Lisa Hoffman & Charles Atkins

Published July 15, 2004

I’ve not written a column in a couple weeks because, as my interventional neuroradiologist—and that’s a mouthful--put it, "I had an event". Now, when I think of events, I imagine a tent in the back yard, bouquets of flowers, and elegantly dressed party goers with flutes of champagne. My event was very different, something between a stroke, and not a stroke—only time will tell. In the meantime, with the help of my friend Charlie and his magical laptop, I’ll try to get out the occasional column.

I don’t want to bore you with the scary details of what I’ve been through. The main thing is, I survived it. And to quote Betty Davis, "getting old is not for sissies." Beyond that, what I’ve discovered is that the road back from any kind of "event" is a series of baby steps; in fact I took my first ones a couple days ago. My therapist gushed as I hobbled from one foot to the next, my hands glued to the walker, deathly afraid of letting go, of falling backwards, or even worse, of toppling over onto my face. "You’re doing great!" she encouraged, with one hand behind my knee and the other squarely on my butt. Yeah, great, I thought, wondering how something so bad, could have happened so fast.

I think the worst part has been this horrible dependence on others. Blanche Dubois with the ‘kindness of strangers’, obviously never stayed in a modern-day hospital, where over-worked and harried nurses and aides think nothing of leaving a bed-ridden patient on a bedpan for hours on end—I’m not exaggerating. Or being told by an intensive care nurse that I should be able to do more for myself—this was on the eve of my event. A few hours later I didn’t know where I was, and most of my words had left my brain, a terrifying experience for a woman who has made her living as a writer for the past fifty years.

But that’s all water under the bridge, and now I’m getting dressed—Johnny coat and all—and am wheeling down to my twice a day physical therapy at a wonderful rehab facility, replete with waterfalls and all manner of therapies to help those of us who’ve had "events" regain our independence.

Everything I once took for granted, is now a challenge. Getting from the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the walker, from the walker to...it’s very frustrating, a combination of fear, helplessness, and wanting to be able to do all of the things I used to do.

"Okay," my therapist says, "you ready to take some steps?"

"Sure," and with one therapist behind me, in case I fall back, and one in front of me, in case—you get the picture. I’m up, hanging onto the walker for dear life, right foot, left foot, and suddenly I’m back to kindergarten and the Little Engine that Could, "I think I can I think I can, I know I can, I know I can." On Tuesday it was six steps, yesterday was ten steps, and today was twenty-two steps. "I think I can, I think I can. I know I can, I know I can."

It’s amazing, this whole experience, the good, the bad, and the—just please get me through this. And I must mention the incredible camaraderie of those who’ve had strokes and other events; it’s remarkable. Other patients in wheelchairs offer me free instruction in how to make each forward move smoother and more productive. People I don’t know see my efforts and offer heart-felt words of encouragement. "Well done." "You’re really getting it." Having been through an "event", they understand; they’ve been here. There’s something about being in my/our shoes—or rather Velcro slippers—that’s difficult to communicate if you haven’t been in them.

Finally, the worst part, the piece I don’t want to put on paper. It’s a fear that I won’t be able to make the necessary baby steps and regain my independence. When I have those depressing thoughts, I pull down my mental blinders, the ones that got me through the Nazis, and the bombing of London. I try not to think beyond today and what I need to do today. It’s all about one foot, in front of the next, and God willing, this little engine will pull out of this station and get back on track.

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