KIND WORDS,
TEARS AND LAUGHTER
I was on my back on a rolling table in the emergency room, waiting to
be admitted to the hospital. My regular doctor had taken care of everything
up to then and was about to leave me, having called in a neurologist.
The time was set for him to give me great words of encouragement and the
usual physician's instructions for the present and cautions for the future.
Instead, as he walked by the foot of the table on the way out, to allow
my wife to come in to see me for the first time, he put his hand on my
exposed foot and said, "I love you," and was gone. What a bedside manner
! What a calming effect those three words had on me. He will never know
what those words meant to me. I needed them badly and he recognized it.
***
When you have a stroke you see many, many members of the medical professions
-- neurologists, generalists, surgeons, cardiologists, psychologists,
psychiatrists, therapists, etc. All visit, check you out, and give you
words of encouragement and wisdom, but almost no definitive answers to
questions that are tormenting your mind about your prognosis. After all,
when a body you have lived with 84 years and that has served you well
suddenly quits functioning on your left side, you become very frustrated.
You become mad, upset, put upon, demanding; and you run the whole gamut
of emotions without understanding the why of any of it. At such a time
a true word of wisdom will stick with you forever. I shall never forget
what a psychiatrist told me very early after my stroke stabilized. I don't
think she realized what a gem of wisdom she was giving me at the time.
She said to prepare myself for some radical departures from normal in
my behavior patterns that I would not understand or justify. Her example
was that when a person had to sneeze it was an involuntary action over
which he had no control; and although, socially speaking, apology was
called for, no embarrassment was in order. Likewise, when one has to cough,
he coughs and has little control over it. But in the vast majority of
stroke patients, crying involuntarily and without apparent reason is common
-- just like a sneeze or cough -- and without warning. She said very few
emotionally healthy people can take in stride the overwhelming shock to
the central nervous system that a stroke brings with it.
Had I not been forewarned by this good lady, I believe I would have gone
off the deep end the first time I looked in a mirror and saw unjustified
tears streaming down my cheeks. I didn't hurt. I was not mad. I had never
done this before. I had no reason to cry but I was weeping as though my
heart was broken. At such a moment, I was very close to being convinced
that the stroke had affected my brain in parts other than those that control
my arm, legs and back. What a wonderful gift the lady gave me that could
keep me from going through the torture of convincing myself that I had
lost my arm and leg, and I was now going to lose my mind. What would be
left to enjoy in life if my mind was lost also? To look into the abyss
of the future, with a mind that sees nothing, borders on the unbearable.
Thank you, good lady, for your gems of wisdom that saved me from much
sorrow and torment. You don't know how wise you were.
***
Some people drop gems of wisdom without really realizing how wise they
have been or how extremely valuable their words have been to their recipient.
How sad that they get no medals and receive little or no thanks at times.
When I was being tortured by my lack of understanding as to why I would
break out crying involuntarily, my preacher, trying to console me on the
subject, told me I had experienced a death and it was natural to grieve
over any kind of death, even the death of an animal or a beautiful cherished
tree or flower.
I understood and was consoled by his words. I had lost a good and faithful
arm and leg. They were dead. They died on December 2, 1995. But I could
have no funeral. I could not bury them. I must live with them for the
rest of my life.
***
For almost a month I was an inpatient in a hospital. I had therapists
eight hours a day trying to get me back on my feet so I could take care
of myself. I have tried to avoid naming any of those who helped me so
much in therapy because there were so many and I was afraid I would leave
somebody out. But there are a few I must mention. Nelini was assigned
to me while I was an inpatient. She took me from a 100 percent bed patient
to where I could get out of bed; go to wheelchair to bathroom; brush my
teeth, wash my face and arm, comb my hair, use the toilet, put on my socks
and robe and roll myself to the dining room or therapy room with one arm
and one leg -- all in one month. She had the patience of Job and, though
I contended I could not do the therapy, she insisted I could and made
me do it. She introduced me to an electric shock machine for my hand that
made the hand muscles move when I couldn't make them move. This gave me
hope for the first time that my fingers and hand would move again. My
shoulder was a total loss -- immobile. She got me ready to go home with
my wife, but without a nurse, two days before Christmas.
In the first eight months in outpatient rehab, my therapists were Julie,
Physical Therapist, and Gayle, Occupational Therapist. My leg and back
developed under Julie's guidance to where I could walk with a cane for
short distances, and then I was transferred to water therapy for strength
and stamina. Julie left after four months for a new job; Gayle was with
me the whole ten months. I was immediately moved to outpatient status
three times a week. I loved each day at rehab. I was dismissed, as no
longer needing a therapist, on September 2 -- nine months after the stroke.
I am now on my own to exercise my fingers, hand, and arm, and to ride
a stationary bike.
Early in January (a little more than a month after my stroke) my left
fingers, hand, and forearm began swelling. Awful looking red and brown
blotches developed just under the skin. I could not do my finger and hand
exercises because of the swelling. It appeared to be getting worse. I
did not know what caused it. I only knew it was stroke-related and it
looked horrible. I was ashamed of it. I did not want anyone to see it.
I now had a hand that would not work, and it was repulsive looking also.
This was a low point in my recovery. It is here that I cannot give Gayle
enough accolades. I would appear three times a week in rehab with a hand
I could not stand to look at myself, and Gayle would greet me always with
a smile and go to work massaging the swelling out of my fingers to my
hand and to my arm with her hands and fingers in a most professional way.
I am sure if the tables had been turned, I would not have had the intestinal
fortitude to even touch a hand that looked like mine. But Gayle worked
at it at least thirty minutes each day, and it gradually went down and
is now normal, with no splotches. We called it my leprosy, which Gayle
cured. The many exercises she did on my arm over those eight months, and
the braces she made for my hand, and the machines she guided me through
and made me use will be long appreciated and remembered. Her insistence
that I go through the somewhat painful exercises and my complaining about
having to do it developed a unique patient-therapist relationship. The
name I gave her was Madam Torture and she named me Belly Aching. But I
never failed to bring her a hibiscus flower each day from my garden, when
those were in season, to show her my appreciation for all that she did
so willingly for me.
The reason I have written so much about therapists is that I feel they
are among the unsung heroes of the medical profession. I never see a picture
on TV of Bob Dole with that pen in his stiff right hand, but what I realize
that without therapy mine would be like his. My left hand and arm are
far from back to normal. Because of an accident, I will never raise my
left arm straight again. But Gayle's therapy took my left hand, in just
eight months, from five wooden fingers attached to a hand made of stone,
to one that can make a fist, tie a shoestring, turn off a light, open
a door and lightly hold my wonderful wife's hand -- and money can't buy
that either.
I want to beg anyone who has a stroke to diligently follow what the therapists
tell them to do and don't give up. The alternative is joints that slowly
set as in concrete, never to bend or move again. You really don't have
a choice when you think about it. Believe me, I am the voice of experience.
Just do it!
***
People who have had a brain attack are not seen or treated by the general
public like anyone else who has a different illness. I think it is because
the general public knows so little about what a true stroke entails. This
ignorance causes the healthy person embarrassment in the presence of a
stroke victim. He doesn't know what behavior or speech on his part is
appropriate, and he gets confused and awkward. One good friend I have
still tries to shake hands with me as a greeting if I am standing with
my left hand limp and inoperative and my right hand completely occupied
with a cane, trying to keep myself from falling. A pat on my shoulder
means more to me. It tells me he not only understands, but he wants to
touch me anyway. Shoulder pats are the best kind.
Another friend commented to me, "People don't call or come by as often
if they find your problem is caused by a brain attack." The word brain
frightens people. There is so much mystery attached to it. My four-year-old
granddaughter made my point very clearly. During a family discussion she
tried and tried unsuccessfully to get into the conversation, but was rebuffed
each time. Finally, she said loudly, "Why can't I talk? I'm a people too."
Right, and so are stroke victims. They are people too -- good people.
One couple that have been good friends for many years live a considerable
distance from us. The wife does volunteer work every Wednesday at a hospital
near us. When they found out soon after my stroke that I was pretty well
house bound, they would call and drop in for a short visit each Wednesday
afternoon after the end of her tour of duty. The visits were regular.
Wednesday afternoons were brightened by their visits. We looked forward
to them and missed them when they took trips. We had always liked them
as good friends, but they are now our wonderful friends. The world
needs more like them --people who are sensitive to the needs of other
people.
***
There are times, when we have a stroke, that I think God gives us a hypersensitivity
to our surroundings and a perfect memory of the details of what transpired.
Such an occasion happened in our Sunday School Class. A family in our
class had a young daughter who had a stroke about a year before I did.
The young mother had three-year-old twin boys. Her husband was a Presbyterian
minister. Her stroke was a cerebral hemorrhage and a bad one, requiring
two operations. Her mother and father were required to go up to help take
care of their daughter and grandsons. The illness and follow-up of therapy
took a long time. All of us in the class kept in close contact with her
progress. Eventually she got well enough for her parents to come home,
but we kept up with how well she was doing.
I had never seen the young lady but knew of her as a fellow stroke victim
who had suffered through much more than I had and had survived. When I
first came out of my stroke shell and went back to Sunday School, I was
very apprehensive. I was ashamed of how I walked and of my dangling left
hand. I could not stand a long time, so I could not mix and mingle with
the rest of class, but had to go to my seat early. One Sunday while I
was sitting there by myself, a pretty young lady came up and sat next
to me. She asked if she could sing with me. She said that between us we
had two good hands. Her left hand was paralyzed as was mine. As I looked
over her shoulder I saw her mother smiling at us, and I knew then that
she had pointed me out to her daughter -- the one who had had a stroke
a year before I did. To say we sang together would not be correct. She
sang, but I was too choked up to even try. At least fifty years separated
us in age, but an invisible bond between stroke victims manifests itself
almost immediately. We had little time to talk, as she had to go someplace
else, but before she left, she kissed my good right hand to say good-bye.
What a lift! What a memory!. This event made me see how very important
a friendly word or gesture from one stroke victim to another stroke victim
can be.
***
Dr. Norman Cousins and Dr. Barrie Cassibeth once gave a joint report
concerning the biological value of laughter. They agreed that during a
hearty laugh the diaphragm, thorax, abdomen, lungs, and even the liver
are given a massage. It has been called "internal jogging." In Dr. Cousin's
early book, The Anatomy of an Illness, and in a later one, Head
First, he points out many tangible, and affirmative, biological results
of laughter. Many hospitals have created rooms dedicated to laughable
things. It is hard to feel bad while laughing. All the time spent laughing
is time taken away from grief, sadness, despair, feelings of worthlessness,
and concentration on an illness such as a stroke. And this laughter can
be planned. I regularly turn my TV to the channel that carries AMC programs
on Saturdays at 11:30 a.m. Why? They have a half hour of Stan Laurel and
Oliver Hardy comedies, and I don't miss them. Some I have seen many times
before, but that's my kind of humor. I have taped many of them for playbacks.
During that half hour, I don't even remember I had a stroke.
I look for the comics in the newspapers. Some aren't funny these days
and some I don't understand, but invariably I'll find a chuckle somewhere
on the page. I recently took a course, "The Anatomy of a Joke," taught
by Virlyn Moore, master story teller. The course was an hour long, every
Thursday, for six or eight weeks. This hour was filled with jokes and
funny stories. In that room for an hour were about 25 people, men and
women, laughing most of the time. I don't remember hearing a soul say
a word about how bad they felt, their last operation or anything concerning
sickness, pain, or physical problems. And they were all over fifty years
old. It was amazing to see the difference between how they filed into
the room at the start of each class and what their demeanor was when they
left. I even forgot my cane once when I left and had to go back to get
it. And I do find walking very painful without a cane. I had gone quite
a distance before I realized I didn't have it. I go to movies that are
funny. I hunt for something funny. I subscribe to cable for my TV because
I can find more funny programs on it.
I have a very good friend who subscribes to the New Yorker magazine.
She brings me her old issues just so I can get a laugh or two from them.
This magazine has the best cartoons I know of. When I had a heart attack
and was required to "take it easy," I kept busy cutting out cartoons and
putting them in a 3-hole binder. Now I have about 75 pages filled up,
and collecting cartoons has become a hobby. I duplicate them and send
them to sick friends in lieu of cards. I get far more "thank you's"
from them than I ever got from "store-bought" cards. My daughter picked
up the idea and sent my wife seven funny cards to be given me at breakfast,
one for each day of the week. It was great to have a laugh the first thing
each day. I now do this with cartoons, and I get a good laugh just sending
them.
I have seen and heard enough of blood and thunder, corruption and pain,
anxiety and worry, and all the other stories of human frailty I can take.
Been there, seen and heard that. Believe me, anything funny is better
at chasing the blues and down-and-out feeling than taking a pill or a
shot of whisky. You can plan it. Try it! You'll like it. I whole-heartedly
recommend the serious pursuit and planning of laughter to anyone who has
had a stroke; in fact, I recommend it to anyone. Laugh and world laughs
with you. Cry and you cry alone.
