A random little thing

Okay, so, this was originally a comment response to a post on the Young Stroke Survivors Facebook group. But it turned into a really long comment so I decided to turn it into a blog post. Yay.

°°°

Note that there are many factors in play when it comes to physical and non-physical recovery, such as location of the stroke(s), age, gender, environment, etc.

Personally, I had multiple strokes simultaneously, affecting my cerebellum, occipital lobe, medulla and pons (located in the brainstem), some forebrain, and various deep brain structures. The deeper structures of the cerebellum and occipital lobe had some hemispheric crossover. These strokes primarily affected my left hemisphere, however, the deep structures in my brain (such as the amygdala and thalamus) were also affected, and some of my corpus callosum (the portion of the brain that connects the two hemispheres) took damage, which then led to some crossover hemispheric damage. Basically, both sides of my brain were affected, however my left hemisphere took the most damage (~95+%).

I am currently 3 years, 10 months, 2 weeks and 2 days post strokes. I have hemiparesis, ataxia, ~40-45% vision loss (I’m unable to see out of the right halves of both eyes but can see clearly out of the left halves. This is due to the damage in the occipital lobe.), seizures, mixed aphasia, clinical-type depression, mild bradycardia (low heart rate), extreme tremor, complete loss of function of one of the four primary arteries that feed blood to the brain, etc. It has taken nearly four years to finally be able to schedule a fitting for a wheelchair. But it finally got scheduled for tomorrow! I’m so excited!


However, I am able to walk over three miles (the wheelchair is intended for part-time use only, such as during social outings, shopping, and when I know I will need to carry things), have gone camping, kayaking, trampolining, indoor rock climbing, participated in multiple 5K events (always as the last person to finish, but I finished!), re-learned how to read and English, am constantly improving my memory, handle my own finances and schedule, am a freelance artist and neuroartist, have learned ways to work around my inability to write legibly, attend and have presented at neurology grand rounds at the medical school that I am involved with (not as a student. The strokes occurred while I was in the middle of a degree in a math-intensive field and I have not been able to complete the degree due to the strokes.), have been on an international flight by myself, have flown and traveled within the states by myself, have gone on multi state road trips, and am technically healthier – am definitely happier and more motivated – then I was prior to the strokes.

I might never fully recover my natural walking gait, hand and arm function, vision, memory, a natural level  of spasticity, etc., but I’m okay with that now. I move oddly, need assistance carrying things that require two hands, have decreased interaction with friends prior to the strokes, but am happier – even with the new depression caused by the strokes – and am more confident.

If someone doesn’t fully recover from a stroke, that’s okay. That’s not to say that you shouldn’t try. You should always strive for recovery at the highest possible percentage, and then you should strive to become even stronger. But it’s okay if you move as oddly as I do, and it’s okay if people stare at you when you’re walking around in public, and it’s okay to use a wheelchair, and it’s okay to have lifelong physical and/or non-physical deficits that complicate your everyday life. You survived something that the majority of people it happens to don’t survive. You survived. You’re doing great. ♡

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Chelsea

Chelsea Davidson
7/28/87 – 7/6/17
29 years, 11 months, 3 weeks, 1 day

***

Chelsea, 

I only met you once, however, that was enough to realize how you could impact people – you left an impression on me with the first bright, happy smile you greeted me with. Christy, John and Brendan are devastated, along with other mutual friends; but the impressions and joy you’ve left with people – including those of us who only met you once – are and will be forever remembered. 

Thinking of you, 

– Ellie

-364 days

1 year ago – Monday, May 16 2016

I waited, excited and nervous.

Tomorrow. A burr hole will expose the surface of my brain for the very first time… tomorrow. Less than 24 hours.

I don’t remember what I did that morning, or the days leading up to it. I know that I watched videos of the pending surgery over and over, read and reread clinical studies done on a similar type of DBS (deep brain stimulation) surgery that I would be undergoing.

Dr. Fenoy, the young neurosurgeon who specializes in DBS at the Mischer Neuroscience Institute, had met with me as little as a month and a half prior and I had made up my mind, that day, that I would have this elective surgery done.

“Elective”, because it wouldn’t have been necessary to keep me alive. But that’s exactly how I was looking at it; it would keep me alive. With no idea as to how effective it would be, it would keep me alive, even if it only reduced my tremors by 25%. I would stay alive for that. 

I knew that there would be risks to having the surgery. I could lose memory – fine; I’ve already lost enough from the strokes. Infection could set in after the surgery, and if it were caught early enough the surgery would need to be reversed. Other potential complications – the usual, such as coma or death – were possibilities. But a small possibility. If it were a large possibility, I still would have done it. I didn’t want to live like that anymore.
Dr. Fenoy would target the dentatorubral tract (DRT) in the red nucleus of my thalamus. Used primarily to treat PD (Parkinson’s disease), dystonia and Meige syndromeET (essential tremor), OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and depression – none of which share the area of target that Dr. Fenoy would aim for during my specific surgery.  The FDA-approved areas of target for DBS are the Anterior limb of Internal CapsuleGPi (Globus Pallidus), STN (Subthalamic Nucleus) and VIM (Ventral Intermedius Nucleus).

So, I read everything I could about DBS for essential tremor and PD, the two conditions most similar to mine, and poured over the manufacturer’s website.

Early on I had made the mistake of thinking that my brainstem tremor was caused by my acquired acute cerebellar ataxia, without realizing that I was dealing with two separate disorders that have overlapping symptoms and similarities.

In my non-medically educated mind, I’ve wondered if DBS could be used to assist in management of acquired and hereditary ataxia-related symptoms. 

Where was I? Focus.

Oh, right. Day before surgery.

After a few hours of reading and rereading about my forthcoming surgery, I stumbled clumsily back to the apartment to shave my head.

Yep. Just like that.

My hands shook in uncontrollabe, unusually tiny, quick tremors – something that began happening after the multiple simultaneous infartions (multiple strokes), when I get nervous. And that day, I was pretty damn nervous… with excitement. 

I took Adam’s electric shaver and stood in front of the washroom mirror.

But I couldn’t seem to stop shaking. I grew nervous about knicking my scalp and worried that the surgery would be postponed because of it.

Yeah. Because that made sense…

My scalp was going to be pulled back from my skull but somehow a tiny knick would negate having the surgery.

Entirely possible but ironic nonetheless. 

In the end, Adam shaved my head. First, he gave me a mullet. Then a mohawk, which just looked like a bad mullet because of how long my mohawk hair was. I giggled the entire time but refused photos. 

Before shaving my head, Adam took one last picture of my long hair. He’s thoughtful like that.

He didn’t shave it close; that would be done by a member of the surgical team.


I recorded a quick video before lying in bed. 

https://youtu.be/cBg8jUA5NWs
Exhausted and excited, I barely slept.

1 year. Tomorrow will mark 1 year, and it’s never been better.

The Quitter

Just have one more try.

It’s dead easy to die,

It’s the living on that’s hard.

“The Quitter” by Robert Williams Service

Wheels

I wake sometime between 5 and 6, as usual.

Get up, tell Alexa to turn on the bedroom lights. Pad into the washroom. I’m extra wobbly in the morning so I have Alexa turn on the kitchen lights while I grasp the counter and carefully step my way to the corner where my morning dose of Sertraline (the generic of Zoloft, for vertigo and depression – hah), Levetiracetan (the generic of Keppra, for seizures) and 81mg of Aspirin (recurring stroke preventative therapy) await.

    32oz of water follow as I swallow the three pills.

    I set a mug under my Keurig and start my coffee for the morning.

    I turn and, a couple of steps leader, struggle to make my hemiparetic hand grasp the refrigerator doorhandle and pull it open.

    Soylent. Anything else takes more than a few steps to prepare; I’d have to think through each step before doing it, and that would take a while. Most of my meals consist of Soylent so I’ll have energy to do other things.

    I turn and wobble my way to the sofa and carefully sent my Soylent on the coffee table before sitting down.

    I take my phone and open my Headspace app. A 30-minute session goes by and then my Soylent is finally warm enough for me to drink. I don’t drink it cold. Sensitive teeth.

    I slowly peel back the wrapping on the bottle with my teeth.

    Flip to the YouTube channel on the Roku. Or listen to some textbook on Audible. Depends on the day.

    I finish my Soylent.

    Exercise while watching letters on neurology, neurobiology, physiology, neuroanatomy, color theory, painting methods, reviews, art history; sometimes it’s an audiobook on one of or several of those topics topics.

    I do this for a while. Is sometimes it takes me a bit to actually start exercising; a few hours of lectures passing by before I begin.

    In the meantime, Adam’s gotten ready and left for work.

    “See you later. Have a good day.”

    “You too.”

    Squats. Curls. Oblique crunches. Bridges. Whatever else before I walk the five floors of my building – something I’m often too mentally exhausted to do.

    Then I settle in to finish whatever lecture or book I’ve started.

    I should take a shower. It’s almost noon.

    I shower. It doesn’t take me long anymore.

    Sometimes I decide to put on makeup. Why? I’m not going to see anyone today.

    I do it anyway.

    It lets me change my appearance. It lets me change something about myself. Yeah, it’s temporary, but, for a day, I can change my eye shape or my bone structure. I can change me. I don’t do it for any other reason. I’m unlikely to see anyone during the day, so it’s definitely for me.

    So I put it on and change of myself just a little, and then I’m a tiny bit happier.

    It takes me a while to put on makeup. By the time I’m finished it’s around 1. What next?

    I start to paint. Turn on an audiobook and paint. Maybe a galaxy today. An explosion of color in a place far out of reach; someplace I can only observe by going to an observatory or by getting online. I paint it because it’s far away from the reality that I have now. It’s away, where I wish I could be. Should be.

    I listen to the traffic in the busy streets outside my window. Hours pass. It’s a large painting that should take a few days to complete. That’s good. Something to pass the time. Something to look forward to.

    Adam comes back. Something to eat. He’s tired from the day and sits at his computer to let his mind relax. I understand.

    I wash my face. Take a pill to keep the seizures at bay. Crawl into bed. Sleep.

    Time to do it again.

    Days go by. The exact same routine. Except, now I have rounds to look forward to; Thursdays and Fridays. A resident recently gave me her cell number and we occasionally text back and forth about some neuro topic. I look forward to those exchanges.

    Once in awhile, mostly on weekends, I had over to Mimzy’s – Adam driving, of course. The last time was this past Sunday. I haven’t left the apartment since. If I have, I don’t remember it.

    The seclusion is mainly because of the concussion I recently sustained. Before the concussion I would Uber a few blocks away to have my nails done, pop into the book shop, something like that. The last time I did that I’d had to wait at a bus stop three blocks from the apartment until Adam left work for the day and could pick me up. I’d gotten too tired to walk the rest of the way and I couldn’t cross the streets before a driver would lean on their horn.

    Just before the concussion, I’d gotten my Saebo Step and had begun walking around a bit more. It helps keep my toes from dragging because of my foot drop. Steadier walking = more energy to walk. I was thrilled. It lifted me out of the cloud that had returned after I had gotten back from the National Ataxia Foundation conference in San Antonio (I’ll write about that later.).


    It was a minor concussion. If you’ve ever had any sort of brain injury, you’re probably familiar with the adage, ‘no brain injury is the same.’ Multiple people can have it the same injury in the same part of the brain and respond completely differently. No one’s brain injury experience is the same.

    Thinking back on how helpless I had felt while sitting on the corner waiting for Adam to drive by on his way back, I’d decided that I didn’t want to live this way anymore. Something has to change. Has to.

    A couple of weeks later, my head made contact with the living room floor and jostled my brain just enough. Most affects of minor concussion last only a few weeks, and mine haven’t completely faded. It’s only been a week and a half? Two weeks? I don’t remember. 

    Whatever. The confidence isn’t there anymore, though; not that I have a lot before the concussion. I don’t know how long it will take me to try crossing a street or going to the market again. Thinking about it makes me tired and my head begins to l pound. Hopefully the hesitation will fade along with the effects of the concussion.

    Either way, I’ve got to figure out how to get around. Yes, I can walk. But random bouts of fatigue can leave me inside my apartment for days at a time; leaving to check the mail when I finally feel up to it or when Adam persuades me to go somewhere.

    Don’t get me wrong, I talk to a few people on a daily or near daily basis. I rely on them far more than they can ever know. Adam, Christy, John, Brendan. 

    Adam, he’s been there for everything  since college. He’s been my biggest supporter, caregiver and confidant since  the beginning, before the stroke. Everyone knows that. Christy calls as often as she can. She has a part-time job and has her own fatigue related problems. John makes contact every morning, every night, always checking up on me. He, like myself, doesn’t work. Technically. He’s a freelance artist, my teacher and mentor. Brendan is the only one of us who has a full-time office career. He’s an accountant, with regular work hours. But he still finds time to send me a message or have a quick chat.

    I need to find a way to get around. Something that allows me to stop relying on Uber to go a few blocks. $12 for maybe 12 blocks round trip just to go to the market and pick up a few items, in addition to what I buy at the market? I dislike relying on someone else’s income; unable to contribute in any meaningful way other than housekeeping. There’s no way I could make it on my own with the paltry amount that social security sends to me each month. I wish I could contribute more.

    I can’t use a wheelchair because of the combination of hemiparesisACA (acute cerebellar ataxia) and diminished sensation affecting the right half of my body. I’m unable to feel whether or not my right hand is on the rim of a wheelchair or if my fingers are tangled in the spokes, so it’s dangerous for me to use one.

    So this week I began researching wheelchairs again. I’d looked before and held off because of the price tag attached to the adaptation I would need.

    In an odd way, my recent concussion has been helpful. I wouldn’t have begun looking at chairs again otherwise.

    I don’t need or plan to use a chair full-time. Just for anything outside of my apartment grounds that requires a bit of walking.

    So I came across Nu Drive again. It’s an adaptation for a standard, manual wheelchair; two stick-like attachments are connected to the wheelchair wheels. The user then propels and steers their chair by pushing the stick attachments back and forth instead of pushing the rims of the chair, which requires more fine motor skills and dexterity.


    I need this. I don’t want to keep on as I currently am.

    Yesterday I was listening to a book of patient stories. A particular story that stuck out to me was the story of a man who was deaf and had had an aneurysm that left him dependent on ICU care. He one day he realize that months have passed since his arrival and Christmas was on its way. He had lost track of time because of his isolation and never changing surroundings. Soon after his realization, he lost his vision. Deaf, blind, and relying on life support, he desperately tried to pull his life support anytime his wrists were unbound from his hospital bed. He had been so secluded in his hospital room, watching a television that he couldn’t hear and gradually couldn’t see as his vision began to fail him. He and his parents spoke to the hospital board and together petitioned for a ruling to allow him to remove his own life support.

    The last time I saw Adam#2, he had had a son who was several months old by then. He had driven an hour to pick me up and take me to lunch. Afterward, he’d dropped me off and I’d cried.

    One of the maximum forms of punishment is utter seclusion.

    The very worst part about being around people is knowing that at some point they’ll need to drop me off again and I won’t see them again for a while.

    Until then, it’s just me painting in studying, and Adam working his ass off. Adam’s more social than I am now.

    It’s time for me to stop being secluded. Time for me, and the few people around me, to acknowledge that it’s time for a chair.

    Again, I have no intention of using the wheelchair full time. I can walk and don’t want to lose that ability to relying on a wheelchair.

    I have no intention of stopping my weekend walks or handcycling at Memorial Park with the Achilles crew.

    So I’m putting all of my time and effort into painting like mad right now. I need to focus on selling my paintings, finding a chair and Nu Drive.

    And that’s what I’m doing. 

    This past week I told Dean that I couldn’t go for a quick coffee because I needed to paint. Completely true, especially because they’re currently is no such thing as a quick coffee for me; it would take at least two hours.
    A few weeks ago, Bernie texted me to ask if I would sell some paintings at the West End Running Club‘s annual Brew Run this weekend. It doesn’t matter if I sell only one painting; I’ll load up my paintings and have them ready to sell anyway. Just in case.

    Unfortunately the timing of the concussion means that there’s absolutely no way I’m competing at Nationals next week. I also need to wait on purchasing my own handcycle so I can purchase the Nu Drive instead, and purchase the handcycle in the future.

    For the first time in a couple of weeks, I feel good. 

    I have something to look forward to. It’s not what I had planned to look forward to (Nationals), but it’s something. Something more than my everyday routine. Something that could pave a path (that I can actually traverse) back into society. No more living doctor’s visit to doctors visit, weekend to weekend with Achilles or visits to Mimzy’s house (even though I love those visits, I need to fill my weekdays as well), rehab session, rounds, searching the web for videos and news about things I missing out on.

    I’ll be careful to not let myself think that people who kept in regular contact with before the stroke are suddenly true again simply because I can relieve them of the task of having to come to me. Still, social contact is social contact. I currently don’t even cross under the highway; something necessary in order to access the venues and activities on that side of the road.

    The best part? I won’t need to be secluded because of my inability to maintain my balance. ‘Despite disability’.

    Things are looking up.

    Better Than New 

    After my last post, my friend, Elizabeth, wrote this to me:

    ‘Ellie if you are feeling broken, please remember the Japanese process of Kintsugi. Pottery that is broken is repaired with gold. It highlights that the mended repair is beautiful. It emphasizes  beauty in the imperfect. Perfection  is overrated. Your brain is wonderful just the way it is…’

    Better Than New

    Quiet

    I have come to find that one of the biggest feelings you can feel is that of a hollow, empty, reckless emotion that evades any possible reason or cause. It whips you around at times, completely unexpectedly, striking you from the edges like a car nicking your side and sending you reeling into some utter tragedy.

    It is not something controllable, and the dangerous carelessness of it all becomes a comfort; a sort of safe haven in knowing that something serious could so very easily happen. And yet, sometimes the thought of a tragic event is what is actually desired, needed. The beautiful slowness and shock of it all, the smallest details in that collision with another car; the shards of glass shooting outward in a rain of angry water, and the horrific silence that comes during the roaring deafness that covers the senses, rending the mind into a state of sensory overload far different from normal.

    It is a violently peaceful feeling.

    It is the recklessness of that emptiness that I find comforting. The complex, detailed, intricate beauty of the terrible emotion. The knowledge that I still love, and that should something happen to someone I love, I would be jolted right back into reality, away from that hanging spot between two oblivions. That spot between heaven and hell, and not caring which one I make it to, or if I make it at all.

    I find that once this emotion completely emerses me, I become near invincible — or, at least, that’s how it feels. I ignore the things that I know will rip away that invincibility. Things like intimate conversations with the most important person in my life; something that I have also found drives rifts between us until I become able to unwrap my mind of the cloud that caresses its edges, and return to shore. I ignore the touch of another person, the concern and expressed hurt in their eyes when I turn them away.
    Well, I try to ignore it. Sometimes it drives me further into the collosal emptiness, and other times it is the rope I need to safely pull me away from it.

    I know that I cannot ignore their wishes or discomforts. I will not allow myself to knowingly be the cause. These are the only things that I cannot overcome with this feeling. Maybe the love is strong enough that it overpowers the thrill of the lack of emotion, or that I am simply too weak to succumb to such acts of such extreme selfishness. The one thing I hate most about myself is my selfishness. It is a difficult war to wage.

    Back to the topic. You begin to focus on detail. The colors of the horizon or the patterns of the leaves on a tree. The amount of times she laughs, or the way the corner of his lip curves in a half smile, the way the wind rushes past and how many times its breath has touched you. It is as though you refuse to communicate so you wishdraw instead; become a different person entirely. Empowered and weakened, protecting yourself both from the harms that could come to you in this vulnerability, this nakedness, and from the gentle care that you may continuously receive from the hearts of your closest friends.

    I both hate and love this feeling. What’s broken in my brain?

    It holds contradictions. Weakness and strength, the desire to be held and the sting of my skin when something brushes it, or the intensity of detail and the want for a view of everything.
    It is one of the deepest, heart-wrenching, painful feelings ever experienced. However, sometimes it is the pain that makes it so appealing. The return to something familiar, the letting go and drowning in it; the protective strength in feeling alone. It is knowing that you are alive because you feel such a pain that you cannot share it with another person — would not wish it on someone else. Knowing that you are strong, because you are strong enough to bear it
    alone.

    When the feeling fades, the world slips off your shoulders. It sinks further than you did when you were drowning, past the line of the horizon, between harbor and maelstrom; yet always within reach should you need to tuck yourself away again.

    Post-stroke depression is a bitch. Smile anyway.

    Milestone 

    Today I brushed my teeth with my stroke-affected, hemiparetic hand. 

    3 years later and it’s still the little things that make me happy. 

    Bluntly :)

    Is your boyfriend in a wheelchair too?

    Can you have sex? You know, can you feel down there?

    Do you have a license for that thing?

    I always get, “Has it got a horn?”
    > Do you play wheelchair basketball?

    > I feel like that’s everyone’s standard if they see someone in a wheelchair. “Oh, you must play sport!”

    > Are you going for the Paralympics?

    > I used to play wheelchair rugby on the weekends and it’s no big deal. But people are like, “Oh, are you going for Tokyo?”

    > My brother, he plays for England, wheelchair football. And it’s really actually patronizing to  him because people come up to me and say, “Oh Kel, have you thought about joining the team?”
    “So, what happened to you?”

    > Where do I start with that question?

    > I’m like, I haven’t DONE anything. I was born.

    > I’ve told people I got attacked by a shark.

    > … I was in a car and it did seven flips and it exploded and I lost a leg.

    > One that I say to people is that yeah, I got hit by a wheelchair.
    “Can I have a go?”

    > I hate it. I hate it so much. It’s like, where am I going to go while you have a go?

    > They expect me to stand there for 5 minutes while they wheel around in my wheelchair?

    > My wheelchair probably cost the same as, probably double, more than some people’s first car. Sooo, yeah. I’m not letting you near it.
    “You’re so brave!”

    > Yeah, when you get like drunk people in a club, “You’re so inspirational, you’re so brave!”

    > It’s always, “High five!” Or, “You’re so brave… It’s good to see people like you out.”

    > Complete strangers come up to me, tap me on the head, without permission, and say, “Oh, you’re so brave.”

    > Just because you’re a convenient height they start leaning their hands on you or on your wheelchair.

    > Or the pat, the pat on the head.
    “Do you work?”

    > Yeah, I have that

    all the time.

    > I’ve noticed that I always get asked, “Do you work?” rather than, “What do you do?”

    > Like when I went to apply for a mortgage at the bank, the woman sorta said to my husband, “What do you do for a job?” And Jaz said whatever and she wrote it down. And then she said [to me], “And you’ll be entitled to some sort of benefit, I presume?” And I said, “Well actually, no. I own my own business.”

    > They always ask, “So what kind of benefits are you on? Do you get a free car? How much is it? How much do you get paid?”
    “You can walk? It’s a miracle!”

    > Not all people in chairs are unable to walk. Let’s just make that clear.

    > People think that you can’t feel anything, or stand up.

    > I might have an itchy leg, so I’ll get out of my chair and itch my leg, stuff like that, and they’ll think that I can walk. I stood up, I haven’t run a marathon, you know, I’m not Usain Bolt.
    “Sorry we can’t do wheelchairs.”

    > Have you had that when they say, “Oh, we’ll carry it up.” And I’m like, I don’t think you quite understand the weight of an electric wheelchair.

    > Also when you go to gigs you’re in like, a wheelchair chicken cage. They put all the wheelchair users together like we all know each other.

    > Wheelchair corner.

    > When you go into a pub and you know already they’ll have used the disabled toilet as a storeroom. And they’ll go, “Well, we don’t get many of you people in here so we just use it as a cupboard.”

    > I go up to pretty much all of them and they’ll just be like, “Sorry love, don’t do wheelchairs.” I’m like, “Well, that’s what your ramps’ for, so can I just get in?” And they’re like, “No, sorry love.” And they would rather drive off then take my perfectly good money.
    “Can you have sex?”

    > Yeah, that’s probably the most asked question.

    > [sarcastically] No, people in wheelchairs are not allowed to do that. They’re not allowed. And they do not know the law.

    > They kind of assume that your relationship is really juvenile. And really like, “Awww, bless you, you’ve got a boyfriend!” 

    > I can’t feel my legs, but that’s fine. But then people like – they ask you questions like, “Can you feel everything around there?” And I’m like, “Why do you need to know?!”

    > “He’s looking after you. Awww, he’s sooo good!”

    > “And he’s having sex with you? Awww!”
    “Do you only date people in wheelchairs?”

    > When I say that I’ve got a boyfriend, they’re like, “Oh, is he in a wheelchair too?” Or they’ll just go, “Well, what’s wrong with him?”

    > I’ve had this so many times. And particularly on my wedding day, when I was marrying my husband who is able-bodied. My brother, who’s in the wheelchair, was at the wedding – obviously, because he’s my brother –  and somebody came up to me and my brother and said, “Congratulations!”

    > When it’s just a profile, you’re like, do I put up a picture of me in a wheelchair? Or do I not, because I know that some people are instantly going to say “no” because of that?

    > I had a friend who went on a date, who hadn’t put it on her profile, and the guy just left, because he said she’d lied to him.
    “That’s awful, I’m so sorry!”

    > No, our lives are not awful, and you don’t need to apologize, because you didn’t do this.

    > The fact that I’m disabled, that’s the best part of me actually. It doesn’t define me, but it’s just made me into a stronger person I think.

    > I think they assume that we hate our lives, we hate our wheelchairs, you know… [they say] “It’s so difficult.” And I’m like, no, my wheelchair has completely changed my life.

    Personally, I find it’s what sets me out, just in life. It’s my unique selling point. 

    > They’re like, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” And I’m like, what do you want me to reply to that? I’m not pitying myself, I’m having a life.

    https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10154546440795787&id=310719525611571

    Remembering Grace, again 

    8 years, 1 day, 8 hours ago (February 13, 2009, 01:something AM)

    I’m days from my 20th birthday and I have something that needs to be said before I lose the nerve to say it again. The way he forced me, then acted like he gave a damn when he found out about my baby – MY baby – no. Fuck that. 

    So I stupidly rush to my car in the pouring rain, anger rushing hot through my veins. Adam, urging me to stay. I shouldn’t drive when it’s stormy. He’s always careful, always watching out for me, always calculating and weighing possible and probable outcomes, always right. 

    I don’t make it even halfway down Northpark Drive before her car hits mine. I remember driving in the left lane of the road and seeing her slow at the median crossing, then realizing that she wasn’t going to wait for me to pass. Her blue car colliding with my door, crunching it against me, shoving me into the ironically stoic stop sign that must have somehow offended her.

    I’m stunned. I sit, hands still on the steering wheel pressing against my belly and suddenly hate myself. I prepare myself for the worst while simultaneously, desperately trying not to consider the possibility. Probability.

    I don’t know how long I sit there before turning my head to see the young woman walking around her car, inspecting it. A truck pulls up, two college aged guys, talking to her. She seems fine but off-balance. 

    I’ve found my phone and speed dial Adam. He’s on his way.  I drop my phone again as one of the young men rush to my door. I’m still stunned; it seems like years have passed, not minutes. He struggles with my door, wrestling it open after yelling through the glass to confirm nothing was poking into me. 

    Something – tail lights – blinded me momentarily. I watched in my review mirror, disbelief flooding me, as the second guy ran after her car as she simply drove away. Bitch. Drunk, prescription drug abusing bitch. Fuck you. 

    Adam pulls up. I don’t remember what happens next. Something about the young men leaving because one had been drinking and didn’t want to get in trouble. Adam took over. An off-duty officer, then sirens and flashing lights, then an ambulance. But I wouldn’t be able to afford the bill that would inevitably follow, so I refused. Adam would drive me.

    Next, the emergency room. A urine sample. An examination that confirmed what I already knew. A procedure, dilation and curretage. But wasn’t it too late for that? It’s been 4 months and several days since he broke me. 

    “You’re medically stable now. We’re going to release you.”

    That’s it? Well, okay, I guess.

    Adam and his dad – I don’t know when he’d gotten there – in the waiting room. I don’t remember the rest. Was his dad there? I don’t remember. 

    That’s what I do remember, though. I don’t always remember it. I’ve forgotten before, since the stroke. Heather, answering her phone and talking me through it after the first time I found the box that I’d apparently kept all record of Gracie in. Grace. Do you like it? Adam helped me pick it once we’d moved to the duplex in Montrose. 

    But that doesn’t make sense. Weren’t we still living in Kingwood when Gracie died? Or was that the other wreck, the one that split my eyelid and tore at my brother’s leg? I’m confused. But I’m always confused now, so whatever. 

    I wrote this because I know that I’ll forget again in a few days. I kept myself busy yesterday, Valentine’s Day, and the day before by doing silly things – gluing my fingers together and pestering my cousin, Chris, at work with questions about how to remove the glue before Adam got home to see the mess. I sent a picture of it to Adam anyway, in case I wouldn’t be able to clean it up before he arrived.

    I texted with Andrea. Video chatted with John. He cheered me, without having to be told what was wrong. I talked with our friends in a Facebook group chat. Noelle had had a rough day and was still snowed in by the snow storm in Maine. Laura,waiting for a package. Alisa, sick. I wish I could be there for her. But, ataxia.

    My birthday is this Sunday. Ugh.

    I don’t plan anything for my birthday anymore. Other people usually plan something, if anything. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when something gets planned and pans out; the effort that goes into it, the thoughtfulness. I don’t have the energy to get around the sadness, so nothing would happen if other people didn’t plan it.

    Several years ago, I threw together a last minute party with some girlfriends. Then I realized that I was forcing myself to smile throughout the night and decided not to plan another birthday party for myself. It was a good decision. I have more energy to be happy.

    I woke up today not wanting to forget again. So, like I said, I’m writing it down here. Maybe I won’t forget as easily this time.