine taught me was teaching my brain how to speak internally.

Once that took root in the electronically-impaired circuitry of my brain, I was well on my way to re-doing my brain. No longer would I be starved of the oxygen of not knowing the right word, (well mostly). And it gave me the impetus to start this blog no matter how hard the typing is.

Now, ten letters don’t faze me: in the crossword the other day the clue was concordant. Harmonious.

I am generally back where I was with words although I have periods of blackness where my vocabulary deserts me on a particular word. I sat trying to will my keyboard to type the word I needed in the last blog, meaning a dual meaning, a life lesson, something that could mean something else, a simile.

I spent 30 minutes on that word, not using Lethean or portmanteau word as being too obscure or not quite the meaning, (but I did use memory museum). How can I remember Greek mythology and French, yet forget the blatantly obvious?

In my hurry to complete the blog I went with simile when I really meant metaphor or analogy. I’ve since corrected it thanks to Amyleebell who sent a comment that she loved my analogy. An analogy! That’s it. Thank you Amyleebell.

Times like that brain fart are rare in my experience, but worrying.

Still, from the first synonym list Catherine tried out on me, I now get 90% right of words and it’s all down, I think, to getting the brain to talk internally.

As I’ve said before: the stroke took away my speech, but not my voice.

And you can quote me that.

I can quote me on that – aloud.

Overlooked in the New Years honours list:

Louis De La Foret OBE

Not for services to stroke.

Not for services to aphasia.

Not for services to blog writing.

Not for services to the NHS.

Not because I rescue dogs and give them a good life.

Not because I gave to Children In Need and Comic Relief.

Just because I’m an Ordinary Bloke Educated.

It only took 15 years, but I broke the class system in this country.

First peek at the real world and they’re speaking French to me

Coming from long sleep, the first thing I am aware of is the beeping of machines in a constant sign of the rhythm of life.

Then, off camera, a woman’s voice is calling my name. But my name is floating in the ether, so I can’t
grasp it. I must have looked puzzled because the voice changed to French.

Parlez-vous anglais? Monsieur Foret?

The woman popped into my vision from the right. I still had the appearance of being puzzled.

DO… YOU… SPEAK …FRENCH? she added in English in typical
tourist pronunciation so that she was sure the words would make sense because
they were slowed down, each enunciated precisely, something English speaking
tourists have relied for generations to use on foreigners before the invention of Google Translator.

I found later she was Kate, a part of my post-operation recovery team that also included Emma, two students
at some point in their studies (hopefully not BTEC), in their blue scrubs, just like on Scrubs. And bi-lingual, to boot.

(That French GCSE came in handy after all, even it was talking to an American, in England with a three-tiered too French name)

I confessed to knowing English and she responded with news that I‘d just finished my operation all went well,
and what I was experiencing was the after effects of the anaesthesia.

I wondered why I couldn’t grasp my name when it was called. I nodded affirmation.

And, I completed my first interview which isn’t bad for an asphasiac. (Is that word? It is now)

An exile from the past with a window on the world

I passed him every day in the car taking my daughter K to school.

It was an instant flash of reality that hit me as the car went by – three seconds at the most – as I watched from the passenger side (I still don’t drive since the stroke;  Amoret has the chore).

I saw an old man sitting in his upstairs picture window, dressed in his bathrobe, looking straight ahead with sort a half-smile as though he were amused. His hair was snowy and combed in a Brylcreem style that men
used before and just after WWII. He never moved so I didn’t get a profile look at him, nor did I ever see anyone with him.

After about three weeks of seeing him every day Monday to Friday, at 8:02am, (he was gone when I
came back from walking the dogs, and he wasn’t there when I picked my daughter up in the afternoon) I decided to take a picture, specifically to photograph the situation he was in. It was a hasty photograph because I didn’t want him to see me.  I tried to pre-focus the lens and got this image shooting from the chest.

Now, take a look at the man, staring straight ahead like he’s window shopping for dreams.

Or it could be he’s dragging memories like a ghostly ball and chain, Marley-like, through the rest of his life.

Maybe his world has stopped and he’s just looking for an opportunity to get back on.

Or, he can’t get back on.

Life punctuated by a question mark.  A life now sitting in a picture window, staring straight ahead. An exile in bed clothes from the past.

I wrote this because it was an exercise in writing I wanted to explore.

It’s something that engaged my mind for long a time.  I had to think about the man’s circumstances
and what could possibly go through his mind; how it looked to the outside world; the possibilities of his existence.

I stayed away from commenting on how this situation affected me.

It was a test of my mojo that had disappeared, and was making a comeback.

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. -Annais Nin

Breaking news – man reconstitutes dead artery

Courtesy:http://www.download-game-demo.com

Just like a Hollywood movie, you know the ending to this blog. You know I’m still alive and writing. ET goes home. Bill and Ted have excellent adventures. Mattie Ross sees her father’s killer brought to justice. Killer shark is brought to justice for killing tourists by police chief. Guy has a stroke and slowly recovers, enough so that he’s able to write about it. (Introduce sweep of full orchestra swelling to life-fulfilling crescendo)

The idea behind Re-doable is that I’d write about the stroke in chronological order, starting in February 2011, a full nine months after my stroke. It was the first time I felt I had my mojo back and could sustain and entertain the slog of blog writing. This meant slaving over a keyboard for about a week for new post, typing, editing, getting the facts straight, worrying over phrases and sorting through memories that cropped up when deep thinking about a subject. It was a cathartic experience – still is.

Now, though, I need to interrupt to bring you what we call in the news business, breaking news, a news bulletin (American phrase), or news flash. Something happened that my consultant specialist wanted to see me in a hurry last month because he was amazed at what he found.

The stroke left me with a blocked carotid artery on the left side – completely – I saw it. My original consultant showed me the result of the scan on my neck done two days after my stroke and the image showed the artery was completely blocked. It was like a child had coloured the space between two lines in black. I was told that it was what caused the stroke. The artery was effectively dead and I wouldn’t get it back.

That was the state of the left side.

This new appointment, 14 months later (at my insistence, not the registrar [junior doctor] who said it had already been looked at), was to check a scan on the right side, to make sure I didn’t have “furring” that would cause another stroke. It was the same – clear. And just to be sure, they scanned the left side at the same time.

The vascular surgeon brought me in with a sheaf of papers and looked rather solemn with a medical student in tow. At this point I’m expecting the worst (cancer of the: name the body part).

Now the consultant says he’s got sort of good news and bad news.

The left side artery, the dead one that caused the stroke, showed in the scan it had opened up, and the doctor says that never happens.

The doctor is quick to add that it doesn’t mean I’ll regain the speech I lost, it means I’ve made medical history.

(Whoppee. I’ll notify the Guinness World Records people. They’ll want to know of a reborn artery that has come back from the dead.)

It also means I stand a chance of having another stroke.

(Whoppee- yippee yeah ky yeah – I might get to go through this wonderful experience AGAIN)

So the doctor is going check with some experts so he can give me the best advice on whether to operate or not.

See what happens when you have the best diet and exercise – you open yourself to further danger!

Stay tuned. We now return to my regularly scheduled, time-delayed blog.

Lost: one mojo. Last seen before a brain attack. Reward for return.

I find in the first two weeks after my stroke that I’m starting to take stock of my pluses and minuses.

After the brain attack there’s my physical and mental fitness:

 I’m suffering partial paralyses on the right side. The head (I drool a lot), and the
right side of my face is less animated; the arm; and to lesser sense the feet.  I’m working on that with self-regulated
therapy since I fired the Intermediate Care Team because they were insensitive
to me (read Mrs Doubtfire tries to cure my aphasia). They did leave me with
detailed instructions on photocopied sheets on their recommended exercises. Plus,
I commandeered my youngest daughter’s weight set and started reps with those (two
wrist straps with .5 k each and a dumb bell of 2K, whatever that is in Imperial
weights or pounds. K had used them a total of three times in some girlie quest
behind closed doors before rendering them useless in the back her closet).

Then there are other deficiencies and one that bothers me the most: not able to write.
You’ve heard the joke about the one-armed paper hanger…well, imagine a half-brained
writer. It’s more than just a half-brained writer – it’s a writer who has to
teach himself to write again. Start all over again from pre-kindergarten/reception
age, getting a feel for a writing instrument in your hand, and have it go
through all the motions you need to form a letter on the paper. Just one
letter, then you have to start all over again with second letter, then the
third, making a simple word an exercise of Nautilus equipment exertion, and
sentence is a full work-out in the gym. They don’t have that on the suggested
exercises from my Intermediate Care Team (redundant).

It isn’t that I’ve forgotten the movements; I remember them – it’s that the blood clot in the
carotid artery on the left side of my neck during my stroke erased the ability
to reconstruct them, as though I was to start again as a toddler in a
full-grown body learning the physical movements needed to form letters.

Now each letter is formed with the dogged determination of the first time I had to learn
this exercise in communication. I can see it in my mind, but there is a short-circuit
between my brain telling my hand to make a letter, and the physical implementation
of the hand performing the act.

(I am taken back in distant memories to the time in my life growing up when my great-grandmother
Lillian watched me playing with crayons – we were at my grandmother’s house in
Toledo.  I remember how the furniture looked, all dark wood with highlights of the white doilies on the arms of the upholstered
sofa and chairs. Sweet image isn’t it?

 Watch closely then and see the old crone pick up my hand and slap it because I had picked up the crayon in the left hand –
sinister. She put the crayon in the “right” hand for emphasis and there it stayed for life. It’s so Victorian. It’s a memory I recounted once to my mother when I was in my 30s and she said I couldn’t have possibly remembered that, Iwas only two years old!

I had revenge though on Lillian; my daughter K is left-handed and proud of it.)

Then I had a sudden idea: if the stroke affected the right side my body, why not try writing with my left hand.

Same result – childish scrawling, barely recognisable.

Add to this physical side that I’m tired. It’s as though this stroke took some effort,
when all I remember is sleeping through it. The fatigue is such that I have
been forced to take a nap around noon to make it through the day.

And mental – there’s a problem with my thinking. I know I
said I’m thinking straight, but not 100%. I don’t come up with original ideas,
and those I had before, I can’t add to. I’m thinking now of my novel. Since the
attack on my brain I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, time I would ordinarily use
to refine plot and character and descriptions. Nothing. In fact I can’t
remember words like “anxiety” let alone spell it or write them down. I’ve never been at a loss for words until now.

I try pecking at a keyboard on the laptop and it takes me
seven times to type in my password for email after taking 10 minutes to
remember it.

I mention my multiple deficiencies on the next visit to
speech therapy with Catherine – I tell her I’ve lost my mojo, but my
pronunciation of it took about four times in four minutes.

One thing I have learned from Catherine (if I remember the
word) is to break the word up into easily speak-able bits. The trick is that
you have to pronounce little bits correctly as in: Ma-jo, Me-jo, My-JO, MO-JO!

By this time, I’ve verbally staggered around so much, I forget what I’ve lost.

So then begins Catherine’s quest to unlock my need for words. She’s got a synonym sheet. She shows me pictures, like a cow and I have to say the name (Elsie – I interviewed her once) and add some other farm animals.
Then, a picture of a car and go on to name other forms of transport. (I’m good at this!)

Then there are just words: furious. (Let’s see. Furious.
Fury.) Anger!

Tardy: (not on time; behind time) Late!

And on and on until I reach scowl. (Bird, night time. Big eyes.
Harry Potter movies. Admit defeat.)

Not every word comes to mind. But it’s a start and Catherine
suggests I try crosswords and word puzzles for next week and find ways to talk
aloud.

I would have given me a gold star, such was the effort, but Catherine didn’t offer one.

Wait, you got gold stars when you were young and needed a reward for doing well. Well the effort was elementary in style, but you’re old
now and the only incentive you need is to get your brain back.

And your mojo.

A new morning – without words

In which I wake up without words

When I awake it is to a hospital ward (that was no dream then). I’m lying on my back, arms beside like at attention; my prime snoring position. Many a night Amoret has shaken me awake asking, no telling me, to roll over, but nobody told me to be quiet.

It is all men, so that’s the NHS keeping to the rules. Opposite me is a man who is comatose and it’s the same state for the man who’s on my right. The tableau is complete with the man diagonally from me, also with eyes closed. It’s 5 o’clock in the morning, so no surprises there then. I probably looked the same sleeping.

I do a check on my extremities – hands and feet movable; arms and legs movable. Wait: there’s some dragging on the right side. I have to will my arm to move, really concentrate on the action, and then it follows with a two second delay. Perhaps I slept on it or something. Same thing with the leg.

It is quiet on the ward – I can see a nurse going by in the hall with soft, sensible, squishy shoes and I follow the steps down the corridor and listen while there is silence, then the sound of kettle boiling. Tea time. There is  a composite of human busy sounds – rustling of papers, clinking of medical equipment, the wheels of trolleys going away from me, barely audible conversations in short staccato bursts – it is only available to keen ears eager learn something about their environment . It tells me nothing.

Then suddenly: “Good morning.”

Like a genie, but without the smoke: “Would you like a cup of tea?” It comes from nowhere until I can get my eyes focused on a man in a white uniform appearing by my bed. Which direction did he come from?

The man is from the Philippines is my guess. I open my mouth to answer and get nothing. My mind is saying ‘yes, please’ but the words are not there – the man realises my distress and asks if I take sugar. I shake my head ‘no’ and he turns away, but I am trying to add ‘and no milk’ – again, no words come out.  This is important because it is probably against the law in England to order tea with no milk –  each time somebody asks if I’d like a cuppa, I get strange looks when I say no sugar and no milk, sort of like I’d requested something sinister and Communist, but I like tea like that. This is the first time I have not been able to express myself except for trying to explain some errant school boy behaviour to my father. I have lived relying the spoken and written word. I want to say them, but I can’t.

The tea comes with milk and no sugar – it is indicative of the day ahead, indeed, it points to a whole new way of life.

Rushed to the hospital – was it the big sleep?

The view from my brain

Whatever it is in my body that used to connect the music to the symphony doesn’t work anymore. The stroke disconnected those wires. I’ve seen the pictures.

One afternoon I went to sleep. Not really a  siesta, a deep, deep, deep sleep. During that time somebody stole everything worthwhile. Hoodies? Somali pirates? Thieving politicians? What they got was personal treasure – you can’t get insurance against it. When you notice it’s missing there’s sadness for the loss, for you know it will never be the same again.

 I had just picked up my daughter from school and I don’t remember driving beyond that. But I got home somehow. I remember going to the hospital. Amoret remembered those persistent public service announcements involving a man and woman (we are blessed with equality is this country) whose faces are burning and got the message:

FAST

(three specific symptoms of stroke.

Facial weakness – can the person smile? Has their mouth or eye drooped?

Arm weakness – can the person raise both arms?

Speech problems – can the person speak clearly and understand what you say?

Time to call 999)

They saw me FAST which is a credit to the A and E staff. They asked questions – lots of questions and I nodded off on a nap.

My fantasies erase my physical body (although I don’t remember any pain) and replace it with a perfect, spiritual one. They exist in a gauzy world of memories that I can replay at will – like fast-forward on DVDs where you stop every now then to see if you’re interested. It is competing for the centre ring of your attention – narratives changing focus like dreams only these were real memories that actually happened to me (your life flashes in front of you before you die?). 

Fast-forward. A gosling I had one time when I had a barn and thought I needed geese.

Wvvvzzt. Ruthie the duck lady, the roller skating woman in the French Quarter of New Orleans who went everywhere with her pet duck.

Wvvvzzt. Driving in wintertime Michigan where snow popped and crunched under the wheels of your car and roads were ploughed so high with snow you were driving in the shade.

 Wvvvzzt. The taste of Vernor’s ginger ale brought up from the treasure trove of Grandma Emma’s cellar.

Wvvvzzt. Talking with Billy Milligan about a script we were working on.

Wvvvzzt. Atchafalaya Swamp with a Cajun guide telling how me to find turtles eggs, keep cottonmouths of out pirogues and get armadillos out of holes.

Wvvvzzt. Strange stiching on my T-shirt. Whoa. This is real. I’m by myself and the bed is moving. It’s about midnight and somebody tells me they’re moving me to a ward. I stare at the walls like some F1 driver watching the scenery go by. We reach chicanes after straight runs and I feel I’m going into to the bowels of the building. Nothing sinster. I have a good feeling about the hospital  – there was that cherished moment when Amoret looked me with utter pride and wonder holding the baby she had just delivered, our daughter.

It is not the cavern I expect. I get a window seat although the view is various exterior hospital walls. I fall asleep. My dreams have me running or walking, without limitation, sometimes aimlessly.