Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry by Julia Fox Garrison Read Free Book Online Page A

is my arm? I lost my arm!” As though it had walked out and had gone down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee without you.
9. BEING VELCROED INTO PLACE. The therapist built a special tray for the wheelchair that your arm can be Velcroed onto. This prevents your arm from falling into the spokes of the wheelchair and getting tangled up in the works, or jamming into doorways during tight entries. Both problems have arisen repeatedly.
8. HAVING TO BE MOVED TO AND FROM the portable toilet chair by total strangers who have to hold you as you defecate. It’s amazing how much autonomy is based on being able to go to the bathroom on your own. Back to potty training at age thirty-seven!
7. REGULARLY HAVING TO REQUEST that a pair of total strangers be summoned to move you to and from the toilet. You are a two-person job.
6. HAVING YOUR ASS WIPED BY SOMEONE ELSE. When you made your list of New Year’s resolutions last December, being able to handle personal cleansing tasks you thought you had mastered at age three was definitely not what you envisioned on your list of things to be accomplished. Yet it has, amazingly, become a major life goal, almost as important as the goal of being able to flip the bird to certain members of the medical establishment.
5. SLIDING OFF A CHAIR WITHOUT MEANING TO when your center of gravity shifts. Your flesh has become Jell-O.
4. HITTING THE WALL with the back of your head before you land in a heap on the floor.
3. MAKING A SOUND UPON IMPACT that makes someone else run in from another room.
2. BEING REQUIRED TO WEAR A LEG-FOOT SPLINT, as well as a hand-arm splint, and a wedge to keep your shoulder in its socket.
    And the number one post-stroke indignity is… (Drum roll)
1. LISTENING TO PEOPLE SPEAK ABOUT YOU as though you are not in the room.

Case in Point
    TWO MORE WHITE COATS, talking to a blue jumper. One of the white coats is clutching that ubiquitous clipboard. The three of them are about eight feet away from you, but it feels like a mile and a half.
    “How is she doing?”
    “Well, to tell you the truth…”
    “What?”
    “It’s going to be tricky.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “She’s lost a lot of real estate. She’s always going to be…” ( Inaudible ) “Yeah, but it’s more than that.” “More?” “She’s in serious denial.” “Get a psych consult.”

Cry Me a River
    DR. BLEAK, YOUR ASSIGNED PHYSIATRIST, continuously reinforces the idea that you’re in denial. He hasn’t seen you crying yet, so that’s his proof. No crying equals you’re in denial.
    “You know,” he says, “it would really help you in your recovery if you stopped blocking the facts and accepted the reality of what has happened to you. Please consider attending the stroke support group here on this floor to help you accept your condition.”
    Marie, a close friend of yours from work, visits you regularly. She too is concerned that you’re not aware of what has happened. “Julia, I can’t help noticing that you’re always joking and laughing. It’s okay to cry. You can cry to me. It’d be good for you.”
    But you know full well what has happened, at least, you know as much as anyone else does. You had a stroke. The effects are severe. Beyond that you choose simply to pose questions rather than make statements. They’re scary, but if you were in denial you wouldn’t be able to pose them at all.
    Do you truly have a life-altering incurable disease like cerebral vasculitis? Will the vessels in your head start to bleed spontaneously someday? Will you have another stroke? Will you die soon? Will you be able to return home, raise your child, have any independence? Will your husband become a caregiver and feel stuck in the marriage? Will your arm ever work well enough to pick your little boy up or bear-hug your husband again? Will you ever work again? Are you done being a mother?
    There are so many things you could be terrified of if you choose to. You are already physically crippled. You can’t