Three years ago this past June 15 was a Sunday. My husband (Raúl) and I had company over for dinner. I cooked the only thing I basically know to do when I cook for others. It’s my “fancy plate.” Pasta and shrimp.
So Tomás and Yolanda came over and I remember having a nice time and enjoying my share of the two bottles of red wine. After a couple of hours I made a strong pot of espresso coffee to cut any undesirable effects of the yummy wine. So I drank several small cups of sweet and strong coffee.
Close to midnight when Yolanda and Tomás left, I went to my bedroom to put on my pajamas. A few minutes later when Raúl came in I remember feeling confused, and as it turns out I was noticeably “different,” I just didn’t know how. Raúl kept asking me if I was okay and I kept answering that I was fine, just feeling a bit confused. All of the sudden the carpet seemed truly welcoming and I remember letting myself slide to the floor. I was amazed that the coffee had not done its usual magic, since the only explanation I could muster was that the table wine had hit me harder than I expected, though I was too lucid to be drunk.
Raúl asked me if I needed to go the hospital and I couldn’t think of a good reason to go. So I just asked for my nightly pills which he gave to me and I asked him to just let me rest for a little while and that I would be fine.
Next thing I know he was calling his son Eros, the doctor, in Mexico telling him how I was acting. Eros told him to ask me to say the word ferrocarril. I felt so smart, catching on that he wanted to hear if I could roll my Rs. I thought I answered perfectly (Raúl later told me I did not). Then I was in an ambulance assisted by firemen that came to my house after my husband dialed 911, a ride of which I have no recollection whatsoever.
I don’t remember any pain, any discomfort or any one thing that should have alerted me. If anything I felt embarrassed for what I assumed was my loss of control. I thought, “Here I go behaving like a cheap bum, good thing Valentina is asleep.” I thought once I took my pills and slept, even if it was on the floor, I would be back to my happy normal self.
It turns out June 15, 2008, was the night I had my basal ganglia stroke. I don’t remember when I woke up. I barely remember snippets of images and conversations. I remember asking someone from work if she had finished translating page 13 of Applause magazine and if my suggestions had helped. I was happy that I could still remember the immediacy of my life and the people around me.
I couldn’t imagine what I still had to acknowledge of the person I was to become. To me there was no danger or risk in sight. I would get out of that bed and go home. I didn’t worry one bit, even when they asked me to move my toes and fingers and it was observed that my left side was not responding, even after I couldn’t stop drooling or even while talking, I would frequently go into a deep snoring sleep as if somebody had flipped a switch. I don’t remember all the kind faces that came to see me those five weeks I spent in the hospital.
When I started working with physical and occupational therapists, I really thought it was part of the routine I had to go through in order to go home. I didn’t think I really needed any of that. I would think things like, “Look people, I come from hoeing the fields, I come from picking the fruits from the trees. This person in front of you doesn’t give up. My body is like that battery bunny, it just keeps going and going. As soon as you let me, you’ll see. My body will walk me out of here, useful as usual.”
My thoughts were to no avail. In long and intense sessions I had to learn to accept help to get out of bed, to go to the potty, to use a walker and canes. I didn’t know the devastation that comes with a stroke. When they released me to another facility, in my mind I determined that by month three all this was going to be but a memory. Definitely.
Instead, in these three years I’ve learned the virtues of patience and tolerance. I’ve learned to ask and expect help as an example of the kindness that most human beings have in their hearts when they see a diminished individual. I have had brutal moments of depression and even the thought of death has surprised me as a viable option if this is the way I’m meant to live the remainder of my days.
But then I try and put every ounce of my spirit to lift myself up and I ask for forgiveness for my defeatist thoughts. And I remind myself that I come from hoeing the fields, and picking fruits from the trees and climbing ladders in the most inclement of California weathers and that people like me, we have bodies that no matter what, just don’t give up. Just look at my mother in her aging 79-year-old-body and then there is my sister, the strongest breast cancer survivor ever. Besides, there are absolutely so many wonderful things I still have to do. To appreciate my husband fully and grow old with him. To watch my daughter blossom. To get to know as much of this lovely planet I have the privilege to inhabit with you (views with water hold such power over me).
I make myself walk no matter what, even when my left foot threatens to fold and collapse I walk and I walk. I feel the tug of my hand when I imagine it (as some phantom limb) moving and stretching. I loathe and I love my purple-flowered cane.
On June 15, alone in my house, I got on my knees for the first time in these three years to pray my gratitude for this time of precious life, and I forced myself to stand back up on my own, instead of waiting for my husband. Maybe it was too demanding for my body, but I did it anyway. I guess this is the person I am--a body that just will not give up. Amen.
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