A quick definition: A “young stroke survivor” is somebody who’s had a stroke between the ages of 18 and 25. Unfortunately, our numbers are growing.
Dr. Google never went to medical school. Please visit an actual health care provider – a physician, a nurse practitioner, or a physician assistant – for any medical help.
I’m a PK, a preacher’s kid. My father, grandfather, and countless other paternal relatives were ordained, and as the oldest I probably would’ve been encouraged to follow tradition. But I was a daughter, which probably gave me more freedom. Unfortunately, I am also an oldest child, so when you add that to the PK status, it means I have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and a strong tendency to put other people ahead of myself.
My fellow PKs know what it means to grow up in a clergy family. For the non-PK contingent: Clergy families are public. You’re supposed to set a good example, or at least not do anything that could lead to your clergy parent losing their position. It’s kinda like being in a political family, except your ultimate boss is God. Everybody at church always knows who you are and who your parents are. Before smartphones became ubiquitous, I was living in a world of surveillance.
In good situations, it’s wonderful. I still have very fond memories of a church where my sisters and I were not just accepted but supported in very healthy ways. We were privileged, but taught not to take pride in that privilege. Back then, the worst thing you could’ve called me was “selfish.” That was the ultimate mortal sin. Just ask my mother.
As an adult, I began a career in healthcare. Again, an environment where you are encouraged to sacrifice your own well-being for the sake of others. It’s been a great career for me in many ways, but the pressure to do your part to help save lives can be crushing. I quickly internalized all the QA procedures each of my hospitals had. I bought into all the training we had for natural disasters, because if we were ever hit with an “all hands” emergency, I was going to do my part. No one was going to die because I was careless.
Eventually I moved away from the hospital setting, but old habits die hard and are easily resuscitated. Telecommuting added a new flavor to the internal pressures. I felt I had to prove that I was reliable even when nobody was looking. I found myself working more and more hours because it was easy to start early and work late when I didn’t have to leave the house. I went through approximately 6 to 9 liters of Coke a week to keep me going. My husband worried about me, and wasn’t shy about telling me, but I kept telling myself that other people were counting on me. If I was sloppy … lazy … selfish, people could die.
One night in August 2016, I was at my home office desk, trying to get just one more thing done. At approximately 10:30 that night, I suddenly realized my right hand wasn’t working. I wanted my fingers to press the keys, or pick up the mouse, but my hand wasn’t responding to the frantic commands from my brain.
My husband also telecommutes, but while I work during the day, he works at night. We share a home office, but we’ve arranged our desks so that we each have some privacy in case we’re working at the same time. He didn’t see the look on my face, or how my mouth was starting to droop.
I remember trying to speak, but I could only grunt. My husband didn’t realize anything was wrong, and so, absorbed in his own work, asked me to PLEASE stop working and go to bed, It was a sentiment he often expressed, because I’d given him plenty of opportunity to say it. He didn’t realize that on this occasion I was in serious trouble.
I did a very foolish thing. I can’t blame all of it on the damage that was already spreading across my brain. I got my computer shut down, and I stumbled out of the office trying to keep my husband from noticing that my right leg wasn’t working very well either. My husband thought it was just fatigue, because I’d been working so hard for the better part of the year. It was easy for me to get away without him realizing that there was something profoundly wrong. My thoughts were jumbled. I didn’t want him to get in trouble while he was working. Maybe whatever this was–I didn’t want to admit what my symptoms meant–would go away if I just rested. Maybe I’d be fine in the morning.
I slept maybe two hours, all told. My right arm flopped about whenever I tried to move it. It wasn’t getting any better. I was terrified, but after the alarm went off, I still fed the cats before I went to my husband and said, with great effort, “I think you need to take me to the ER.”
I will never forget the look on his face when he took my right hand and asked if I could feel him squeezing my fingers. I couldn’t. He had to help me get dressed, and guided me out to our car, telling me he’d get me to the hospital as soon as he could, swearing at all the other drivers on the road as only a Houstonian driver can do, guiding me to a chair in the ER waiting area, then going to the desk and saying what I never wanted to hear him say:
“I think my wife is having a stroke.”
Rachel
I'm a writer, a knitter/spinner/weaver, a young stroke survivor, and a type 2 diabetic.
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Having suffered two bouts of Bell’s Palsy, I can only imagine how the situation felt to the both of you. I can empathize with the sense of panic and anxiety that accommodate an event like that. Add to that the sense of foreboding that you never know if or when it might happen again, or if some complication related to it might occur, I know that it can take its toll on your emotional strength.
I’ve said before, half-jokingly, that I had it easy during my hospitalization. All I had to do was lie there and let my fabulous nursing team take care of me. My husband had to keep in touch with friends and family, plus deal with the cats who were angry that I left home without their permission.
For me, it’s been the experience that no hospitalization is ‘easy.’ The thoughts of panic and anxiety take their toll on emotional well being and disincentives you initially. It took me a while to recognize that, deal with it, and move on from there. I couldn’t have done that without the wonderful support of wifey, our three dogs, and a great therapist. It’s been a continuous grieving loop that’s worse sometimes than others.
There’s nothing that beats a good support team at your back.
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