My Waterloo

It doesn't matter how much time has passed or how good a day I've had, I will always cry when I talk about my stroke and I will always feel like an idiot. I started out fine talking to my physical therapist last night. She even prefaced her questions, "If it's okay to ask..." I was all blase saying how it happened six years ago.

I was fine when I talked about how I was found on the bathroom floor already paralyzed and barely able to speak. I can easily explain why I had my stroke: heart hole, blood clot from flying to Ireland, bing bang boom, stroke. I can also see the flip side. If I hadn't had the hole in my heart, I would have died in my bed from a pulmonary embolism. If I had to choose drowning on my own blood or stroke, I'd choose stroke.

Then I said that I was terrified. I have never told any non-family member about how scared I was. The moment I said it, the remembered feeling washed over me. The hopelessness, the fear, and how my entire life collapsed into focusing on the minute to minute. I was fine talking about it, just a bit rattled and had to take a deep breath to go on.

Then I got onto talking about how awesome my family was. That is when I lost it. The reason why I don't want to ever forget my stroke is that I never want to forget the love and support my family gave me. Maybe talking about that aspect is extra upsetting because this past year my family was amazing and awesome with my grandmother. I lived, she died.