HOMECOMING
-- LEARNING TO ACCEPT; OVERCOMING OBSTACLES
I came home on December 23. Among the prettiest sights in my life was
the little Christmas tree on the television set and the decorations
and the "Welcome Home" sign on the mantle. I was totally exhausted from
walking with a cane only from the car to the front door to a chair in
the living room. I looked around, sat down, and wept with joy at being
home.
Grab bars had been installed in the bathroom I could use. I never used
a walker, going directly from wheelchair to cane. No one piece of furniture
was more than two steps from another piece. An easy-to-reach extra wall
light was installed over my bed for reading. An easy rocking chair with
a movable reading-writing table was placed next to a combination telephone-fax-answering
and paper-copier machine. The dining room table was cleared for me to
use as therapy table for hand and arm exercises. And my beautiful wife
was there for me to look at twenty-four hours a day. Could any man ask
for anything more? I would remain an outpatient in rehab three times
per week for eight months, but I was at last home-sweet-home.
***
Webster defines panic as a sudden overpowering fear, terror,
dismay, or dread. All four of them are what I felt when the realization
finally sank in that I had really had a stroke. Panic asserts itself
internally as well as externally. Some strike out externally at God,
at the world in general, or at individuals; or they try to run from
the facts or deny them. Others are so overwhelmed they are numb; they
cannot cope with the idea and they clam up and remain silent and die
many deaths inwardly that no one shares with them. The latter state
is hard to detect, but it is very real and dangerous. It builds in intensity
on a fire fueled by uncertainty. It is imperative that relief from this
inward pressure be provided. And soon, very soon is the order of the
day.
There was nothing that I possessed, very early after the reality of
a stroke enveloped me, that I would not have gladly given just to talk
to someone who had had a stroke, who would talk to me in private in
a friendly way. So many doors could have been opened. So many uncertainties
could have been cleared up by a simple "This is the way it was with
me" or "I felt the same way, but it didn't come out that way with me."
For a while, I didn't want to talk any more to doctors or neurologists
or surgeons or anybody who had not experienced what I was going through.
They had done their job. But I wanted the voice of experience. A survivor
-- that's who I needed.
***
The constant contemplation of a worthless hand causes
the observer to realize how little he had in the past considered its
wonderful function as an integral part of the whole body. Suddenly,
it becomes a body part by itself and assumes an importance it had not
enjoyed before. The thought of doing without it for the rest of your
life becomes unthinkable. But what can be done? Either accept the fact
that it is gone and give up or decide to work in therapy every way possible
and as hard as you can.
Any student of the Bible knows what path I chose when I gave my left
hand a name of its own. It is not called the bad hand today -- its new
name is Lazarus.
***
At some point in time after the reality that you have actually had
a stroke sinks in, you progress into a stage of being ashamed to be
seen by anyone and are afraid to get out of your stroke shell. This
fear of being seen grows until the mentally healthy person gets tired
of being ashamed. Hopefully, this tired feeling leads to adventure,
and adventure leads to small trials. Desire to get back into the real
world that was so natural to you before the stroke finally overcomes
the embarrassment you feel, and you step out. And then the fun begins.
It took me two months before I mustered enough courage to "get out of
this house and go somewhere." I chose a movie away from town where I
would not be seen by anybody I knew (still ashamed but not as bad).
We arrived at the theater at about 2:00 p.m. on a bright sunshiny day;
the movie had already started, so the theater was black as night and
I was blinded from the sunlight I had just left. My wife had to leave
me before we were seated. There I stood, alone in the dark, blind, with
a cane in my right hand that I had just learned to use. I thought I
saw a vacant seat on the aisle and promptly went over and sat in a lady's
lap. Thank God she did not scream.
Finding the seat and sitting down was a problem but nothing like the
problem of getting up under these circumstances. My stroke had taken
my left arm completely away from me -- it just dangled from my shoulder
like a yo-yo on a string with a mind of its own over which I had no
control. With a left arm useless, I had to drop my cane from my right
hand and use it to grip the right side of the seat in front of me to
pull myself up out of the lady's lap. I did this with great difficulty,
but now I was standing without a cane in my right hand behind the seat
in front of me in which sat another lady. My dangling left hand, with
a mind of its own, wound up on top of the head of the lady seated in
front. And I could not move that left hand out of her hair. It just
kept on dangling, and giving her scalp a massage until I could get out
into the aisle and away. I swore right then I would never again go into
a dark theater. A second thanks to God: this lady did not scream either.
Heaven only knows what they both thought. My wife and I waited until
the theater had completely cleared before we made an attempt to leave.
I can laugh about this now, but it was no laughing matter then. To this
day we only go to theaters at least fifteen minutes early.
***
During this period of being ashamed, I was greatly concerned about
how I appeared to other people. Those close to me insisted that I didn't
appear different and constantly told me they could hardly tell I had
had a stroke. I considered the source of such kind remarks, but at the
same time, I well remembered a perfect example of "man's inhumanity
to man." It was on an occasion when I was walking from a store to my
car without my cane. I had to pass the driver's side of a parked car,
with its window down, to get to my car. At best, my walking is anything
but smooth and, if the pavement is rough, I stumble a bit and hold to
anything to steady myself. As I passed the open car window, the driver
leaned toward me and said in a loud voice, "The police should get drunks
like you off the street!" I didn't stop to try to explain that I was
doing the best I could and wished I could walk as well as he, but I
couldn't forget his remark.
About two months later, my beautiful four-year-old granddaughter came
to visit me for the first time since my stroke. She had never seen anyone
who could not use his left arm and leg in a normal manner. I was very
apprehensive as to how she would see me, remembering the unkind remark
of the man in the car. Her parents had told her only that her granddaddy
had been sick and could not pick her up as he usually did.
When she came into the room, she immediately spied a red balloon that
my therapist had given me to take home and use as therapy by trying
to catch it when someone threw it to me. Jessica wanted to play catch
with me. We played, and she could catch the ball with her two good hands,
but I could seldom catch it with my one hand when she threw it. She
is a competitive little girl. She pondered as to why she could beat
granddaddy so easily at catch; she never had before. And then she noticed
that I was using only one hand. She said the most touching thing I ever
heard a four-year-old say. She said, "Granddaddy, I know why you don't
catch the balloon as well as I do. It's because I am not throwing it
well to you." There was no pity or curiosity or fear on her part --
just a pure and complete acceptance of me in whatever state I might
be in.
I had a very hard time holding back the tears, which I dared not let
her see. She was too young to understand that tears can come from a
combination of pride and true love as well as a stroke. What a pity
that some of us do not carry into adulthood this childhood acceptance
but, instead, swap it for thoughtless disdain for those who are trying
to do the best they can. Most of this comes from plain thoughtlessness.
Few of us are intentionally cruel.
***
One of the greatest needs a stroke victim has, after the reality of
having part of his body paralyzed has set in, is victories -- successes.
The victim, up to this point, has been completely absorbed in a world
made up of things he cannot do. Continuation along this line
leads only to frustration, despair and possibly even worse. The victim's
world must be changed. At this point his self-esteem has hit rock bottom.
When I was at this point I felt I would go crazy if I did not find something
I could do as well as or better than the next man. And I might have
if I had not succeeded at a task I set for myself.
My garden at our lake home had for many years been the love of my life.
I felt if I could not have a garden, I had failed as a man. I was realistic
about plowing, fertilizing, planting and spraying a 1/4-acre garden:
I could not do it with one arm and one leg. I knew it and I accepted
that fact. But I felt I absolutely had to grow a few tomatoes and cucumbers
at our Decatur home.
How does a one-armed man with one workable leg dig holes to plant vegetables
in? I had for many years dug holes for my tomatoes with a post-hole
digger. As most gardeners know, a post-hole digger has two handles that
fit two hands that you pull apart at the top to clasp dirt or soil at
the bottom. Otherwise the soil falls back in the hole when you remove
the digger from the hole. Why not dig the hole with a spade? With one
leg dead and you standing on the other one, where is the third leg coming
from to push the spade in the soil? I gave myself a task of somehow
digging those tomato holes with a post-hole digger. Yes, I could have
gotten someone else to dig the holes, but that would not have been a
victory or success that I could brag about -- something I did
and did well.
I wanted to plant ten plants. I set for myself a goal of one hole a
day for ten days. With one hand and one leg, and using the digger as
a crutch, I would slam the digger down into the dirt, with one hand,
over and over again, until the soil was loose and then jerk the digger
out, with one hand, as fast as I could to get the dirt out. Each time
about three-fourths of the dirt would fall back in the hole, but I would
get some dirt out of the hole each time.
One half a hole in the morning and one half a hole in the afternoon.
It became a game, a contest, and finally a duty. And ten days later
all ten holes were dug and ready for plants. They were good holes. They
were my holes. I dug them myself -- without help. All this was going
on during the Olympics and Paralympics here in Atlanta. None of those
athletes could have been any prouder of their medals than I was of those
holes. As I write this, it is early October and I am still reaping the
benefits of victory by having so many ripe tomatoes that I give some
to our neighbors. I am as good as any man at digging holes one-handed
with a post-hole digger -- better than most.
What a victory! What a success!. I'll always remember it. It pushed
me a full notch forward toward recovery and a higher self-esteem.
***
Almost everyone who has had a true stroke will need a caregiver
for some period of time. Some for days, weeks, months, or (hopefully
not) forever. A stroke quickly moves from his or her stroke
to our stroke. Strokes have been given all kinds of names --
accident, catastrophe, atrocity, calamity, disaster, debacle, and others
-- none of which are exaggerations. I think at times its first shock
weighs more heavily on the shoulders of the caregiver than on the victim.
The victim is greatly concerned with whether he will live or die and
what he will be able to do if he lives, while the caregiver, who is
generally totally unprepared for such a disaster, is floored with the
new and compelling thought that she cannot allow herself to die
or even get sick, she is so badly needed and depended upon. This
is generally followed closely by an overwhelming feeling of total inadequacy
to handle by herself all of the many little details that make up a happy
life together that had formerly been handled together as partners. It
takes a very strong caregiver, both mentally and physically, to deal
with those feelings and come up with a happy face.
Appointments will be changed or canceled, social activities abandoned,
time control completely rearranged. In fact, the complete lifestyle
of the caregiver gets turned upside down with no warning. And it is
not the caregiver's fault. Nothing about a stroke is fair! But to dwell
on fairness or where fault or blame should be placed can only lead to
unhappiness.
I told my wife of many years that she was too old to have another baby,
but the good Lord gave her one on December 2, 1995 -- one 84 years old
-- and she didn't even know she was pregnant; and we both laughed. It
has been said that there is nothing good that can come from a stroke.
I disagree. I wouldn't wish even the slightest stroke on anyone. Hopefully
medical science will wipe it off the face of this earth. But these last
ten months on my very slow road toward recovery have created a closeness
and love that has exceeded all the years before. God will surely reserve
a special place for caregivers. They earn it here on earth.
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