I wrote this when I was hosted at Medium, because when I moved there I lost the page on which I’d posted my stroke story…but I thought I’d post it here again anyway. Enjoy!
Content Note: Stroke and Stroke Recovery, Arteriovenous Malformation (AVM), Unexpected Medical Problems/Surgery/Hospitalization/Disability, Brain Surgery, Privilege
Image Description: Cartoon of a woman on the phone saying, “I got kicked out of the hospital today…apparently “Stroke Patients Here” didn’t mean what I thought it did!”
I realized two things last week:
- The page that had my story on it didn’t travel over from from my WordPress blog when I moved to Medium.
- May 29th came and went, again.
So as much as I don’t like talking about myself, I figured that I’d better put something up here on Medium about who I am and how I came to be here.
The story actually starts on November 7, 1999, when I had a small hemorrhagic stroke in the middle of a job interview in Parksville, British Columbia. I didn’t realize at the time that I was having a stroke; I thought that the sudden, intense headache was due to a migraine. I wouldn’t learn until that night, when I’d gone to the hospital because my neck was hurting and I was concerned that I had meningitis, that there was blood in my cerebrospinal fluid.
That’s bad, apparently. Bad enough that the hospital called my father in Ontario and suggested that he fly out. By the time he got there the next day, I was in a hospital in Victoria, and I’d been diagnosed with an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) in my brain that had started to leak.
AVMs, according to the National Institute of Mental Health are “abnormal, snarled tangles of blood vessels that cause multiple irregular connections between the arteries and veins.” AVMs can occur anywhere in the body, but brain AVMs are particularly problematic; they “damage the brain and spinal cord by reducing the amount of oxygen reaching neurological tissues, bleeding into surrounding tissue (hemorrhage) that can cause stroke or brain damage.”
My AVM had been with me since birth, but no one had any idea it was there until it announced itself when I was 22; because I’d not had a reason to have any imaging on my head done until it bled, no one had seen it. It would need to be treated, which could be done with radiation, embolization (inserting a special glue into the AVM via a catheter through the arterial network), or craniotomy (open brain surgery), depending on the AVM’s size and position. I could get treatment in Vancouver or Toronto. I chose to go back to Ontario to be treated at the AVM Clinic at Toronto Western Hospital. After looking at my films, the surgical team determined that with a 4% (non-cumulative) chance of bleeding each year, my brain AVM would almost certainly bleed again, and might cause damage next time. Their recommendation was to try and reduce its size with an embolization, and to then remove it via craniotomy.
Which brings us to May 29, 2000. Seventeen years ago.
I remember the night after the embolization surgery, but the days after the craniotomy are fuzzy. I’ve captured some of my first memories in Finger Spelling.
I remember the seizure that accompanied the stroke, a couple of days after the craniotomy, but I don’t remember a moment where I woke up and thought, “I can’t move my left side.” It was more a gradual realization that this heaviness was real and not going away — the doctors were evaluating my level of paralysis, and physiotherapists were coming in and tossing my arm and leg around, and sometimes people would adjust my arm because I’d moved and it was pulling on my shoulder because it had stayed where it was…
I needed help to sit up in bed, and help to lie down.
I needed help to get dressed and undressed.
Walking was out of the question. While the team tried to stabilize my seizures with IV medications, I was bedridden; the few times nurses got me up to sit in a chair by the window, I was exhausted within minutes.
Because I was now forced to use my non-dominant arm and hand, everything I did was painfully slow and inelegant: brushing my hair and teeth, eating, writing (when it was vital for me to do it).
I was in the hospital five weeks, and then I went to an inpatient stroke rehabilitation hospital. The transfer there was so stressful that I spent most of the first day vomiting. I yelled at my night nurse to leave me alone, because I was never going to walk again. I don’t remember that; I was told later.
Seventeen Years Later
I used to remember November 7 and May 29 every year, but now they tend to slip by me, unnoticed. They’re two more days where I do what I do: go to work, feed my cats, work on my writing, watch Colbert (taped; I’m trying to go to bed earlier), fool around on Facebook…
Some people call the day they had their stroke their “re-birthday” but that’s never made much sense to me. Nothing about me died to be reborn the day I had my stroke except some brain cells. I guess in that way I’ve kind of rejected the recovery movement as well, because I see so many people waiting until they’re “better” to live again, instead of constructing a life that they want to live as they’re getting “better”.
Not that there’s nothing wrong with working to make your weak side as functional as possible after a stroke, especially now that we know that the window for regaining function is much bigger than previously thought — after all, I’m still seeing very small gains in my hand over a long-term basis. But imagine if I’d sat around and waited to be sure I’d gained as much as I could in my left hand before learning to do things with my right hand? I would not be:
- Living independently — making my own (albeit simple, but that’s okay — simple meals can be nutritious) meals, doing my own laundry and grocery shopping, taking care of my cats, keeping track of my finances, doing simple housework (I do have someone help me with housework), managing my healthcare
- Working part-time in the community and part-time as a self-employed individual.
- Travelling on my own — as close as Toronto (4 hr bus ride), as far as Mississippi (5 hrs by plane with a stop in DC on the way over and Chicago on the way back) and out to BC and back again by plane. Further with people with me.
- Educating myself — Finishing up my degree in Psychology, completing the Developmental Services Worker diploma on campus at Loyalist College, completing technical writing training by distance from Simon Fraser University
- Advocating for myself and other disabled people as an internationally-known disability activist.
Life happens as recovery happens, so might as well get prepared as soon as possible.
Dealing with Challenges
I still definitely face challenges. I was very lucky in that not long after I felt able to work, I got a great part-time job in my field that I found enjoyable and fulfilling. But I lost the job after few years because of funding concerns. Work has been difficult to find with my disabilities, and always part-time and low-security. I started writing the Girl With the Cane blog during a particularly long stretch of unemployment.
I’m learning that as I approach middle age, I’m not as resilient as I once was. I fell last winter and fractured my kneecap and I’m still experiencing a lot of pain. Several months later, I still can’t walk nearly as much as I’ve been able to in the past, which is very frustrating; not being able to at least walk to and from town and work like I used to feels like a big blow to my independence. I ask for help with transportation much more than I used to. I had a major seizure last September after being seizure-free for a few years, so driving is a few years off even if I could afford a car.
Even after 17 years, asking for (and accepting) help doesn’t come easily, but I work at it.
Canadian and Privileged
Despite challenges, I feel lucky to live in Canada, where my medical treatment and rehabilitation didn’t put my family into major debt and where getting income support and help to pay for my medications as a disabled person who couldn’t work was relatively easy (compared to what I’ve heard it’s like in the US). These systems aren’t perfect and I’ve heard real horror stories, but I’ve been fortunate.
Privileged, even — I’m white, straight, cisgendered, and able to pay my bills, with affordable health care (including dental, medicine and eye exams) with the means to access it. My family is supportive and loving. I’ve only ever felt unsafe a very few times in my life.
I’m very fortunate, and I try to always remember this as I do what I can to make the world better for those that haven’t been as lucky as I have. Some days it doesn’t feel like I can do a whole lot, but sometimes you don’t need to do a whole lot to make a difference in someone’s life. So I do what I can and hope it’s enough.
I’m looking forward to forgetting May 29 next year. 🙂