When I was little and was told about death, I used to lie awake at nights, feeling this vertigo as I lay in bed pondering, “What makes me me? How do I know that I’m really alive? How do I know that I exist?” For twenty years, I wrestled with those questions.
June 10, 2001, I started to get some answers. The only certainty that day was that something happened. Something happened that hurt a lot. I was so confused. My body refused to work. I could barely walk, move or talk. After cataloging what was not working in my body, I told my mom that I had a stroke. 9-1-1. I remember that I kept repeating to the EMT that I am O positive. Part of me reasoned that on ER, blood type seemed to be very important so I should make sure the EMT’s knew. I also kept repeating “I’m 24.” Which probably sounded like “Ammm dweneeefooor.” I held up my right hand showing two fingers and then four. My head hurt so much. My mom got in the front of the ambulance. The EMT who was working on me was so nice. He explained everything he did to me. He set up the IV first, then the annoying oxygen mask. He told me that once I got out of the hospital, I could show him my photo album from my recent Ireland trip. I smiled through my mask, sighed and went away. The pain stopped, it was dark and I was so warm and rested. Everything was so much better.
With a jolt, I came back to my non-functioning body wracked with pain in a hospital. The blood pressure cuff hurt me. A nurse told me that they have to cut my nightgown off of me. Scissors sliced down the front of my pink nightgown.
After getting a MRI, a doctor stood on my left. I could see his white lab coat but not his face (because I was blind in my left eye - I later found out). My mom and aunt were on my right. The doctor held an arm in front of my face and asked me if it was mine. I studied it; pale and freckled, could be a match. The doctor announced that I had a stroke. My immediate internal reaction was “I KNEW it! I was right!” Amidst, my elation at correctly diagnosing myself, my mom looked like she was going to burst into tears. I suddenly realized that I totally didn’t know what a stroke is and what it does.
I spent four days in the critical care ward. I couldn’t move my left side. I didn’t even feel like my left side was attached to my body. Sometimes at night, I threw my limp left arm off the edge of my bed. Then my mom would gently chide me and place my arm back on the bed. Annoyed, I insisted, “Mom, it’s just in the way.” I didn’t think about what had happened to me. I never spared a thought about my future. I just existed day to day. Days full of doctors never addressing me, only speaking to my mom. Being treated like I was already gone. The nurses knew I was still there. God bless them. Getting so many flowers, cards and balloons that we ran out of counter space.
What broke my heart was my voice. I used to have this beautiful lilting clear voice. Thanks to the stroke, I slurred out one side of my mouth sounding like a broken robot. I was so embarrassed that at age 24, I had a stroke. At night, I wrestled with two thoughts, “God, can’t I ever have anything normal wrong with me, like appendicitis?” and “I hope the stroke didn’t take away my intelligence. That’s all I have.”
Family and friends visited. I didn’t care. My attitude was “Come see the freak show/morality tale.” I tried to do the normal hostess stuff: crack jokes, show them my stuff and make sure we had enough seats. One poor friend had to make a commode her seat. After a couple days, my paralysis wore off. I just had weak uncoordinated movement on my left side with no feeling. I was moved to a rehab hospital. Yet again, the EMT's were amazing. I had mentioned how much I liked the new Bunker Hill/Zakim Bridge, they drove me by the bridge on the way to rehab.
Rehab was actually fun. I got to do stuff. And it turned out that I could do lots of things! The average age at the hospital was 66. So I was the freak of the stroke wing. Closer in age to my physical therapists than my fellow patients. Every day, I had speech therapy, hand group, occupational therapy, activities of daily living and, my favorite, standing balance group. In that group I got to play soccer, basketball and do mini-relays. I won every time. Granted, my opponents were sixty-year-old stroke patients - but still it gave me something I could excel at and look forward to.
After rehab, I was told that my progress was phenomenal. It sure didn’t feel like that to me. I was cleared to drive July 31, returned to work on a limited schedule August 6. And I got partial feeling back in my hand Aug. 17.
For months I felt like I was just a walking corpse. My body lived on but my spirit was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t connect with my friends, co-workers or family. I wasn’t here. Anna doesn’t live here anymore. I had no hope and no joy. I didn’t dare to dream. I lived in a world that is violent and devastating. On Sept. 11, 2001, the lesson I learned on June 10 was shown to the whole world. I completely shut down. If this is the world I have to live in, then fuck it. What’s the point?
With weeks flying by, I got worse and worse – more detached. What really amused me was that a lot of people complimented me on how well I was recovering. Repeating that they could not tell that I had a stroke. They didn’t know that I chose to act "normal". Every day was the monumental effort of being "normal". I let everyone believe the happy lie that I was recovering fine. Even though living in this world felt like drowning. I sang duets in a cabaret, went to Homecoming and to a comedy show because that’s what Before Anna did. Did I have fun? No. It was just a means to an end. Do the things that Before Anna liked to do, pretend that the world is a good place, and hopefully coax my spirit back into my broken body.
As the New Year approached, I did all the expected things: got an apartment, resumed a normal work schedule, hung out with friends and went to parties. Not because I wanted to but because it was my job. The job of keeping the happy lie alive. None of my friends or family understood. None of them ever had a stroke. I was the freak. The now 25 year old who couldn't enunciate or feel.
In January, I threw an apartment-warming party for myself. It wasn’t my idea. Almost every friend and family member who heard about my new apartment asked, “So when are you throwing a party?” I took my cue from them. I cleaned my apartment, and bought snacks like it was just any party. No particular effort or attention paid to anything - autopilot. Just like how I lived my life. The most amazing thing happened during the party. My spirit came rocketing back to my body. It was like it overheard all the talking and laughter, saw that it's safe. Then bam! I was me. No more drowning. No more acting. I laughed from the depths of my being. I remember the first real laugh. It was in response to a statement involving the word Uranus. Feeling the spontaneous merriment exploding out of my body was astounding and so sorely missed. Throughout the entire party, I didn’t think about my stroke. My speech was less embarrassing. I was so happy. Happy! Actual, real emotion! I was back. Afterwards, I called my mom and told her about the party. I was so wired, I couldn't sleep that night.
Later that month, I agreed to participate in a stroke study. I had to get an MRI scan of my brain again. In February, I saw my brain scans. The research fellow explained each cross section. At about eyebrow level there was this huge black splotch on the right side of my brain. My breath was taken away. My spirit balked. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. But I could not cry. I have always hated crying in front of strangers. Since the stroke, I learned that crying in front of medical professionals elicits a string of dispassionate questions “Do you get sad a lot?” “Were you as emotional before the stroke?” Basically trying to assess if I need anti-depressants. I decided early on that I had to make sure to never be prescribed anti-depressants because I didn’t need to feel more detached from my emotions. So no crying.
The black splotch sat there mocking me. Taunting me, “See? You can fool people on the street, your family and friends but there’s no fooling me. You’re branded brain damaged” Irrevocable proof. The stroke wasn’t a bad dream. I’m not a superhero. There is no miracle to my recovery.
A year after the stroke, I know I don’t have to fool people. No more games, no more playing Old Anna. In fact, there’s no such thing as Old Anna. There’s only Anna. I’m not a walking corpse anymore. I’m not a living reminder of what was. Sometimes I wish everyone could experience what I have experienced this past year because it’s so galvanizing. Plus, on a selfish level, if more twenty-something’s had strokes, more of my peers would be able to relate to me and I wouldn’t be so lonely. I wouldn’t be the freak or cautionary tale anymore.
I'm whole now. I sing along to the radio as I drive. My speech is clearer and spontaneous. No more belaboring syllables. No more delay between what I think and say. I have less distinct feeling on my left side than my right. But I have feeling. That's something. So, either I am incredibly lucky, or have a big purpose in this world. Of course, the egomaniac in me hopes that I have some great purpose. But it doesn’t have to be curing cancer levels of greatness. It would be nifty if my reason for existing is to love someone well and be a great mother.
I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes, a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
Same old song
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do
Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Now, Don't hang on
Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away
And all your money won't another minute buy
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind*
*Dust in the Wind by Kerry Livgren
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