I am going to be focusing on the Fundraiser
I am sharing my story, tears and all for the March of Dimes stroke recovery program that is on Sun Nov 28th at 1:30 tickets-$15- at guest services) in St Marys at the pyramid centre in the end zone therefore no post this week ( as you may have guessed)

My time at Parkwood

Was Work.....Work....Work (get better work) I am very appreciative at my length of stay. Doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to pack it in and go home. The reason a lengthier stay was in my favour...a longer stay meant more intense therapy and better recovery. I was in bad shape and things were NOT progressing as fast as I wanted them to. I have never been a very patient person.

I will never forget the day when I hoisted myself up to standing position from the wheel chair and I could feel that my balance was better than the day before. It wasn’t a huge improvement but considering I didn’t have any the day before a little was better than none at all. This meant I was going to get better...how much is yet to be seen.

It was soon after that I decided I should transfer myself from the bed to the wheelchair to go to the washroom. My first attempt was a complete flop. More like crash. It was evening and when I was watching TV, I had to go pee. Instead of calling the nurse I decided to do it myself. When Mike had dropped me off that night he had reluctantly left the wheelchair beside the bed within reach so I could attempt this myself. I used the bedrails to help but they weren’t enough support. I fell face first and hit my eye on the corner of the dresser. I still have a small scar. I was a little shook up and I laid on the floor for a second but my initial reaction was and is if you fall you get right back up. My left leg was shaking but I still managed to pull myself up and onto the wheelchair. I wheeled myself to the washroom. After all that was the objective. That is when I saw all the blood running down my face onto my PJ top. I washed the blood off my face went pee and got myself back into bed. I then called the nurse to tell her what happened. There was talk of stitches but they never materialized. If it weren’t for the blood I probably would have continued to ‘transfer myself’

Parkwood was my home away from home since I spent so much time there but it wasn’t one I REALLY wanted to be at but many milestones in my recovery happened there. I was able to eat again. My balance started to return. I was able to do things that I couldn’t before. I did a lot of thinking and self discovery.

Something that is very memorable happened along the way but I finally realized it since a kind aunt put it in words on paper. She wrote something like you’ll do it because you are determined. I had never thought of myself of determined but when it comes to something we want are we all not. Apparently not, but people give up on themselves all the time. Prior to the stroke I was a quitter. That was certainly the easiest way of dealing with the unpleasant. This time it has never occurred to me to stop. Why stop? Let me tell you the alternative was/is not something I wanted to experience ever! The task was daunting but taking it one day at a time with mini goals that would lead to the final goal was the only way to do it and stay sane. After all it was and is a lofty goal.

The people at Parkwood taught me to celebrate even the smallest goal (I didn’t through myself a party or have cake (I would be 400 pounds at least) --just being proud of an accomplishment.

The People of Parkwood

Parkwood had all kinds of people/characters. There was Agnes, the little woman who wanted to help no matter, if she was REALLY helping. Gladys the busybody wanting to s to compare her progress. She was alsovery demanding and kept the nurses busy. A woman I love to this day for a comment she made to me. We were in the dining room when she said to me. Such a shame..... you’ re such a pretty girl. Who wouldn’t love that kind of compliment? However my favourite is the ‘crazy’ guy. Also known as the guy with scrambled eggs. (A highly technical term for a head injury)

His stay started out with a lot of commotion. He was causing a disturbance with his yelling and creaming.I was returning from supper at home when I saw the police on the unit. Which had never happened before. Gladys ( she seemed to have her thumb on the pulse of things) informed us that the new guy was being sent to the psych hospital in St. Thomas. Things were calm for a few days until he returned.

Apparently he wasn’t ‘crazy’ just had a head injury (aka scrambled eggs) and when he was readmitted his room was at the end of the hall next to mine. One mornig I had woken up to some loud Def Leppard. He had brought his stereo with him this time and decided to rock out that morning. The stereo was promptly taken away. In the mornings I would see him wandering, more like staggering to and fro, the halls to take care of his personal hhygiene and shower. He would have messy hair and mismatching PJ’s that just didn’t look right. Even though he had the opportunity to shave and change he would stay in his PJ’s and not shave. As he got better his appearance began to change. It became more clean cut. The staggering reverted back to just walking. He exchanged his askew PJ’s for clothes.

I found out why he was hollering and yelling. Calling out for people help him. Not just a few times but for hours. The problem.....he was secured to the bed. He couldn’t be trusted with his own safety (and likely others) As he started to settle down he wasn’t secured any longer but had a nurse at the door guarding him. Eventually I would see him in the lounge area playing pool with a recreational therapist. He always had a staff member with him.

One day during his fuzzy times, he appeared at my door while I was watching TV and wanted to know if I wanted to go to a dance. (I wonder where he got that idea?) I replied that I didn’t dance since I was in a wheelchair. ‘That’s OK’ he said ‘I’ll push you around’ Why would anyone want me to go to a dance???? I likely was the best prospact since everyone else on the unit was almost 30 years older. Well at leasr someone asked.

He may have been there a few weeks. Time wasn’t that all important to me. Each day was much like the one before. I heard him talking to doctors trying to convince them he was fine since he knew the date and where he was. A few days later I heard him begging to go home. I’m sure time was standing still for him. I was happy for him at least he got to go home. I would stay for a few more months.....

Rec therapy

Recreation Therapy is intended to modify your old activities or find you new ones to enjoy. My first meeting with the recreation therapist did not go well. I feel so sorry for the woman who tried to do her job. I was a nightmare. She wanted to know what I enjoyed for recreational activities and at the thought of the answer I just started bawling. All of my answers involved walking, running and/or jumping. My interests at the time were running, walking my dog, volleyball, swimming and golf. The poor girl even suggested that there was a wheelchair golf course in London. Oh the tears. My first thought was how do you swing a club sitting down and my next thought was I won’t be in a wheelchair long enough to warrant looking into it, much less going. There was a bowling alley that was modified right in Parkwood Hospital. Noooo thank you. She mentioned gardening in the raised beds in the back of the hospital but again I was naive thinking I wouldn’t be there at the hospital long enough to take advantage. Boy was I wrong!

She wanted to know other interests. Which were computers, reading, movies or TV. I had a portable DVD player in my room and a TV so that filled much of the time. She informed me of the library where you could get books as well as movies. I definitely took advantage of the movies. The books weren’t a priority since reading wasn’t as easy on my eyes as before and I did have trouble comprehending storylines if they weren’t blatantly obvious.

So she showed me where the computer room was and we would go during our scheduled time. How boring for her. I would play solitaire and she would watch. My first encounter with typing was painful to watch as it was soooo slow. To make matters worse I wouldn’t remove my finger fast enough which would cause the letter to repeattttttttt. I would have to back space just the right amount of times or I would have to type the letter again and the whole process would have to start again.
A good friend was with me when I was trying to check my email. Oh the patience she had since it took me just about the entire 45 minutes just to get my password correct. I almost asked her to do it since I was feeling so self conscious. Luckily things have improved!

My biggest regret is not exploring other activities. Near the end of my stay my recreational therapist was on holidays and I had someone new filling in for her. She took me down to the ‘craft’ room and I tried painting a platter and found it most enjoyable. I likely wasn’t ready to try that in the beginning and my dexterity was quite impaired in the beginning. Trying something new is not a bad thing I just needed to have an open mind. Of which I did not. But I am making an effort to try new things. For example I am sewing now. I like it since it keeps my hands and mind busy. I still have some difficulty with understanding the patterns but quilts allow me to be creative and make up what I would like to do.

Speech Therapy

Speech Therapy was far less exciting, mainly it was because it was a one on one activity, with few distractions. However I was the distraction since I cried A LOT. Why in speech therapy? It was because I no longer was able to do something so simple. It also had something to do with the fact I was in a wheelchair. This wheelchair had all the accessories that would be needed to support someone that was very disabled. It had a head rest to support my noggin and a tray in the front so I wouldn’t fall out. Remembering that low point makes me so grateful for the walker and can I use as a step forward. I shouldn’t view them as a disgrace to my appearance but something I should be proud of.

I would be wheeled in to an office with just enough room to close the door. It would be me, the speech therapist his desk and for a month or so a student learning to be a speech pathologist. The lessons would be breathing techniques and a repetition of words and then later entire sentences. Trouble with the sentences is that I may forget what was said. Luckily I could still read and would be able to jog my memory by looking at the book.

My speech has improved greatly. In the beginning it was very flat and monotone. It was not smooth or fluid more jerky The ups and downs (inflection) were missing. The doctor would refer to my speech being affected due to the damage in the part of the brain called the Pons. Someone referred to my speech as once having an accent. At times it was broken; I may have needed to take a breath in the middle of a sentence. I would also find myself a little self conscious of that, so I wouldn’t speak as much. Or in the very least say I would say shorter sentences.

I never really gave much thought to how much my speech has improved but thinking back....I’m a little impressed about how far it has come. Not being able to speak at all to smooth speech with no breaks and my singing has improved as well. I won’t be singing a solo anytime soon but I will sing to the radio or a favourite song and not feel like I am speaking like a robot.

When I wasn’t speaking at all, I would have one sided conversations with the people that came to visit. These conversations were always in a voice that was crystal clear. Was that a sign of things to come?

I was recounting events of the ‘Parkwood’ months with a friend of mine who shared some moments at the hospital with me. She has since told me that at the time she wasn’t sure how I would endure my time in my new surroundings. After some thought I can say it was the belief that I would improve, taking it day by day, and some serious laughter along the way.

It was encouraged that friends or family accompany me as support during different therapies. One such time a good friend of mine was with me, she knew my preoccupation with looking your best. As we were sitting facing the communal gym I saw something that was incredibly funny. She knew exactly why I was staring and laughing. I know it was completely inappropriate but I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a man about 80 (who wasn’t) It appeared that he had just come from church. He had on black dress socks pulled up to mid calf with black lace up dress shoes. He was wearing brown polyester plaid shorts that came to an awkward length just above mid thigh and a white short sleeve dress shirt. It was a though he had taken his pants and jacket off and replaced them with shorts. The laughter was a nice change from my earlier cry fest earlier in the day. The laughter pulled me out of my own personal depression with the situation.

It is obvious that I was depressed about the change. (wouldn’t anyone??) I always thought I was positive and upbeat given the situation but what I am realizing is that what I was positive about was that things were going to get better. I would someday trade in the wheelchair for a cane and turn around trade the cane for nothing.

I am now a firm believer in a few things. I’ve lived it and experienced that laughter is the best medicine. I may have been sad about what was happening but I always was able to laugh. Laughter allows you to shed negativity and be positive. No matter what is in front of you. Being positive brings about positive change. I feel very strongly that you need to surround yourself with positive people that have a positive message. Since I had people coming to me with such strong positive messages, it was only natural to continue that positive vibe.

The funny side of Parkwood

Parkwood was very structured. Therapies were scheduled and tracked on a wipe board near the nurses’ station. It was all very much regimented. My therapies took up much of the day beginning at 10 until noon and again from noon until mid afternoon then it were time for a 4:30 supper. After about a month had passed I was able to go home for supper when Mike was able to pick me up until about 7:00-8:00. With the scheduled therapies and the regular trips home the 5 ½ month stay went fairly fast. It was almost like it was my job to go to therapy. Monetarily the pay was bad but the regular therapies meant I was getting better all the time. That was the trade off.

After a shower and breakfast, mornings begun with Physical Therapy, Occupational Therapy, Speech Therapy and a weekly Recreational Therapy. Each therapy targeted a deficiency I was experiencing. Physical Therapy dealt with teaching me balance and walking again (which I am still working on). Occupational therapy was arm including finger (writing) movement as well as any mental deficiencies. Speech Therapy is obvious. It also dealt with the correct breathing while talking. Recreational therapy introduced new ways of enjoying old activities as well as new activities and hobbies.

Physical Therapy was a priority. Gym time was available in the afternoons. This was part of Physical therapy that increased cardio and strength. I have always been one to work out so this was a welcomed activity and I would spend extra time on the bike, improving my cardio. I would increase the time and level each week.

I looked forward to occupational therapy since it had a great deal of interaction with both patients and therapists. It was basically a room full of patients and therapists working one on one on each individuals needs. I would sometimes overhear what else was going on in the room. One particular time a patient and therapist was working across the table and I couldn’t help but overhear. (However I was a bit of an eavesdropper) but in this case it was purely accidental but funny nonetheless. The therapist was asking the patient the cost of some popular grocery items.

The young therapist asked an older Polish ‘grandma’ what would be the cost of a loaf of bread and a then a can of Coke. Her response was $10.00 for the loaf of bread and $10.00 for the can of coke she said in her thick polish accent. I started giggling and said laughing under my breath to my therapist ‘I wonder where she shops’?
Karma slapped me in the face as she got up and walked away at the end of her session as I sat waiting in my wheelchair for a porter to come and wheel me to my next appointment.

At the end of working out in the gym this same short polish grandma, Agnes, decided to be helpful and push my wheelchair upstairs to my room. It was myself, Benj a physio therapist and this tiny woman with a very can do attitude. When Benj turned around to speak with someone, this woman began pushing the wheelchair for him while he spoke to someone that he knew.

Benj joined us just as the elevator doors were opening. Agnes was so short she couldn’t see over my head even as I sat in the wheelchair but that didn’t stop her from wanting to help. The doors opened with a ping the occupants got off and Agnes proceeded forward pushing my feet into the side and then she hit my feet into the back wall of the elevator as she tried to get the wheelchair and herself before the doors closed. From my perspective it was bang bang. Her reaction was as though nothing wrong was happening.

It was an accident waiting to happen since the combination of myself being tall and Agnes being short she couldn’t see over my head. So one couldn’t expect her to see my feet or any object they might hit. When we reached the 3rd floor Agnes proceeded to her next appointment in the opposite direction and Benj and I laughed as we proceeded to my room.

I am fairly sure I would have been bored stiff and even more depressed with the situation each day if I wasn’t able to laugh at the laughable moments. I may cry a lot more now but thankfully I laugh just as much. I guess that is my lesson ‘don’t take life too seriously’. Find the things that are funny and laugh at them... discreetly