Tag: stroke recovery

My Stro-Called Life: My Stro-Called Armor

My Stro-Called Life: Stro-Called Armor?

Most people think of a cane as a simple mobility aid—something for balance, a sign of aging, or a marker of weakness. I never thought much about them myself… until I had a stroke. This is my stro-called life now.

Suddenly, a cane wasn’t just a stick with a handle. It was possibility. It was strategy. It was even a little bit of power. And it stirred up something complicated in me—part shameless, part protective, part pride.

I don’t remember exactly how the cane was first introduced—whether it was handed to me or just left leaning against a chair at IRC. But I remember this:

I wanted it.

Not for balance. Not for stability. But because it might get me off the fall-risk list while I was in rehab. And if I’m being brutally honest, because it might let me board planes first—before first class. (I travel a lot, and yes, I’m shameless enough to view a mobility aid as a golden ticket.)

Here’s an excerpt from my new memoir, My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me:

My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me

Okay, and maybe I like the idea of a statement cane—something bold, like one topped with a gilded dragon egg. Or a discreet weapon I’d never actually use but can fantasize about wielding in some artful, heroic act. Not that I’m violent. I’m very anti-violence. But the image of a perfectly timed cane whack? Makes me smile.

“Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go … and wear a sword instead of a walking‑stick.”

-J. R. R. Tolkien

Also, I have another, quieter reason for wanting the cane.  I know I’m different now—slower, off in ways I can’t always pinpoint but others can probably sense.

The cane would be a kind of shield, a visible explanation for my invisible disability. Instead of people wondering, What’s wrong with her?, the cane would answer for me. It would give context. It would give me cover. If I stumbled, forgot something, or acted a little strange, the cane would speak before anyone had to ask.

…

Pre-Stroke Brain: So… we’re actually excited about a cane now?

Post-Stroke Brain: [Is excited and lies] Not excited. Just… it’s strategic. This bad boy could be our ticket off the fall-risk list.

Pre-Stroke Brain: Uh-huh. And the priority boarding thing?

Post-Stroke Brain: Obviously.

Pre-Stroke Brain: And the fantasy about a cane topped with a dragon egg?

Post-Stroke Brain: Yes?

Pre-Stroke Brain: Or the imaginary person you’re mentally whacking with said dragon-egg-cane?

Post-Stroke Brain: They earned it. Every. Single. Whack. [Snorts in laughter]

Pre-Stroke Brain: Right. Totally. And the part where you want it so people won’t wonder what’s “wrong” with you?

Post-Stroke Brain: [Somber now] Yeah… that part’s real. It feels safer when the cane explains me before I have to.

Pre-Stroke Brain: Or maybe it just explains what you think people are wondering.

Post-Stroke Brain: Maybe. But if it makes them pause before they jump to conclusions? I’ll take that trade-off.

Pre-Stroke Brain: Fair enough.

…

My dad, on the other hand, genuinely needs a cane—his mobility is limited—but he chooses not to use it.

I think, for him, it’s about pride. He doesn’t want to be seen as disabled. He’d rather stumble his way through the world than carry something that signals vulnerability. It’s interesting, really—how we see the same object so differently. For him, a cane represents weakness. For me, it feels like armor.

“I put my armor on, I’ll show you that I am”

-Sia

I used to roll my eyes at my dad’s stubbornness. Now I wonder if I’m any less prideful—just in a different way.

He resists the cane because it reveals something he doesn’t want the world to see.

I reach for it because it reveals something I need the world to understand.

Maybe we’re both just trying to control the narrative in a world that often jumps to conclusions.

And honestly, maybe I also like the idea that, with a cane, I can be the one who’s noticed for something, instead of judged.

stro-called life

It’s not just about mobility or boarding planes early. It’s about context. It’s about walking into a room and having a silent explanation for the moments when my words get stuck or my processing lags. A visual cue that says: Don’t judge me too quickly. There’s a reason. And it’s now my stro-called life.

No release date yet—because writing this memoir, much like stroke recovery, takes patience, persistence, and more than a little creativity. But like the cane, it’s also a shield—something that helps me steady myself while letting the world know what’s really going on. Just like the cane became my unexpected armor, this book is becoming a way to carry the story forward—with humor, honesty, and resilience. When it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know. Until then, stay tuned for more glimpses into a journey that proves strength sometimes comes disguised as a stumble.

My Stro-Called Life: Hospital Haze

My brain broke in the night, and by the time I reach the hospital, it is already too late. This is my stro-called life.

“Nothing prepares you for the moment your brain betrays you—not training, not experience, not even a lifetime of helping others.”

When the paramedics rush me to the ER, a code stroke is called immediately. But I am already outside the window for treatment. The clot came and went in the night, leaving its damage behind. What follows isn’t the dramatic chaos you might expect if you’re a fan of Grey’s Anatomy, but something stranger: a fog of hunger, humiliation, and denial that became my first real taste of my stro-called life.

Here’s an excerpt from my new memoir, My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me:

My Stro-Called Life: Notes From the Brain That Betrayed Me

The first few days are mostly a blur, thanks to the edema in my brain—time passes in disjointed fragments stitched together by fluorescent lights and the steady beeping of machines. The thing I remember clearly is how hungry I am—and how I’m not allowed to eat. It feels absurdly unfair. What kind of place is this, anyway? A steady stream of doctors, nurses, and specialists file in, each asking different versions of the same questions. My response never changes: “Can I have something to eat?”

Then, a remarkably handsome doctor with kind eyes enters, and my spirits lift. Eagerly, I report my most pressing concern: I am starving. His face, however, falls with genuine disappointment.

“I was hoping you were going to report having a bowel movement,” he replies. While he doesn’t bring me food, Dr. Morven proves to be one of the most caring and attentive doctors I’ve ever encountered, and I am fortunate to have him on my team.

That said, apparently, pooping is a big deal after a stroke.  A stroke can damage the part of the brain that controls bowel function. More on this later.

Swallow Test + Fall Risk

No food until I pass a swallow test. The objective is straightforward: sip water without choking. A speech-language pathologist supervises. I’m parched and overly confident. I fail spectacularly—choking on the water as it goes down the wrong pipe.

My mom is right there, trying to advocate for me, saying I’m just overeager from hunger and thirst. But my excitement isn’t enough for a pass.

Each denied meal feels like my body reminding me: you’re not in control anymore.

Although the timeline is hazy—it feels like hour, maybe days—before I am allowed to attempt the swallow test again. This time, I pass. No coughing, no choking, no signs of aspiration. I am finally cleared for real food.

My reward? A tray of unidentifiable lukewarm hospital fare: rubbery beige stuff and something that might have once been fruit. It is objectively unappetizing—and I devour it like it’s a five-star meal.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m labeled a “fall-risk.” (It turns out I am temporarily paralyzed on my entire left side, which makes a decent case for it. Funny, the things we remember—and the things we forget.) This means I’m not allowed to get out of bed without assistance from medical staff—including for basic things like using the bathroom. But ever the rebel (or just impatient), I routinely get up on my own. As a result, my bed is alarmed. I pay it no mind, getting up and moving, er, swaying, about as I please, which not only sets off the alarm, but the nurses too.

In my defense, it’s not like I’m doing this alone. I’ve got company—two voices in my head who can’t agree on anything. Pre-Stroke Brain: practical, easily annoyed, and annoyingly responsible. Post-Stroke Brain: impulsive, distractible, and weirdly enthusiastic about bad ideas. This is now my stro-called life.

Pre-Stroke Brain: Wait… we need medical clearance to drink water now?

Post-Stroke Brain: Yeah. Apparently, difficulty swallowing and choking on liquids is a whole thing after a stroke. It’s called dysphagia.

Pre-Stroke Brain: Oh. And everyone’s suddenly invested in our bowel habits?

Post-Stroke Brain: Deeply invested. It’s a group project!

Pre-Stroke Brain: Fantastic.

Post-Stroke Brain: At least we passed the second swallow test. Even if all it earned us was a tray of hospital slop.

Pre-Stroke Brain: You inhaled it though.

Post-Stroke Brain: It was sustenance. We’re wasting away here.

Pre-Stroke Brain: And now we’re on fall risk?

Post-Stroke Brain: Yep.

Pre-Stroke Brain: So you get up on your own.

Post-Stroke Brain: Every chance I get!

Pre-Stroke Brain: Classic. Still trying to outrun your own limitations.

Post-Stroke Brain: Better than giving in to them

The things that horrify pre-stroke brain are the same things post-stroke brain finds funny—or can’t be bothered to care about anymore.

My hospital stay wasn’t heroic, inspiring, or anything close to Grey’s Anatomy. It was fluorescent lights that never dimmed, bed alarms that shrieked if I so much as shifted the wrong way, and trays of rubbery beige food I devoured like it was five-star cuisine because I was that desperate.

It was strangers monitoring my bathroom habits, and my dignity circling the drain faster than the purple dye bleeding from my hair. Survival didn’t look triumphant—it looked awkward, humiliating, and sometimes funny in ways I wish it weren’t. But if I can laugh at hospital slop and bed alarms, I can survive just about anything.

Still no release date—because writing a memoir is a lot like my stro-called life: messy, unpredictable, and never on anyone’s timeline. But when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know. Stay tuned for more excerpts—stories that prove recovery isn’t always pretty, but it can be pretty hilarious. After all, if I can survive having my bodily functions monitored and charted, you can survive waiting for the book.

“Recovery isn’t always pretty, but it can be pretty hilarious.”