Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: stroke

Trying to tame the rage inside

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I’ve always had a temper; it’s just in my younger years, I was really good at reining it in. Like, inhumanly good. I had to be beacuse I was punished for not doing so. Not physically, but emotionally shamed/chastised for it. I was not allowed to show any negative emotion. If I did, I would be screamed at by my father or my mother would give me the “I’m eating a very sour lemon” face while drawing her lips tight.

Only my parents were allowed to show their displeasure. My father either by shouting or being silent for hours whereas my mother would either cry or pull faces while she complained to me about my father (her marriage). It was during these times that I learned to keep a tight lid on my emotions and all my reactions.

It was so bad, that I had to unlearn a lot of coping mechanisms later in life. In Taiji, my teacher taught us chin-na (joint locks) techniques. We would practice them on each other and tap out when the pain was too much. Except, because I had such control over my reactions, I did not react to the techniques. At all. Now, I’m  sure you can see why this might be a problem. The chin-na did not do permanent damage if you let go quickly or before you went past the point of reasonable.

Since I could not tell what that point was, I was in danger of having something broken. I wasn’t trying to be tough or to flex; I truly did not feel anything. There’s one where you grab the thumb and jerk it downwards toward the wrist. I can already almost touch my wrist with my thumb, and I would not notice if someone pushed it a few inches further.

My teacher declared that I could only do it with her and even then she had to tell me to tap out when I thought it was a reasonable point of pain.

Additionally, when I got my tattoos, I would fall asleep much of the time. Or I would find it erotic. The only time the pain was more prevalent was when the tattooist was doing my collarbone. That was excruciating. The rest though? Not a problem. I have four tats. One large one on my left boob. One small one above my stomach. One band of thorns and flames on my left forearm. One rather large band of waves and flames around my right upper arm–with a yin-yang as the medallion joining the two sides.

I want to get another, but the tattooist I used to go to left the state a few decades ago. I’m not sure I want to go through the trouble of finding another one. I don’t go out much because of my incredibly shitty immune system, and I’m not sure I really want another tattoo. Or rather, I do, but I’m not sure I want to go through the bother to get one.


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The stark difference in my memory

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Before my medical crisis, I had an excellent memory. I could remember the names of everyone I met and never had to write anything down. After my medical crisis, this all went to hell. Understandable as I had a stroke–a significant one. to put it bluntly, I wasn’t expected to wake up (I was in a coma). I had walkiung (non-Covid-related) pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke. Yes, all aat the same time. The last three within twenty minutes of each other.

When I suddenly woke up a week after I had fallen in a coma, I was thrilled to be alive. This was quite the change for me (being thrilled about it, not the actual being of it), and I didn’t care about the minor issues that came with it. The complete loss of my short-term memory, my blurry vision, my inability to know what day it was. Seriously. I woke up on the tenth of September (or maybe 9th). On the 11th, a nurse asked if I knew what day it was. Uh, no. And even if I did, I don’t think the tragedy of September 11th, 2001, would have been the first thing on my mind–or the hundredth.

My vision cleared about the third or fourth day I was home. The memory loss, however, stuck around. I took it in stride because, again, I was just glad to be alive.

Lately, however, I’m really irritated with my memory as it’s getting worse. I write down important things, so it’s not that. It’s the little things that are getting on my nerves. For example, I bought three different cases for my new phone. Not because I wanted three cases, but because I didn’t understand the way the phone cases were being sold. I wanted a case with a front and back–and with a clip. The pictures on Amazon showed cases that looked as if they were front and back while saying they were double protection!

What I did not get was that the two layers of protection (usually one being a flimsy foam layer) were both for the back of the phone and not the front. So the first two I ordered were like this. I finally realized my issue and looked specifically for cases with clips (Because that usually meant it would have a front cover and a back cover). I found the OtterBox for my new phone and ordered it. When that one arrived, it was for the wronge ‘size’ of my phone. I had specified the correct size, but they simply sent the wrong one.


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Gratitude–and guilt

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I was reading Ask A Manager and there’s a question about COVID, working from home, children, and more. The context was a letter writer who moved during the pandemic and now was unhappy as to be asked to go back to the office. The comment in question is from someone who had a stroke at the beginning of this year and can’t drive any more.

It got me thinking about my own stroke (which I rarely even think about unless I’m thinking about my medical trauma in general). I felt guilty reading this comment because, well, it should be obvious why. This person had a stroke and can never drive again. They can only type with one hand and they can’t work in an office again.

Me, on the other hand, was never forbidden to drive except for a few days after having my angiogram (and I was in the hospital, anyway). In fact, it was deeply funny to me (in a dark way) that while my parents were warring over my father’s ability to drive (very poor) and my mother’s ability to drive (problematic), the person most capable of driving was the one who had non-COVID-related walking pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke.

I have slight memory issues, but nothing to complain about. Plus, I have a workaround that isn’t difficult (writing things down) and I feel blessed that I can still type 100+ words a minute. My eyesight is back to where it was before the medical trauma (poor), no longer blurry. I had no rehab. None.

While I was in the hospital, I talked to the chaplain. I made it clear that I was not a believer, which did not faze him at all. I told him that I didn’t question why the medical trauma happened to me. I don’t take the best care of  myself and I have bronchial issues. I’m not special and exempt from bad things happening to me. I’ve never questioned that. But the fact that I came back without a scratch? That eats at me from time to time. Why the hell was I so lucky when others have suffered so much?

I should be dead. There is no way I should have survived what happened to me. When I Google similar situations, I  come up with nothing because there is just no parallel. When I tried to find a support group for people who had gone through what I had, I couldn’t find any. Not even any who had just survived cardiac arrests with no lasting effects.

I am called a walking/living/literal miracle every time I mention what happened to me. People who are in the medical biz just are amazed that I survived what happened to me, let alone thrived. People not in the medical field are floored when I tell them. I’m not bragging or even humble-bragging when I say that I am one of a kind. I have done hours of research and cannot find anything even close to what I went through.

I should be dead. I don’t think I can overstate that. I should not be here.


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Five month anniversary

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A few hours after this post goes up, it’ll be the five-month anniversary of my medical trauma. That’s astonishing to me because I didn’t think I’d make it past the third month, but not for health reasons. Healthwise, I’m lucky that I haven’t taken any sustained damage. I have been checked out and given a clean bill of health. I have a little bit of short-term memory issues, but it’s no big deal. It only comes into play during my private lessons and my note-taking, which I need to improve. Other than that, I can watch a video of the same movement time and time again, which helps.

It’s almost been half a year. That’s mind-boggling to me. And I still can’t remember what happened during that fateful night itself, but I can talk about it because my brother and I have talked about it several times. I can tell people what happened as if I were there (well, I was, but you know what I mean), but it’s all because of what my brother has told me and from what I’ve read in the Caring Bridge journal. He wrote daily entries there, which I’ve read several times and have been invaluable to my understanding of what happened to me.

To recap once again, this is the story. Roughly around three at night/in the morning on September 2nd/3rd, I couldn’t breathe. I called 9-1-1 (which is not like me at all) and they told me to unlock the front door. I did before promptly passing out in my front hallway. The cops came and bagged me (oxygen) until the EMTs came along. Then, they took over. I had a cardiac arrest and the EMTs had to shock my heart so it would start pumping again. I had another cardiac arrest and they shocked it again. One of these times, they also jabbed me with an Epi pen. And I had a stroke as well. This was all in a 20-minute ambulance ride.

Here was where a lot of luck came into the picture. Remember, the pandemic was still raging at this time. Beds were at a premium. My brother had a friend who had a very similar experience a month earlier (pneumonia, couldn’t breathe, etc.). His wife rushed him to Regions Hospital and they didn’t have a bed so he was taken elsewhere. He had a cardiac arrest at some point and he died.

Regions has the best heart center in Minnesota. They do innovative techniques like lowering the patient’s body temperature to protect the innards (brain, lungs, heart, etc.). I was lucky to be accepted there. I was unconscious when I was admitted. My brother found me roughly fifteen hours after I collapsed, with a healthy assist from Ian. He and I Facebook message every day when I get up, which in those days was between ten a.m. and one p.m. When he didn’t hear from me ,he messaged my brother around seven p.m. his time (after messaging me and texting me from noon to six or seven or so).


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