Not so much a step as…an embraced reality

I’m up…at two fifty…voluntarily. This aspect of recovery has been batting around in my head for a few days, and I need to spit it out.

A couple weeks ago, I send a copy of a book I have been appreciating. I had been briefly a part of a process that guided him in his vocational choice, for ministry. I though this book might actually be helpful to him along he way.

He was pleased, I realized, when put uploaded a photo of the book on my FB Timeline, saying that he had gotten this book from “old man James Strachan.” I felt slapped in the face. His words felt like an epithet, and an epitaph! I responded with some brilliant and tart remark – “old man? Sheeeesh!”

The penny dropped for him, slowly and late, which is often the case with this young man. And he phoned me. Awkward conversation followed. He’d gotten my point and was clumsily remorseful; I’d seen his point and tried to be gentle and reaffirming. When we ended all was well.

But the whole thing left me pondering a sharply revealed truth: I am an old man. Most of the time I can deny it because my life is filled with people younger than myself with whom I relate enthusiastically. Many of my real and FB friends are my children’s age…even my grandchildren’s age! I consider myself peers with the bikini sports at the pool. I avoid being or acknowledging ‘old man’ virtually all the time. This struck me firmly in the face when Beatrix, seventeen years my junior, and I had coffee at Tim’s with a couple from her congregation…my vintage. The woman is sharp as a whip, the gentleman shows the mental deterioration that age wreaks: not dementing, but reduced and aware of it.

We had a lovely forty minutes, during which the sharing was easy, the sharing old people with similar experiences and similar health limitations. I thin of it as ‘soft and friendly bitching.’

Since that afternoon, (my short-term memory problem won’t allow me to tell you accurately which day it was; yesterday? Two days ago? Does it matter? I came away pondering that I am an old man. My ailments are those of the well elderly, but I am moving into the group our beloved twit of a PM is deliberately taking aim at. He wishes to reduce our capacity to lie well, in hopes that more of us will live shorter lives. The budget, you know…and Conservative (as it is called thee days) logic.

This dawning revelation has helped me to think a bit longer before I make cheeky Timeline comments that might sound inappropriate from a grandfather. I want my love to show, and even my wisdom, without looking the fool. I want to embrace and use the windows of my age to deal with my ongoing recovery, to celebrate the baby steps rather than being frustrated slowness, because I think I’m doing very well for an old man. An old gentleman, an elder. I like the sound of that, even if I am a brain-damaged elder.

Ahhhh…

Two nights of peaceful sleep. Thank heaven for the Songza App and the Rain forest Sounds. One night, nine-thirty to bed, until six the next AM! That’s the longest sleep I’ve had in years! It seems to make a huge difference in the day. I seem to be able to walk marginally faster without breathing harder. This afternoon I cleaned one side of the garage: no heavy breathing. Blood pressure stays level. I realize that I can’t get too cocky with this, but it does make the concept of “progress” seem a bit more real.

Walked to Tim’s twice today, then got a ride to IGA, shopped and went to the Pharmacy. Called a cab from there. However, they didn’t call back or show up, so when Jimmy offered me a ride home, I took it gratefully. He is such a graceful and selfless man!

I’ve been reading a lot – mostly Jodi Picoult. Gripping, and I’m almost done. I’ll have to return to the heavier stuff in a day or two. Beatrix will be home and I can test my comprehension skills on her! No anxiety attacks for some days now. However, short-term memory is still the pits: forget names, even dates if they aren’t written down. Like I said the other night, I told you it would get boring. I can’t produce drama all the time. (Thank God.)

It’s a bit after nine: snack time, then start moving toward bed. My secret seems to be to get there early, so I’m out before 10:30. The rain forest sounds lull me back to sleep whenever I waken in the middle of the night. What a blessing. Next time…

The one step back…

Sometimes recovery is body checked by small changes and little unexpected turns of events. Like yesterday. Once a month the cleaning ladies come to go like whirlwinds through our house and make it look like neat people live here. Many times they come at 8:30, and Beatrix and both scramble either for cover, or to get out, because there is no safe pace in the building. It was like that when my mother cleaned: “run, she’s coming…you’ll be next!”)

Well. Since I’ve been ill, we’ve asked them to come at 10:30, because for a variety of medical reasons, it’s really hard to be up, dressed, alive and ready to go by 8:30. So the other day I phoned and asked if 10:30 would work for them this month. “Hmmm…I’ll have to check my calendar…I’ll get back to you.”

But no one called! For the first time ever, I was left high and dry, uncertain, in my addled state, about what would happen. They might come at 8:30 and I would be caught up in the whirlwind and swept away! So, grumbling, I got up and was ready for the 8:30 invasion. It didn’t come; of course, it didn’t come. These two wise and kind women knew that an old man in the house would be a pain, and a bother. And they love my spouse. So they came just before ten.

But my morning was a mess. I broke the doctor’s rule! I got excited about it, I let it worry me, became, to use my mother’s word, I was “kerfuffled!” By the time they came, my morning started badly and it was their fault! “Oh, really?” I hear you say. “You could have trusted in their love for your spouse and in them, and relaxed,” Yes, I could have. But I am so far from perfection, or even from recovery, that I did not. Instead I was annoyed. When I saw their truck arrived out front I felt small relief, for I actually had time to lay down and rest, but I was also upset, and so I wouldn’t have to talk to them, I let myself out the back door before they came in so I wouldn’t have to see them. Wasn’t that mature? A sign of how well and quickly I am becoming my old self? No…it was a sign that I am still an idiot, small things still flap me, and I have a long way to go.

I went only so far as Tim Horton’s, grumpy all the way, where a group of Brother cheered me up, made fun of me, and gave me the ride I needed to do my errands. I came home partly healed, but no more perfect than I was before.

Knowing what is the “good” thing to do to help healing along, and having the sense to actually do it, eludes me a lot of the time. And puts me in my place, so my boring blog of yesterday looks like the babbling of a man who keeps his eyes closed so he won’t have to see what is the proper thing to do. I should have, could have, trusted those ladies to come later because we have come to love them, and they to love us. But oh, no: I needed a phone call.

So here I am at 2:30 AM, making sure you…and I…find out that I have a long way to go, that it may not be fatal, but that t will never be perfect, and that I’ll always be the man with the congenital brain injury. Got to put that on my resume; it tells a vital truth about me. I hope those of you who have come to love me will smile, and agree.

One…two…three…

I think, in my story of recovery, this is where it starts to get boring. For me, the whole process is kind of repetitive. Walk…rest…read…eat…read…TV…sleep. I may be fooling myself, but it seems I have the process kind of under control at the moment. I’ve pushed the edges once or twice: two hours at the West Edmonton Mall on a Saturday afternoon, with no anxiety attack, for example. Walking all the way through town to the grocery story, shopping all the way before getting a ride home, just sore legs, no head ache.

Beatrix is away this week, so people are a little worried about whether I’ll be OK I her absence. So far, so good. Of course, I have all the bases covered as I said last time. Rides whenever I need them, people calling to hear me breathe. (No casseroles at the door, yet, darn it…) My BP takes are all wonderfully normal, partly because I have no one to talk to, so I do a lot of sitting quietly. It’s all good. Even the reading is going well.

Zoran drove me to Rimbey for worship yesterday, for which I am deeply grateful, so I saw a lot of people I knew…no anxiety attach. And I FINALLY finished Weeds! They ruined that series by trying to capitalize on the excellent first 10 or 12 episodes. Ended up with 50, in Mexico. Too much.

Shortly I’m off to Tim’s for coffee and a visit. Cleaners are coming tomorrow AM, so I have some cleaning to do tonight. (Doesn’t that sound STUPID? – cleaning up for the cleaners?) I’ll save some of this for later, to see if anything interesting happened to me…

Nope¡ Lots of walking in the sun, quiet coffee at Tim’s. Sore legs from the long walks, but otherwise, just fine. One of the advantages of being alone is that my life is quiet and low key. The only real excitement in the day was a phone call I received while shopping late this morning. Jean Waters and Bob Kayes somehow stumbled on my blog, and were phoning just to make contact and talk a bit. Haven’t talked to either of them for some years, so it was good to catch up.

Another quiet evening ahead of me. I told you it would get boring. One foot in front of the other, step, step, step…

The last dad

My son has had a rough time lately. You see, he has had three dads: myself, his genetic father; Mike, his stepfather of 20 some years, and John, his father-in-law, whom he has known for more than 30 years. In the last few months, Mike died, and just a few days ago, John died. My son is a very emotional man, and so he has been in some grief for quite a time now.

He’s had some good things happen, too. His first grandchild was born. She lives near him and he is a very enthusiastic grandfather. By now, you’re likely wondering what any of this has to do with my own recovery from a stroke! Well, it come down to this: I am the last dad.

Of the three, I have survived longest. But now, that leaves me alone in the role. Any “dad” expectations that my son has are now all on me. And I know that over the years his expectations of “dad” have been disappointed and lowered when it comes to me.

In this situation, aware of my limitations, and my lowered energy and personal vulnerability, I feel like this might be a tough job…to be the last dad. I’ve mentioned my sense of vulnerability before, so that’s not new for you. But today, I also feel some fear. Saturday, my spouse if going far away to a workshop she has been planning for almost a year. I want her to go; I have enthusiastically urged her to go. But I’m afraid, too. Suddenly, I am aware of my dependence on her in this recovery time, of my need for her support, advocacy and help. Al week I’ve been filled with “what if’s?” What if I have to get to the hospital ER in the night? What if I have to make a decision without her to consult?

Funny thing is, I’ve never felt exactly like this before. I don’t mind being on my own; I miss her when she’s away, but I can manage alone quite well. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to in this situation. I’m vulnerable, low energy, and…I’m the last dad!

Oh, we’ve covered all the bases. I have people who will help me get groceries home, people who will take me to the ER if need be, people who will take me to Edmonton pick up my repaired computer. But still, I am afraid, a little bit. It has something to do with being the last dad.

My son needs a dad; has always needed a dad. And when I wasn’t there, for one reason or another, he had other dads, and they were each terrific in their own way. But now, there us only me, the last…and not necessarily the best…dad. I want to be there for him in whatever way I can, even in my diminished and broken state. But, on top of being frightened, it feels like a lot.

Now, I am sure this sounds silly to some of you, self-centered and petty. But that’s where I am these days. I need, I want, I hope…and I want to be a good dad, even if I’m the only dad. I wonder if other broken dads feel like this, and not just dads with an injured brain?

A visit to the Doctor

A good night’s sleep, a dozy morning…what a difference a day makes. Yesterday – Wednesday – was a big day for me. Finally, a visit with my very own doctor, Dr. Carin. She’d been away all through my stroke and rehab so far. She’s been my physician for 10 years…I missed her a lot. She is youngish (all relative, I guess); perhaps late thirties, perhaps forties…but talking to her is like talking to one of my own daughters. I trust her and she is honest with me.

We did a catch-up with her, talked about possibilities and problems. She was definite about “no travel via air in May,” which I had suspected, but needed t hear it from her. So, no Nashville. I’ve already begun efforts to recoup my money. She gave me clear guidelines about when to come to ER – BP over 160; go! Can’t read; go! I’m in the process of lining up potential drivers just in case. Beatrix will be away in Pittsburgh at a workshop she’s been hungering for since August. I’m glad she will get to go, but of course, I am anxious about being alone without her support, ‘just in case.’

Nevertheless, I slept well last night. Woke up, but not enough to get up. Sleep music, best yet: Rain forest downpour with the odd bird squawk. It is amazing what connection with a trusted person will do. When I saw Dr. Carin come into the room, I jumped up and hugged her. I needed the contact. I needed the contact.

I am monitoring my BP twice daily now, and recording it. Somehow, the routine settles me. Doesn’t routine always do that for me? Even though today all day and yesterday all day my head has hurt, I am relaxed, and my BP is down. Thanks God.

The Healing Touch women came today for an hour. Such a simple process…perhaps no medical value, but I go on time travel trips, I relax, and I feel the warmth of their hands passing over me. It’s wonderful; the best thing St. Andrews has done for me the whole time. I come to the end of this day as ‘at peace’ as I have been in awhile, even with Beatrix’ departure looming over me. Enough…

Vulnerable…alone

The symptoms and internal alternations produced by a “brain bleed” – a ‘small stroke’ I called it, are uncommonly diverse and unexpected. First off, the patient is disabused of the ‘small stroke’ denial. This is a major assault on the brain, potentially life threatening. A re-occurrence almost totally so. Or at least, that’s “the Word” from the realm medical. Delivered in sonorous tones, with serious face, it can produce the required sense of “whoa…let’s slow down here!”

As other signs emerge – headache, anxiety among groups larger than 3 or 4, weariness over virtually nothing, and sleep time haunted by unfathomable dreams and sudden wakefulness and creeping exhaustion all accumulate to produce one effect: I am vulnerable. 

Throughout my life I have dealt with woes large and small with the denials and remedies of normal humans – “it’s getting better”…”a little rest will straighten it out”…”it’ll pass in a few days…” Always a sense of agency, or control and of the ability to overcome, override, return to normal in time…. Yes, in time, which is seen as your healing friend. It still may be my healing friend, but it also stands quite small ahead of me, perhaps not much of it left; perhaps my reservoir of time is mostly used up, A not unreasonable thought at 78, almost 79 years. Feeling vulnerable, being vulnerable, is a relatively new and fearful state for me. No matter many protestations of love arrive; no mater how much concern and good wishes come forth, the internal awareness is; “I am alone in this. It is my brain this breached, my emotions that run amok, my anxieties that may threaten my own very life.” Thanks or the hugs and the blessings, they are appreciated and helpful in great measure, but they do not crack the shell of me, here, facing… what?

Tonight the awake time is not filled with pain at least, or even with anger or terror. Tonight it is just; “Here I am…me, with only myself and I, the same face and heart and brain. All others stand apart. Whatever wisdom or patience or calmness can hold this vulnerability at bay, it must ultimately come through me alone, if not only from me.”

So I begin to reflect on my faith – not the beliefs I hold and will argue about or proclaim – but the trust (if any) that is bedrock in my person. What do I trust? Who do I trust? Is there a trustworthy force, person, or event upon which I can ground my alone-ness so as to recover with some semblance of dignity? For unaccustomed illness strips dignity away, layer by layer. I am one of the fortunate ones. I have my faculties, I have control of most of my functions, …but the higher ones betray me: anxious among my own kind, helpless to fear and old terrors when unconscious, forgetful of the day, the time, just a little disoriented about …”it’s what day?”

Vulnerable…alone in the night. Loved, but with no immediate lovers and caregivers to clasp your hand. The plight, I imagine, of every sufferer at some or many points. Glad only for one absence: pain. Now, if only sleep will return, I can sink again into that blessed unconsciousness of sleep, where one can as much a king as a tormented soul, depending on “genes, breakfast, and digestion” as Karl Ridd used to say. Enough tonight…

Night music…and noise, again.

There’s daytime, and there’s nighttime, and in my recovery process there is a huge difference between them. The difference, to use a lame phrase, is “like night and day.”

During the daytime, I try to stay on top of the recovery process. I do my reading practice and exercises; I was for lengthy periods, slowly. I lie down after meals, and for long periods in the morning. I get to bed before 10 every night. Good doobee. But as you’ve been reading, to a boring degree, likely, the nights are a different world for me in recovery. This weekend was a prime example.

On Saturday morning, I received a phone call from a person in my work situation. He was a friend, a supporter concerned for my well being and progress in recovery. He also bore an official message from the workplace that I found very upsetting, through no fault of his own.

For the remainder of the day, I grumbled about this, talked about it with Beatrix, and even shared it with my son, who knows a lot about this kind of thing. I did all I could to process it and devised a conscious strategy for dealing with the issues incipient in it. By evening, while still somewhat upset, I believed I had a handle on it.

Bedtime: first of all, I was clearly upset and distracted enough that I forgot to take my bedtime medication. Mistake number one. Then, beginning at 21:45, I lay waiting for sleep. Which didn’t come…and didn’t come. Then, I began having images of people from the past in totally incongruous situations, in places together where they never were together back then. I quickly realized that I had been sleeping at a light enough level that I felt awake, but was dreaming.

Then followed a long wakeful process of trying to make sense of the dreams – not a wise thing to try immediately following the experience. Of course, the mental activity soon shifted to the ‘situation’ raised for me by the innocent phone call earlier that day. The ‘issue’ rapidly became “The Issue,” and then “THE ISSUE.” For a good two hours I wrestled and writhed with this. A tussle with an angel, a la Jacob. It felt more like the Devil at the time.

Finally, I got up at about 2:00 AM. I decided to write an ‘appropriate email response to the appropriate individual about ‘the issue.’ This was positive action for me. It focused my mind, kept me working on what I needed to say as opposed to what I wanted to say. I finally left it shortly after three, knowing that I count on Beatrix for wise feedback on the document in the morning. I was asleep by 3:30 or so. And awake at seven. The impact of the last 12 to 14 hours began then. Bad headache, first in a long time, and a bag signal if you are dealing with stroke recovery. I took appropriate medication, which had always worked relatively quickly in hospital. By noon, no change. I thought, with help, I might sleep. No way; toss turn; repeat. I came to about 14:00 hrs, still aching, and ate something. And then went back to bed.

About four Beatrix began questioning me about whether we could go out for our normal Sunday evening Chinese meal. Actually, she gently announced it. That was actually helpful. By the time we went out, the headache was lightening, and the evening was OK, focused enough to watch Daniel Day-Lewis and Sally field in Lincoln.

Last night, with soft music, I slept well, and this morning, I have what I would call a ‘thick head,’ kind of sore, but not aching. One noticeable marker, however, was my blood pressure. I monitor it daily, as requested. All week it has been in the 130’s over 70’s – upper normal on the scale, pretty normal for me. All day Sunday it registered in the 150’s over 70’s, the “Hypertensive I” level. Not good for me. I’m glad I will see my MD on Wednesday. It has been a long weekend. I need a weekend to recover. Small joke. Next time…

Night…again

At certain points in life night is an important time. If you have a night job…if you are cramming fir an exam…if you are in labour…if your child is overdue for a curfew…and, if you are recovering from a stroke. Or at least, this is an important time for me, every night. I look forward to night with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Will I sleep? If I sleep, will I dream? How much of the past will be churned up by morning? Will radio help…or hinder? What kind of music will have what effect? Sounds like the plot of a bad movie, doesn’t it?

The night just finished, Friday night, April 12, was “one of those night.” Of course, we did all the wrong things, for starters. Both of us were feeling good, relaxed. It had been a good day for Beatrix, in terms of work. I had done some walking, visited folks at Tim’s without anxiety; we had a nice simple meal together.

For a change, there was a promising movie just opening at our local theatre – “Side Effects” – a thriller involving a depressed patient, and two psychiatrists tangled in a plot (improbable, on reflection) filed with old familiar names: Effexor, Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Paxil. Some come from my workdays in Psychiatry, some I have tried, with mixed results.

A good enough movie to leave you smiling and thinking of the acting of Jude Law and Catherine Zete-Jones. Channing Tatum was the required hunk; his wife, played by Rooney Mara, seemed a bit over her head. Anyway…

Came home quite pumped from this, and then mistakenly watched the last half of a very good episode of The Fifth Estate on CBC, entitled “Rate Your Hospital.” Great program…big mistake to watch it at 10:30, at least for me. I came to bed “pumped.” Which means engaged, excited, thrilled that it had been done…blood pressure up quite a bit, I’ll bet. At bedtime, these days, that means “consequences…” Hooked myself up to music – lie a fool – without my glasses on. I started with some ‘Relaxing music.” The music was lounge music with a soul -sounding (??) singer moaning on about he listened to his woman, they cried, together, they made love, everything was fine. The style was not relaxing, for me; it felt intrusive. Glasses off, I changed to “nighttime music,” which was orchestral, and smoother. I began to quiet down…but not to sleep.

I was clock-aware of 12:30…then 1:40…then 3:45 – must have slept some. Next waking, after 4:00, I was listening to Arthur Rubinstein playing the piano. Nothing wrong with the music, but it was wrong for me at 4:00 AM. Aggressive, strong, Brahms, I think…so I expected soft and smooth.

I finally got up at 5:30, emptied the dishwasher, and made my breakfast. I stumbled back to bed at about 7:00, and here I am writing about 9:00. Purged, (purged?) I hope to return to bed to doze or sleep until noon.

At least there are no dreams…at least none that I remember yet. But it’s morning, and I am tired out. Fortunately my only commitment is coffee with a friend at 3:00 PM. Soon after that…night again. Sigh…

Stepping in the dark…

Another step along the journey: Healing Touch. Some generous and gentle folk from the Church in which I was working in Lacombe re part of a group that prays together and then offers Healing Touch to any who need it and ask for it. Healing Touch is similar to Reiki, but not the same. After prayer, practitioners quietly move their hands over your body, close enough so the hat of their hands is felt. Sometimes you are touched, many times not. The whole experience is meditative, calming and promotes healing of a spiritual nature. One comes out of such a time altered in some way. And the folks come again and again, as volunteers, to share their own spiritual calmness with you.

I’ve had three such visits recently, and I look forward to more. What actually happens I can’t exactly say, but in the relationships that develop and the offering of care that is given, a powerful ministry happens.

But not all “next steps” are so pleasurable. Having discovered a source of calming music to send me to sleep via the Internet and my iPad, I find sleep comes quicker. But not always does it remain quiet. More dreams are released, and some of them come from the distant past. For example, I awake some time after midnight last night with the sense that a man, the father of one of my grandsons, whoa man who had once threatened to bean me with a table leg, was either in the house or trying to get. I spent many anxious minutes trying to reason with myself that this was silly. Nevertheless, I got up and set the door alarm!

This morning when I woke, I felt as though I had been, or was, in the middle of a drinking bout: drunk. I couldn’t focus to set a simple device, and I simply staggered back to bed for another hour or more of sleep.

Was that an effect of medication? Or of my brain injury? Did the sleep disturbance have anything to do with it? When new things happen to you after a traumatic incident, all behavior tends to be interpreted in the light of that event. So more rational meanings are left to the side. I’m still looking around for those more rational meanings. I’ll keep you posted.

Another baby step…

Today I saw a Speech Pathologist. A friend who works in Cardiology in Calgary had suggested this to me. Apparently, These folks can help with reading problems as well as with problems of speech. Today was an assessment. Turns out that she can, indeed, help me with re-learning to read. I have exercises to do that will help focus, and me slow down and thus regain some confidence as fresh neural pathways are created in my brain. Quite fascinating.

Of course, the danger is that I will get too excited about this, and raise my blood pressure…a bad thing. I carried groceries downstairs this afternoon, and only when I reached the basement fridge did I realize that I was breathing hard. Too much strain. Learning to slow down, pace myself, is really difficult for me. As I rested afterwards, I thought, “I have no idea how close to the edge I am. I keep thinking of this stroke as “minor,” while the MD calls it a “major stroke.” I need to remember that this event gives me a clear message about one of the ways I could die, tomorrow, or in ten years. A sobering and useful thought.

I have managed to get through two visiting sessions with four or more people at Tim’s without having an anxiety attack. Tomorrow, I’m having coffee with a group of Lodge Brothers. Another test for staying calm, not sweating (signal for anxiety) and yet enjoying myself.

Each step is so small, and yet so important. I’m not a good learner at the slow pace life. I get excited by what I see, what I read, what I hear…I need to practice the slow breathing technique that June Yee taught me a few weeks ago when she came to visit me in hospital. June is an old friend of Beatrix’ with whom we spend Christmas – her and her family. She drove all the way from Calgary to visit me in Wetaskiwin – over a two-hour drive each way. A touching and awesome gesture from a friend who also has a “congenital brain defect,” which is what I have now.

Baby steps, sober thoughts, profound awareness of the love that surrounds me…much of it from Beatrix, who puts herself out for me all the time. I feel blessed, and humbled, and kind of…mute. I can say thank you all the time, and it wouldn’t be enough. But this is enough for tonight.

Stumbling steps…again

Stumbling steps…Some days are bad, and some days are bad because you set them up that way. Wednesday last, for example. I decided to walk to the drugstore…I walk a bit every day, right? And the Doc said that would be OK, right? So I walked to the drugstore to pick up a prescription, a distance (as I discovered) of about 2.5 Km, each way!  Now, in the “old days” – before January 16, I walked 4 or 5 km every day. But that was, what, two and a half months ago. This absence defines “out of shape” pretty clearly.

By the time I had reached the store, I knew I had (as my mother use to say), “bitten off more than I could chew.” I started back…slowly. Stopped at the Library for a read and a rest. Walked the next ½ Km to Tim Horton’s. After a rejuvenating coffee and talk, I begged a ride home. I should have marked “dumb” on the calendar. It was just too much this soon. The rest of the day was OK. Then came Thursday morning. Poor feeling. Getting poorer. Most of the afternoon I has a sore head. Not the same as a headache. A “sore head” the doctor told me, was a sign that I should lie down, because my brain needed rest time. I spent a lot of the day on my back, with no energy. Not even enough to go to the corner for mail. Advil double strength helped, but I was in bed shortly after nine PM, and slept through the night for the first time in some days.

I feel much better today, and I am still digesting the truth that I am a slow learner, and that my body talks, even if it mostly talks back at me after the event. I have taken it much easier today, though I did walk even in the wind. But not far. Visiting with two sets of friends at Tim’s gave me small sweats ( a sign of anxiety).I came home and spent time in bed. The rest of the day I will have to myself, and my head no longer hurts.

I ponder how long this whole thing is going to take. Longer than I can imagine. And I reflect on how dumb I am, on occasion. On occasion, you who would laugh aloud.

A dream, a song, a story…

Tonight I heard a song and around it dreamed a dream. It was from the song, but it was not about the songs. It began with a battle I the background, an ancient Israelite battle. A great warrior came to the house of a poor woman to be cared for and nursed from hi wounds. She cared for him, she argued with him, she ordered him around – “do this, or your arm will fail…do that or your keg will be weak.’ The warrior, or king, obeyed and thrived. Inside he smiled, while outside he glowered at the woman and threatened her. She paid his threats no mind. She brought him soup and she brought him honey, and he thrived.

And then the dream changed. The warrior was about to leave. He was now strong and whole, the woman who stood at the door of the house where he had lived and healed was weak, and retiring, and quiet, an she limped on a cane.

As the warrior, the King, was leaving, he gave her a gift. It was the sword of his father, a mighty man of valour. He laid the heavy sword across the woman’s arms. She could barely hold it and stand holding it with her cane.

“From time to time, I will pass this house on business or in battle, and I will look for you,” said the warrior, now the King. When you can come forth from this cause, bearing this sword in one of your hands, I will take you from this place, and I will make you my wife, and we will live together, strong and equal. And with that, the King, the warrior, rode away, and the woman waited in the dust until he had gone, and then she smiled. She dropped her cane, and swung the sword into he right hand, where she held it alone. Sometimes she leaned on it to walk, but mostly she swung it to cut down brush, and to make sure that no marauder came to her door. And she made soup and ate it; she gathered honey and she waited.

I dreamed, but I that about my journey, or someone else’s journey. It is about two people, one strong, and the other apparently weak and in need. Which one is strong? Which one is weak? How will they come together? Will they come together?

The day behind me was good, but hard. It was good in that I sat with relative strangers at Tim’s and talked with them of weakness and I did not feel trapped or panic. Earlier in the day, I had started out to walk an errand, and, nearly there, I knew it was too long. My long-unused legs were talking loudly to me. I rested in the Library on my way toward home, but of course, I stopped at Tim’s, my port in every storm. There I walked without, and even begged from a barely know couple, a ride home. They gave it, and I came home tired, but alive, if you know what I mean.

Tonight, I have slept well, waking only to yell you this tale, and then return to bed when my tea is done.

Apologies…

Sorry for the repetitive postings of the last few blogs. I have not completely lost my mind. This was a problem with Telus, my service provider. Being worked out as we speak.

Another step…or paranoid plots

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Hatching plans…normal or weird?

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Hatching plans…normal or weird?

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Hatching plans…normal or weird?

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Hatching plans…normal or weird?

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Hatching plans…normal or weird?

Another step? Or just another day with the same steps over and over. In any case, a fresh approach to tackling the annoying issues of sleeps and lack of focus. Last night was disastrous; no sleep until 3, groggy all morning, ads well as feeling poor, with a sore head…

I plotted the day. Lots of long walks, taken without speed, just to condition the wobbly legs and actually get somewhere. Long sociable time at Tim’s with people familiar with physical distress, so held the whole thing seriously. Then a long walk home. This assured me of enough exercise to make me tired. I did append some time on my back before preparing dinner.

My evening strategy was simple: no overly dramatic TV or reading. The reading was a failure in the evening; attention span has shortened to minutes, so I can’t keep focus on a story or article for long. Big change: I ingest one whole Xanax pill (as prescribed), hoping this will make me more soporific. In a way it does, Certainly, by 9 PM I am already yawning toward bed, having had no panic attacks the whole day, even when sitting at coffee with four people. Before ten I am laid out and listening to a reasonable talk show (no one was raising my hackles with paeans of praise for our every-hair-in-place boy scout PM). Out like a light.

I awoke just now at 2 AM for perfectly natural reasons…see how delicately put… and will soon be in bed and asleep again till morning. I have pledged to lie in bed until Gomeschie time, where up-getting is necessary as I am totally put off by Mr. ‘I’m-heading-for-the-corner-office-of the- CBC-just-you-wait-and see.’

The day tomorrow is planned, on my head at least to be quiet and focused, as MD ordered. One anomaly to puzzle through. The insurance company insists I should have notified them of my incident the day after it happened, rather than four weeks later, when my wits returned. If I am not allowed to fly, I may be penalized for that failure – ie, given less money! If, on the other hand, I AM allowed to fly with MD clearance, and any ‘incidents’ occur, I will not be able to claim insurance because it was a prior condition about which they were aware! Does this sound like s poker game with your opponent having access to your cards from the start, and making up the rules as the game unfolds! Why insure at all, when you are old, since by then, almost every condition is “pre-existing”? Think on that as you plan your vacation!

Another step…not quite a stumble

It is very frustrating. I began this blog by telling you of a lovely day which Beatrix and spent together running errands, and how it slowly caught up with me. As I got tired and had no conscious rest, I began to unravel. The following paragraph picks up in the middle of the story. Where I managed to lose the earlier page I have no idea, Another measure of ‘out-of-control.’ If I find it I’ll include another time. At this point – 02:11 AM, I have to try and beg some sleep. This will have to do…

At this point I am in full panic mode, at least on the inside. Outside I think I bluster and bustle in an annoyed and annoying way. But I am  beginning to breathe hard, and to perspire. My head is beginning to hurt; all signs that I need calm, and I’ve been hung up servicing my computer so I can’t just turn it off and go to bed, can I? (I her a faint chorus of yeses in the distance!)

I take nighttime medication, of course too late to be of use, and get into bed and 10:30. At 01:10, with no sleep, and not even finding a soothing classical station to soothe my soul, I get up and here I m. No hurting head, and no sleep in sight. As I padded through the house I found myself thinking profound and sobering thoughts. Don I really want anxiety over income tax to be my death? Is the Canada Revenue Service worth my life.?

And how close is that end? I have this image of a door in my future – cant tell if it near or far. All I have been taught, and have taught, and have believed and partially experienced, tells me that door leads to Something else, Someone else, Someplace else. So believe that…which is not the same as to say I trust that. I wonder…and when I wonder, I come back to fear and them reach for trust as a rock to hold me. ”Lord, I believe…please trust my unbelief…”But I don’t want to open that tomorrow, nor for a long time.

But sleep evades me, or do I push it away? I value these dark and quit times to share internal things with faces only some of whom I know. If you are still with me, I thank you for your patience. You will continue to need it… as will I.

The Families that keep alive…

Thirty minutes into the new day, and I’m here again, wide-awake! I wonder if this is some kind of curse visited upon the aged and inform that sleep slides away when darkness deepens. For I’m sure that it happens to more than to me. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I lie around in bed until 9 AM, rather tan leaping up at four or five as usual, and then walking folk km at a brisk clip. It probably also doesn’t help that I lay down after lunch and sleep, or that I walk now at a stroll…

And then, there are the innards. As a runner, some 40 years ago, and even as a walker these past few years, bowel functioning was rarely an issue for discussion, or even for thought. How, it has become both. A life of relative inaction is part of it.

How to cope? I found a wonderful product, a laxative tea, which works more effectively than any market product I have tried. It is herbal, all natural, and quite tasty. The manufacturers have a twisted sense of humour bas well. Its name is “Smooth Move.” I kid you not. Look in your local Health Food store for it. Relief is at hand!

Lack of activity has had me thinking about my other major exercise program, working out in the pool. Largely, but not by any men exclusively, women, this group – well there are three of them – meet in the AM at 8:30 (you can tell it’s for old folks, because what working person could lie around waiting for 8:30!) The Monday, Wednesday and Friday ladies are all upper crust in their own minds. They invite people into the group, and for tea. I have never been invited to workout, or to e. I just come and do it. These women come to talk. On occasion the din has been so loud that the instructor has had to whistle it down and tell them she was getting hoarse leading the class. At times she lays on really heavy workouts to see is she can induce silence! These women are largely a self-important pain. I mostly ignore them and their invasive questions.

Then there is the Tuesday and Thursday AM group. This is a group for “Seniors.” The age of the group is roughly the same as the upper class ladies, but we own our years. There 7 or 8 men in the group, and we talk less than the others, and have more fun. He have water fights, we goad the instructor into tougher workouts. We “coffee together once a month, (sometimes I bring Baileys) and the men have long, world-problem-solving discussions in the hot tub. We are friends.

Then there is the deep-water class. Tuesday and Wednesday nights, groups ranging from 3 to 21 gather in the deep-water pool to REALLY work out. A small number of men are part of the group. Float belts so you won’t drown, all ages come. I’m likely the oldest by 20 years. And There. Are. Bikinis. Very Small  Bikinis.  Many of the old salts roll their eyes at these, knowing, as we, that sooner or later a top will come loose in exercise, there will a shriek from somewhere in the pool as a kid tries to tie up before her breasts float away. Of course, no one can see anything. It’s just the idea that counts. The women who are serious come in bathing suits, usually black.

For those of us who come regularly, a kind of family spirit develops, even with the youngsters who work at the pool and drive us through our heavy workouts. I hate missing it. And known we come to one of the deep reasons for why this is so important to me. These are my family. I am everybody’s grandfather or father (in my own eyes), we care for one another, and we share that “I almost drowned tonight but wasn’t it a great workout?” There are mothers in need of a break, tired schoolteachers, mental health workers, and one old minister. I belong with these people, more than any other group in Ponoka.

When I came home from hospital, there were cards waiting for me. One was from the pool crew, not only all the group participants, but also all the staff, including the kids that annoy me so much. It was the only card I received that made me cry. The loss of them (temporary, I hope) is one of the keenest. And of course I realize that as old folks must drop out of bridge clubs and golf games, and bowling leagues, and swimming classes, their lives begin slipping away. Some of the people who love then, wrinkles, bad jokes and all, are no longer there. When old Henry…over 90… could come to class no more because of hip, we knew the end was coming. And sure enough, his hip was followed by cancer, and he never returned.

This scenario is becoming my new normal. I missed because of surgery…and now it’s a stroke. Will I be back? I sure hope so. But you wonder…