Stroke By Stroke

When I woke up that morning, I couldn’t speak.

I called to my daughter to wake up for school, but the words came out in a jumble. Why couldn’t I speak properly? I stood at the island, feeling the cold, smooth surface of the counter beneath my hands, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. We were in the middle of major renovations: no sink, no cupboards, our living room was now a partially constructed bathroom and dining room, everything was upside down. Our house was a construction zone.

I had just turned fifty in June. I had no health problems. No bathroom cabinet full of pills or frequent visits to the doctor. My diet was healthy, and I barely drank because I could not handle the hangover I got from drinking even two glasses of wine. Pilates was a regular part of my routine. I loved running by the ocean, hearing the waves crashing and breathing in the salty air. Over the years, I lived in many places: Yellowknife, Banff, Ottawa, South Korea, and I always missed the wild, untamed waters of the Atlantic. Now I lived in a house overlooking the sea, in my childhood town, with my new husband and my daughter. Life had never been better.  

Did I think I was having a stroke? Absolutely not. (However, the lack of blood feeding my brain might have prevented me from reaching that conclusion). Ten minutes passed, and I regained my ability to speak. I wasn’t working that day and I told my daughter I wasn’t feeling well before returning to bed. When I woke up, I had a shower and talked to my husband and the workers who were busy laying flooring in the extension. I went back to our bedroom, one of the few construction-free zones.

As I was texting my sister, my phone slipped from my hands and landed with a thud on the floor. Through the haze of my stupor, I thought groggily, “Something is happening to me.” Restlessly, I shifted back and forth on the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. An hour later, my husband opened the door. “What do you want for lunch?” he said. His voice was a like a lifeline, bringing me out of my senselessness. I consciously turned toward him, my eyes open, and he asked me again, “What are we having for lunch?” My gaze remained fixed on him, but I couldn’t speak. He looked at me closely and started to panic. “Are you okay? Oh, my god. Should I call an ambulance?” I nodded.

In my newly awaked state, I became acutely aware of my physical condition. An invisible line divided my body in half, stretching from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. My right side was devoid of any feeling or sensation. I was completely speechless, unable to produce any sound at all. “I had a stroke,” I thought. “They will take me to Inverness, for the clot-busting medication,” I remembered from my First Aid class.

Within a few minutes, we heard the siren, and the paramedics rushed into the house, pushing a stretcher. They moved me through our partially finished extension and somehow got me out of the new door, which had no steps attached. I was glad the workers were gone for lunch. There are moments when you simply don’t want an audience; this was one them. We started the thirty-minute drive to Inverness, but I think he made it in twenty.

The moment I entered the hospital, I was promptly whisked away for a CT scan, and then they put me in a wheelchair. My husband, Tommy, arrived and my sister, my daughter and my mother arrived soon after. A nurse came out and told them, “We’re trying to save her brain.”

Tommy appeared by my side, providing a comforting presence, while the nurse hooked me up to an IV. She sat down in front of us. “The medication I’m about to give you has significant risks. People have lost their lives, right here in this very room, as a result of taking this drug. Do you give your consent?”

I nodded yes; I knew this medication could save me. It didn’t kill me, but it didn’t work the way it should have. After undergoing another CT scan, a helicopter landed to transport me to Halifax for an urgent operation. As they pushed me outside in the wheelchair, a gust of cold November wind woke me out of my medication-induced lethargy. I spent most of the helicopter ride wide awake but with my eyes closed, thinking of my family and friends, and doing my best to ignore the right side of my body, to no avail. “Please, please, please let me walk again,” I thought with desolation.

I should mention that I had no idea why I was being flown to Halifax. In fact, when we landed, I thought we were in Sydney. It’s entirely appropriate when you live in a small town to be transported to a bigger hospital for more in-depth care, and that’s exactly what I assumed was happening. Little did I know soon I would be lying on an operating table, surrounded by neurosurgeons. I could not speak, so I could not ask questions.

The paramedics brought me to the emergency room at the QE11, and I sat there alone in a room for quite some time. Nurses were in and out. I hadn’t urinated since before my stroke and felt a growing discomfort in my bladder. I tried to communicate with two nurses. They were not interested in interacting and ignored my attempts. They pushed my wheelchair through a door, the sound of the wheels turning echoing through the seemingly endless hall. “Maybe I’ll see a restroom sign and can show them what I need,” I thought, but they soon brought me into a large room filled with doctors and nurses, all suited up. “Please don’t to anything else to me until I pee!” I begged in my mind, my voice refusing to cooperate. With determination, I used my left hand to communicate through sign language. Every single person in the room was looking at me. No one reacted. Someone behind me put something over my face, and I woke up later in the ICU.

I woke up choking. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” my sister-in-law said, grabbing my hand. “That’s a feeding tube; it’s supposed to be there.” I was also hooked up to a catheter, so hopefully I didn’t pee myself when they put me out, but didn’t think of this for a few days. In my heavily medicated state, the only thing that registered was the nurse’s loud voice, drowning out any other thoughts. “Can you hear me, Cindy? Move your right foot!” I moved the only foot I could move, my left. “Move your left foot!” I moved my left foot again. If she asked me to move a certain way, my damaged brain was unable to compute, so I just moved haphazardly. Speech still eluded me. My sleep was constantly interrupted as they diligently roused me every hour, giving me instructions for movement, carefully monitoring my brain for any signs of swelling.

Late the first night, after a wake up call, I was drifting off into my coma-sleep. “Tommy just texted,” my sister murmured softly. “He said to tell you he loves you.” I felt a big fat tear drift down my face, and I thought, I’m going to beat this.

While I was incapacitated, the head ICU doctor brought my family into a room. Armed with charts and photos, he explained the details of my carotid artery stroke and the damage it caused my brain. My sister told the doctor that we were in the middle of renovations; should we build a wheelchair ramp? He told my family that I may never return home. Since my husband had only received one dose of the Covid vaccine, he was denied entry to the ICU. As a result, my sister, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law had to deliver this devastating news to him outside, in the parking lot. 

As the hours ticked by, I became more alert. I glanced over and saw my sister patiently seated beside me. I felt a cold, wet liquid trickling down my back, so I tried to sit up.

“Can you come over here?” Carolyn nervously called to the nurse, who hurried over and tried to settle me. I kept putting my left hand behind me.

“The feeding tube is leaking!” the nurse said. “No wonder she is uncomfortable.” She asked my sister to leave while she got me changed and fixed my tube. She took my sister aside and told her I had listened to every command without hesitation while she was getting me sorted. This was a good sign.

That night, they released me from the ICU and sent me up to the stroke unit. Finally, after forty-eight long hours, my husband stepped into my room. “Hello baby!” he cried, giving me a warm, tight embrace, ignoring all the tubes coming out of me. Despite my inability to speak, the happiness in my eyes conveyed how happy I was to see him.

The next morning, I was able to make a sound, and by afternoon, I spoke my first word. A nurse touched my right foot, and I felt it!

Early the following day, I found myself on a bumpy five-hour ambulance ride to the Cape Breton Regional Hospital in Sydney. By the time I was settled into my room, it was late on a Friday. Over the weekend, attendants had me move from my bed to a chair and back again. I could feel a heightened sensation in my leg and foot.

On Monday, my physiotherapist came. Clutching a walker with my left hand, and with Tommy on the right side, she had me navigate the halls. I did three rounds. My right arm was still hanging there, paralyzed, unresponsive. 

Two days later, I graduated to a cane. The next day, I was doing one of my regular walks up and down the hall, and I noticed my physiotherapist watching me from the nurse’s station. She came to my room later. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. Leaving the stroke unit, we traversed a maze of halls, awkwardly making small-talk. We arrived at a spacious lobby. Nestled in the corner was a stand-alone staircase. She asked me to climb up and down the stairs. Then, with a little smile, she took my cane away and made me repeat the task once more. From this point on, I was cane-free!

During my walks around the stroke unit, I noticed a room full of what looked like exercise equipment. I kept wondering when they would take me there; I wanted to rebuild my strength. Dr. Keating told me it was just a storage room with random equipment, which really disappointed me. I told her I was a runner. She gave me some extra exercises to do in my room. She also told me I WOULD run again. I never forgot those words.

I was home by mid-November. On December 22, I had a blood clot in my brain. It came from the same artery as my dissection. The artery wasn’t healed yet, so some blood scraped off, formed a clot and landed in the same spot on my brain that was damaged by the stroke. This put me way back on so many levels. I stayed overnight in the hospital and they sent me home. They put me on real blood thinners instead of baby aspirin; forever, they told me.

An occupational therapist, and a physiotherapist came to my home once a week. My arm was slowly waking up. I was doing an hour of arm exercises every day. After my exercises, I had to rest. After visits from the therapists, I had to rest. After a shower, I had to rest. Neurofatigue is one of the worst conditions left by the stroke, even more frustrating than my maimed right arm. My speech problems are super frustrating as well. 

After months of arm exercises and resting, I managed to do 15 push-ups. My right arm was shaking like crazy, but I did it. 

Two days later, on June 16th, I sat my husband down. “I’m going for a run,” I said. “Before you say anything, I’ve thought this through. You can stay by the phone. If I get too tired, I can call you. Remember the doctor in Sydney? She said I would run again.” I really wasn’t sure I could do it, but I was ready to try.

He was not thrilled about my plan. “You can’t run down the hill! If you fall and hurt yourself, you’ll bleed like crazy!” The thought of me being on blood thinners still made him uneasy. What if I cut myself? What if a car hit me?

I tied up my sneakers and hit the road. With each stride, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me. I ran down the hill. ( Whoops! Sorry Tommy!) I sprinted by the beach, the waves crashing along the jagged rocks at the tip of the island, and the briny scent of seaweed drifting towards me. My feet crunched against the gravel as I turned onto Lighthouse Road, my legs moving rhythmically, stroke by stroke.

It was time to turn around. Halfway through. Would I make it? I kept going, the gentle wind caressing my face. God, I had missed running. One hill left to climb to make it to my driveway.

I did it! I did it! I ran 5 kilometres! A surge of elation filled my heart and in that moment, I was infused with the belief that no goal was beyond my reach.

That afternoon I signed up for my first race ever, a 5k at the Maritime Race Weekend.

Just because I could.