CarolR

Thank you, Heather. You are always an inspiration.

Some Brief Thoughts on the Second Anniversary of My Stroke Two years ago today, while going through security at SeaTac airport, I had a stroke – a brain bleed that in the majority of cases is not survivable. My left side was paralyzed and I remained in hospitals in the Seattle area for a month. I had to relearn how to walk, talk, chew, swallow, and do most of the things that make us normal. In the past two years I have worked hard, given up, cried, laughed, been angry, been grateful, learned (or learned to use) new swear words, and some days, just stayed in bed. I walk slowly and awkwardly, but I walk. My left hand doesn’t function fully, but I am figuring out new ways to do things. Overall I am grateful, but I expect the sadness and anger will never completely go away. Today we finalized a three week trip to Argentina and Chile, cruising around Cape Horn. We are not doing it the way we would have in the past, but we are going to our sixth continent! Life is good!

Wow! Good for you. Congratulations!

Hi Carol, ok maybe you can claim to be half-Canadian; but you know you'd never get away with claiming to be an Islander. The term "from away" is used here when speaking of anyone not born on the Island. If you're born here, and your family moves away permanently when you're just a few months old, you're still an Islander forever. If you were born elsewhere, but your family moved here permanently when you're still a baby, you're "from away" forever. We're a strange lot, yes? Hi Gary, if you come back to the site for a visit. Linbit, Ahh, so my gram and dad were "Islanders forever" and when I was just a kid with them I was accepted on their coattails. Now I guess I would be "from away" though I think I am related to half the island and my husband, the other (Acadian) half. A strange, but wonderful, lot, yes. And from one of my favorite places on earth. Best wishes. Carol

I just came across a quote I like in a book I'm currently reading: "A happy man has no past, while an unhappy man has nothing else." The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan.

What a wonderful, happy picture! You deserve a round of applause. So glad to hear of your great progress.

Though I am from NH, USA, my father was from Fortune, Prince Edward Island and my other grandmother was from Lower Quebec, in the townships near Sherbrooke. So perhaps I can claim to be half Canadian! Many of my childhood summers were spent on "The Island" with the many relatives there.

I Can Read! Reading has always been a huge part of my life. I read for relaxation, entertainment, knowledge or escape. Books have taken me to faraway places or distant times or just explored ideas I would not have otherwise considered. I was the kid under the covers with a book and a flashlight. School reading lists weren’t used just to choose a book from, but were to be completed. I read product labels, medication inserts, and the fine print on travel documents. A life without reading material would be small and desolate. After my stroke, when I suddenly found reading anything at all to be a challenge, I felt lost and locked out. I grew up in a large family on a farm in rural New Hampshire. Playmates were my brothers and the kids from a neighboring farm; if we took a shortcut through the woods, their farm was only a mile away. I knew a few other kids from weekly Sunday School, but that was about the extent of my social interactions. My mother read to us every night, from books such as “Tom Sawyer” or “Robinson Crusoe.” I was the only girl at that time, and “Little Women” was the only “girls” book I remember her reading. As it turned out, I much preferred the “boys” books anyway. My mother thought that TV was a corrupting influence, so we never had one. I was pretty happy with my life here, and didn’t much look forward to spending time in this thing called school. I was terrified by the thought of a huge (to me) building crammed full of other kids, most of them bigger than me. School was also a bit intimidating because my older brother had struggled with what would now be defined as learning disabilities, and that had created tension in the family. But at age six, first grade was inevitable. The hook my mother used was that I would learn to read! Though she had been a teacher before her marriage, I guess she was too busy with all those kids and farm wife things to teach us to read. So I was somewhat eager to get started. There is a picture of me all ready to get on the bus that first day, wearing a dress with a few too many ruffles and holding a huge bouquet of flowers for the teacher. I guess the flowers were meant to help the teacher like me better, but it never seemed to work. The bigger boys on the bus made fun of me, for the flowers and because my brother was a “r****d.” But I went ahead because I was going to learn to read! I don’t remember much about the day other than waiting for the reading part to begin. It never did. I remember getting home and crying in anger that I had spent a whole day in school and hadn’t learned to read anything! Four days after my stroke, I was transferred to a rehab hospital for three weeks. The first thing I remember trying to read were some of the many messages on my smartphone. It was hard, and I usually ended up having my husband or daughter read them to me. The words wouldn’t hold still, but I could blame that on the phone moving about and on the words being small. I could read the greeting cards, at least enough to know who they were from. It was hard to read the printed instruction sheets from therapy, but I blamed that on just being tired from all the PT and OT. Not until I went home did I try to pick up a book. My next book club meeting was less than a month away; I had missed the last two and was determined to make it this time, even in my walker or wheelchair. The selection was by an author I do not care for. (I’ll omit her name in case she is your favorite author or your third cousin once removed or something.) I had started a couple of her books years earlier, but had never finished one. There are so many good books out there I no longer waste my time on those I don’t enjoy. So I plugged away at this book, which, by the way, never got better and even the woman who chose it agreed was terrible. After working hard for three days, I was all the way up to page 30! The words on the page fell into holes and I had to visually pull them out. Then there would be a blank spot without words, just indecipherable jumbles. Around the periphery, colored diagonal lines, like lightening, would bounce around. The left side of the page was worse than the right. As I labored away, my reading improved slightly and I managed to finish the damned thing before we met. I was very proud, especially when I discovered that a couple women had given up on it. After a while I started another book that someone told me I should read because it was funny and it might cheer me up. It wasn’t and it didn’t, but at least it was short. For the next months, I managed to finish the book club selections, but not much more. I could no longer claim to be a fast reader, but I was improving. Just recently I was struck by something: Our next book club meeting is a couple weeks away, and I have not only finished BOTH selections, I have finished two other books as well and working on another! I may even read fast enough to borrow library books again. I feel like shouting from the hilltop “I can read again! Did you hear that? I can READ again.”

Thank you for this blog - great job! Since our strokes were about the same time, it is interesting to compare notes. (I still owe you a message - sorry.) Interesting to hear about the bicycle riding; I gave it a try but was very wobbly and for some reason my brain would not allow me to make a left turn. It was very weird and obviously limited progress. Heather and others are so right about the fatigue issues and sensory overload. If we don't pay attention, we pay the price. Sorry to hear that your headaches continue. We are also contemplating a flight to visit our daughter, but as you say the whole idea of the noisy plane, crowds, and hassle of the security lines has kept us from booking anything yet. I would love to hear how others have managed. Please keep blogging! Carol

I love this post! I love the way you connect the natural world to our changed but hopeful lives. I will think of your images as I watch the swallows here swoop low over the lake in search of mayflies. Thank you for sharing.

Thank you for another lovely, poetic post. You have a wonderful way of using imagery. I can almost feel my feet dancing on uncut grass and smell the earthiness outside. Please keep posting.

This is a most interesting post. Thank you for sharing your experience and knowledge with us.

What a powerful, poetic post. You have said so much, and brought out such strong emotions in a few short lines. It is lovely. Carol

Yesterday I went to the mall. This is the first such trip for us since I had the stroke last summer. We live one and a half hours from the closest mall and that is a good thing until we actually need something at the mall. It was a rainy day, I wanted to avoid some less than exciting chores at home, and I needed to try to find some orthotics for a new pair of very sensible post-stroke shoes. So off we went. The first debate was the route to be taken. New Hampshire does not have good east-west roads, so though we could “get theya from heeya” there was no ideal route. I wasn’t driving, so did not win the debate. Less than a mile from home, Ed decided to try a shortcut that involves a few miles of Class VI roads. This actually worked out fine, and I later decided that I prefer these roads to the crazy busyness of the more populated part of our state. Shortly after we left home I remembered that I had left my coffee mug sitting on the kitchen counter. I did not wish to re-navigate those roads, so I started to fixate on where to find the next Dunkin Donuts. I must confess that now my suggested route just happened to go right by a DD’s. Before going to the mall, we were planning to stop at my favorite LL Bean outlet store. To me, this is vastly preferable to any mall. Ed was signaling to pull into the parking lot, when we saw - a furniture store! I checked my trusty smartphone and discovered that it had not moved but was “permanently closed.” Drat. On to the mall. The parking lots did not seem busy, a good sign. We entered on the second floor of Macy’s and since we needed to go downstairs, sought out the escalator. ESCALATOR! Not just stairs but stairs that move! I have (sort of) mastered stairs but I am accustomed to those that stay in place. After watching a few glide by, Ed says helpfully “take your time.” I am sorting out “weak foot down, good foot up” but determined that stepping down here was a job for the stronger foot. So I decided to count three stairs and step on. Right foot down and quickly I pick up the left foot as high as I can to keep it out of trouble. Success! Disembarkation was uneventful. I need a dress for a wedding this summer so we poked around in that department. Ed was incredibly patient and tried to be helpful despite his affinity for anything horribly bright and garish. He carried around the few selections to be tried on. There was a “husband chair” outside the dressing room area, and I assumed he would sit and wait there until I needed his opinion. I tried on the dress he liked best, an easy pull-on affair, and went out for his approval but he was gone. Then it came time to get the dress off with my one fully functional arm. I thought I was all set until I figured out that I had managed to get the lining over my head and the rest of the dress was wrapped tightly in a manner I could not identify. I twisted and turned but felt like Winnie the Pooh after he ate too much honey. I was stuck. Panic started to set in. What if I have another stroke and am found like this in a dressing room at Macy’s? Deep breaths. I can do this. Since I am here to tell about it, I did manage to escape. When I found Ed I announced that I was never ever again going into a dressing room again. It was time for lunch, but when we headed to the food court and our favorite sandwich place we found it had also been replaced. Ed found a place to sit and relax and told me to “just find something.” It seems that I chose the slowest sandwich-maker of all time. When I finally returned to our table I didn’t even have the energy to complain about his choice of seats next to the children’s play area and beneath a giant TV. The sandwiches were surprisingly good, and then off I toddled to finish the errands. In another shop I found a blouse I liked and got in line at the register. Three of us were waiting to pay as the lone clerk seemed to be involved in a deeply personal phone conversation. That ended and the next customer accepted her offer to apply for instant store credit. It would only “take a minute.” Right. That completed, and now with two more people in line, the personal phone call was resumed. That was it for me. I hung my blouse on the closest rack with the intent to stomp out of the store in a huff. Wrong again. I learned that the post-stroke me is not capable of either a stomp or an effective huff. Completely exhausted, we left for home, in commuter traffic of course. I told Ed that I didn’t have the energy to care what route he chose. I had a dress that I would wear only when I have an assistant available, and a comfy new orthotic in my not-so-cute shoes. And a blouse I didn’t buy because of my high and mighty principles. Ed fixed dinner, I had a sip of wine and the rest is oblivion. So cheers to an overall successful day and to an extraordinary husband.

Wow! I have never heard of that - sounds interesting. I look forward to future reports. Do you need to do anything to adjust the PH? One year we tried growing potatoes in a "tire tower." It was a dismal failure and ugly as heck.

Sue and Julie, thank you for your kind words. I was a little skeptical about posting a poem here.

So glad to "see" you smiling! Your positive attitude is such an inspiration! Very best wishes for your continued happiness.

In Recognition of National Poetry Month, this entry is in the form of a poem. csr 4-11-15 The Day I Didn’t Die On the day I didn’t die the clouds slipped surely down her side. Sheltered from our humble sight were ice-caped shoulders, snowy bright. I’d need to go on bended knee were I to praise her majesty to that she earned. Enough to know that she was there on the day I broke. We had honored her before, another year, near the ground around her skirts, when it was clear all to the top. We framed her well, based in blooms, encased in blue – mighty, more than storms to come or ever were. But that was another day and not the day I broke. Something happened wrong that day. Without warning, without pain, something broke within my brain, seeped and spread and overflowed to where it wasn’t meant to go. And that changed all, The day I broke. It was a smoky day not far away. The woods were burning, seeping, spreading, overflowing to the lands around. Her majesty above the clouds and smoke, reigning, shrouded there, the day I broke. I didn’t know I could have died. I didn’t know I should have cried. I didn’t know that all would change and make familiar into strange. I left for home; she reigned as might, misty floor and icy height, soon to be so far away, waiting for a shroudless day when she could flaunt her glory again, unbroken. I hear, unspoken, feel the touch, ungiven, Travel well my friend. It’s not good-bye. May you remember how to cry and cherish the day you didn’t die.

I just read your blog through for the second time. Thank you for the thought-provoking and nicely-written message. Yes, I do think that society in general tends to be less inclusive when it comes to single people. Your message is a reminder to include our single friends and neighbors in our lives. There is at least a 50/50 chance that we will be there ourselves someday. My only experience with being single was after a divorce many years ago, when I suddenly lost most of my coupled friends. Do you think that sometimes married friends see a single woman especially as something of a threat? It also seems that the thought of losing our partner is something we avoid thinking too much about because it is so difficult to contemplate. I admire you for putting yourself out there with your church and volunteer work, and for your continued work on these forums. When you are able to turn your "workplace" back into your own home, your place for comfort and solace, do you think that will help? Find something new that you just love and arrange a room around it. Splurge by buying something for the home that just makes you smile. I bet that is what Ray would have wanted you to do.

Well, Fred, you did get me wondering, too. Apparently there is no clear history but many theories. One theory goes back to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales in 1392. Another is that when a new calendar was implemented in 1582, New Years Day was changed to January 1 from April 1 where it had been celebrated by many ancient cultures.This change was thought by some to be foolish. So apparently it has been around in some form for quite some time. Here is a link to one brief discussion: http://time.com/4276140/april-fools-day-history/ My favorite April 1st news story this year was about milking chickens; even the eggs laid every morning contained milk. The rest of the process was not fully explained. So thank you for the chuckles, and for the chance to learn something new.

Caveat: This is copied from a Word document that is my journal entry for the day of my stroke. It is rather long. Day 1 – Stroke at Seatac It has been over seven months since I had the stroke that changed our lives forever. I have intended to keep a journal of some sort but have not been good about doing so. It is a point of pride (or good luck) for me that I retained awareness of the day, so I don’t want to now lose it. As time goes by I know that I will find it harder and harder to recall the bits and pieces, so since I can’t start any sooner than now, here goes. Ed and I were up early on Sunday morning, August 23, 2015, as we were checking out of our rental unit in Seattle and my sister and brother-in-law were driving us to the airport. We all wanted to get there before the traffic got too heavy as driving in the city can be a bit challenging. It had been a wonderful three days of catching up with my younger sister, Cindy, and some of her family. We met our adorable grand-nephew, Luc, who was turning one the next day. We had explored Cindy’s Phinney Ridge neighborhood, and the neighborhood of Ballard where my niece and her family live. The weather was lovely; we made a local coffee shop “ours” and explored a variety of dining options. The airport was busy when we arrived, and the quick hugs with Cindy and Dave were hard as we didn’t know when we would get together again. I was in tears as they drove off and we entered the chaos of the Alaskan Air section of Seatac. But I was also very excited as we were flying to Missoula, Montana to see our daughter, Diana, and spend some time hiking and exploring in Glacier National Park. The night before I had printed our boarding passes and paid for our two checked bags, but still had to go to a kiosk to print our luggage tags, a procedure I was not entirely familiar with. We got through that and headed for the lines at security, a process that we don’t especially enjoy. Fortunately, a couple of years ago we had purchased TSA Pre-Check so we could go through the short line and not need to take off our shoes or remove computers and liquids from our carry-ons. We looked forward to getting through, finding our gate and relaxing with some hot coffee. I used to love the flying part of travel but have recently found it to be unnecessarily stressful. It seems like we have had more than our share of questions and body searches; our kids joke that we must be a suspicious-looking old pair. Now I will generally take a Xanax before going to the airport, but this was to be such a short flight I skipped it. And I didn’t want to be dopey when we saw our daughter! As I was putting my two small carry-ons on the belt to be scanned, I had a strange sensation in my left hand. It was feeling weak and heavy. I said to Ed “my hand is going all funky” and watched as my bags went through the scanner with no questions. Then my left foot got the same odd feeling and I thought STROKE! but couldn’t bring myself to say the word. I told Ed that this was a medical problem and we had to get help. He pointed out that our bags had gone through and we were holding up the line. So I walked through the metal detector, or tried to. When I bumped into the left side of the machine, the TSA man said “Uh, ma’am, you can’t do that.” I suspect he thought that at 8:00 in the morning I was just a drunk old lady. So I had to walk through again, with much concentration. I thought I did fine but Ed now noticed that I was dragging my left foot and my knee was giving out. For the first time ever, I think, he had managed not to forget something that would trigger the metal-detector. We made it through and he immediately guided me to a folding chair. He interrupted another TSA man and told him he thought his wife was having a stroke. TSA man immediately called his supervisor who quickly approached me with the words “so you think you’re having a heart attack?” I replied “no, stroke.” There, we had both said it. Something big, bad and ugly was out there. Sometime during this process I had directed Ed to take two aspirin from my bag, as I had read that this is what you do when you think you are having a heart attack or stroke. He told me to chew the aspirin because they were coated. But I found I couldn’t swallow. Somebody brought water in a paper cone but I still couldn’t swallow. It didn’t go at all well, which in hindsight was a good thing since the stroke turned out to be a hemorrhage. Water and pieces of aspirin went all over and I noticed that my speech was slurring. Very soon another man arrived, a TSA employee who was introduced as a former coast guard medic. I was asked lots of questions and I couldn’t hold my arm up when I was asked to do so. Somebody made a remark about my drooping face. More people came and a privacy screen was set up around me. A woman knelt right in front of me and asked questions that I could answer and asked me to do things that I mostly could not. Ed later said that my speech was quite slurred but that I could be understood. Two more men came with a stretcher and asked more questions, many of the same ones over again. What’s your name? Where are you? Where were you going? Where are you from? What day is it? And so on. I was on the stretcher, being carried through the busy airport. I had kept my eyes shut, but opened them when I heard some harsh words being spoken nearby. Our police escort spoke to an oblivious man whose little boy was playing directly in our path. I was in the ambulance; Ed was in a side seat with all our carry-ons. Our checked bags were headed to Missoula. One medic was with me. There was a discussion about which hospital to head to, and at some point our destination was changed from Harborview to Valley. I heard a siren and thought, oh no! This is going to hold us up. When I realized that it was us I was at first embarrassed for making a scene. Then I felt relief that I was getting help. I didn’t know enough yet to be as frightened as I should have been. Eight minutes from the airport to the ER! The ambulance people were very proud of this time. I recall being moved again, ending up in the CT machine. Then I was moved again to a bed in the ER. I was mostly keeping my eyes shut as the lights were bothersome. And I think I was trying to block some of it out of my consciousness. I heard Ed talking with someone just outside of full hearing. I became annoyed that I wasn’t included in the conversation, so said, I think politely, “Would someone please tell me what is going on.” Ed and the very pretty, young, red-haired ER doctor both came to my side. Her explanation was to me somewhat blurred, but I was told that I had a stroke, a hemorrhage, and that she was consulting with the neurologist and neurosurgeon who had been waiting for my arrival. Right now there was nothing more they could do except watch and wait. The injection they had prepared, later learned to be tPA, could not be given for this type of stroke. During this time there was a lot of activity with various people hooking me up to various machines. The doctor asked if there was someone we could call. I recall telling Ed to make sure to call Diana so she wouldn’t be waiting at the airport, but I didn’t really want to bother my sister again. The pretty, young doctor said to Ed, “If there is anyone to call, call them now.” I heard her say “This is no small thing.” Ed told me later that she had tears in her eyes and said again that there was nothing to do but wait. It was determined that the neurosurgeon wasn’t needed, so he left. Someone told us that it was a good thing he wasn’t needed. I was getting a headache and was bothered by the bright lights and noise and activity, so I pretty much kept my eyes closed and tried to be still. People kept asking me questions and as I recall I was always able to answer. If Ed was asked a question that I thought should have been directed to me, I would respond, sometimes just to let people know that I was there and could speak for myself. Until the stroke, I had always been blessed with excellent health. My only hospitalizations had been an overnight or two for childbirth, and those were many years earlier. I had always said that that was a good thing as I imagined I would be a terrible patient. What I learned is that when sick enough I am able to be tolerant of all these unfamiliar happenings. I made an effort to be polite and compliant. That is probably because I didn’t know enough to be as scared as I should have been. I was at a major hospital in a major city, and getting lots of attention, so I knew it would all be fixed soon and I’d make it to Montana a day or so late. Looking back now, I can’t imagine that level of ignorance. Among the things I didn’t know was that more than half the people with the type of stroke I had do not survive the early days, and that half of those survivors are profoundly disabled. It never hit me until many days later, after being discharged to residential rehab, that our lives would never be the same. I didn’t know that it would take months to even walk again, or how much hard work would be required to manage a few awkward steps. I didn’t even really know that at this point my left side was completely paralyzed. I could think and speak and I was never unconscious and I held to that fiercely. Sometime later I was moved around again, transferring to a room in the critical care unit upstairs. Lots of tubes and equipment and people came with me. I was resettled into a more comfortable bed, but I still kept my eyes shut most of the time even though I was awake. Soon after arriving upstairs I felt a gentle touch and heard the gentle words that could have belonged to an angel. The voice said “Hello. I’m Mary (I’ll call her Mary.) I am your nurse.” I opened my eyes to see not a white winged image but a beautiful black woman in navy blue scrubs. This sounds like a strange thing to say now, but I felt calm and secure and even loved in her care. She was with me for the rest of the day and into the evening; I think I must have been her only patient. She shared her story about coming to this country from Ethiopia where her father had been murdered for being on the wrong side during some of their political upheavals. She was very proud of the fact that he had arranged for all four daughters to leave the country first. I told her that the only time I had been to Ethiopia was to change planes in Addis Ababa. She said, oh, we lived right near the airport. Well, we hadn’t had a great experience there, but I wanted to say something positive. Fortunately I remembered seeing all the beautiful women in beautifully colored, flowing clothing so told her that. I now began to drift in and out, probably helped by the IV dilaudid that I was given for the escalating headaches. Cindy arrived and, being my sister, gently joked about my drooping face and botox. (Usually we joked about drooping boobs so this was just another thread for us.) All sorts of people came and went, poking here and there, asking me questions and trying to have me do things that I couldn’t, such as lift a leg or arm. One time I was able to move my leg a little, and they found that very exciting. Ed settled into the recliner chair by my bed where he pretty much remained day and night for the next 72 hours. Diana arrived late that afternoon, having driven from Missoula, through some of the worst smoke and debris from the forest fires all around the area. She delivered the rest of our luggage that had traveled to Montana without us and said that we wouldn’t have wanted to be in Missoula anyway because of the very smoky air. Despite my being pretty groggy by this time, it was beyond wonderful to have her there with us! And of course she had called her brothers and taken care of other logistics such as cancelling the rental car and our reservations in Glacier. During this day I had IV drips going, I think, all the time. Eventually, I had to pee. I told Mary and she said she would get a bedpan. I informed her that I couldn’t possibly use a bedpan, due to what my daughter terms “performance anxiety.” I asked if I could please, with help, get to the bathroom. My lovely angel of a nurse now turned into a stern authoritarian. I was informed that the only other options were catheter or diaper, so quickly agreed to the bedpan. I swear Mary smirked just a little. This of course necessitated the help of more than one person. Great – a bigger audience! So I perch on the bedpan and of course nothing happens. Though I am a small person, I could feel myself “bottoming out” so to speak and knew the results would be, um, unpleasant. [Men here – you don’t know how much easier you have it sometimes.] So stage fright won this round but I still had to pee. About 37 gallons more of IV fluid and I had to ask for the cursed thing again. Someone in the audience remarked “Wow, you really did have to go!” I bit my tongue and swear that I saw Mary looking just a bit too triumphant. Evening came, Cindy had left for home. Ed and Diana settled into the two chairs in the room. Mary said goodbye and that she was sorry she couldn’t be back tomorrow but she had to report for jury duty. Other nurses came and went and they were fine, but I missed Mary. The relative darkness felt wonderful and I think I slept more than I was awake that night. The machinery blinked and beeped and Ed snored. Diana tried to block it all out but I don’t think she slept much all night.

I know your climate in Texas is quite different than here in the frosty north, and what grows would be different, but I can think of a few types of trees that are always so late to leaf out that every year I forget and worry they are dead. One is a black walnut, so I wonder if this might apply to other nut trees as well. Another is a locust, the specific variety of which I have forgotten. This also applies to the Rose of Sharon, though that is really just a large shrub. So I am glad that you are giving your tree a chance! If it helps you feel better, here in northern New England nothing is turning green yet; I am just glad the snow is (mostly) gone.

Another great blog! Have I said too many times that I love your writing style? You can say so much with a little story about trash day. And you have offered us yet another vision of you running about in your pajamas! Please keep writing; perhaps you can start a collection titled "The Pajama Files."

Normal – To Be or Not to Be When I first entered the outpatient rehab hospital after my stroke, during the initial interview process, I was asked about what my goals were for rehab. I recall saying first that I wanted to walk again, and then adding that I’d like my left arm to work. My daughter was there with me, and she later reminded me that the first thing I said was simply “to be normal.” Nearly seven months later, this is a concept with which I still struggle. I have heard it often, but resist the term “new normal.” There is a t-shirt declaring “Normal is Boring.” Though I understand the sentiment, I am still hoping to be just plain old normal. Normal is sometimes said to be doing that which everyone else does; yet how does that relate to slavery or the holocaust for example? Does normal mean free from discomfort? Aren’t pain, guilt, sadness, anxiety, doubt, often normal in terms of everyday life? And at what point do such adaptations become a new normal? The term “new normal” is applied to slower economic growth, altered financial circumstances, climate change or the current political environment - and to life after stroke. Why do I still just want to be normal, despite the negative connotations? Why am I reluctant to accept being a “new me” living a “new normal?” I have always been cursed/blessed with exceptionally light blonde hair. As a child, people would frequently comment on it. A common remark was “Now there’s a real towhead” which of course I heard as “toe-head” and didn’t like it at all. I can remember trying to stuff my hair under a hat so I could be left alone. I was asked if I was albino or why I wore white tights in the summer. Some people would say things such as “Don’t you get too proud because when you get older it’ll turn brown and you’ll look like everyone else.” I couldn’t wait for my head to no longer look like a toe and just be normal! But my hair never darkened very much, and though I remember looking at packages of brown hair dye, I eventually accepted being a little different and learned I was a towhead and not a toe-head. These days, as I age, I can now tell people that I am simply “going blonder!” I guess I could say that I accepted being different while still being normal. To accept a “new normal” feels somewhat like giving up on my old plain normal life. It was a life I loved and had worked hard to obtain – early retirement, a small but beautiful new home, frequent travels, contributing to my community, caring for a grandchild. But however I label it, life has changed. Travels these days consist primarily of trips three times per week, 45 minutes each way, to therapy appointments. My volunteer work has been limited to a few things I can do from home. Though I refuse to accept this as being permanent, for now this is the way it is. Okay, and this hurts me to say - I have found a new normal. Ouch. But as I sit here typing this, challenged by trying to get the left fingers to actually find the desired keys now and then, I am able to look out the window at the lake which is now nearly free of ice. Any day now the loons will return. There are crocuses breaking through the ground; the chickadees are singing their spring song and the male goldfinches are beginning to turn yellow. Three adult bald eagles have been spotted nearby. Trout season opens in a few weeks and the lake will again come to life. This summer our second grandchild will be born. We will visit our daughter in Montana and at least go for short walks in nearby Glacier National Park. This is what I love, what sustains me and makes me me. It is why I don’t want to find a “new me.” I don’t want to now be “that lady who had a stroke.” I just want to be the same old Carol with the ridiculously blonde hair, who can spend hours watching the birds and the lake. And who will sometimes still cry and swear and say something inappropriate and feel sorry for herself. And who will most likely, at least once this summer, manage to tip over the kayak. I will be in the kayak, though, wearing a life jacket and staying in shallow water. That will be a new normal. For now.