About That Stroke

It's not as bad as you think

Dec 01, 2023

Happy Friday, friends! This is your weekly reminder to set your timer for a writing sprint or two and get to work (after you finish reading this newsletter). You’ll feel better, I promise.

In my last Friday newsletter, I casually mentioned that I’d had a small stroke in mid-September. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time assuring people that I’m okay. And that’s mostly the truth. As far as I can tell, I am okay. But I haven’t fully processed what happened yet, so I decided to discuss it in more detail here.

If you have stroke symptoms, please call 911 immediately. Don’t wait and don’t drive yourself to the ER (like I did). Emergency responders can administer brain and life-saving treatment before you arrive at the hospital, but there is a limited time frame and every second counts.

The morning of Friday, September 15, I woke up as usual. Fed the dogs, ate breakfast, wrote in my tarot journal. The only thing left to do before I started my work day was a three-mile walk, so I went upstairs to get ready.

I was happy to be back to my routine. I’d spent the previous two weeks recovering from my first case of COVID, which was easy enough symptom-wise but not great for my mental health. I’d somehow convinced myself I’d test negative after only a few days—when it stretched to more than ten days, both my patience and state of mind were low.

But, as they say, this, too, shall pass. And it did. I was overjoyed when I finally tested negative for COVID on Monday, September 11. I could get back to my real life! Among other things, my morning walks had become an essential part of my wellness practice and I was eager to return to them.

Upstairs, I was trying to open a medicine container when I felt a weird sensation in my right hand. It’s hard for me to describe, but basically, I lost use of it. I held it in front of myself and saw it had clenched up and I couldn’t control it. I let my arm drop and it went limp at my side. It felt like a wet noodle. This all lasted about thirty seconds.

My husband came in and I told him “something weird” had happened and described it the best I could. We did the stroke F.A.S.T. test, and everything seemed to be in good working order. I wasn’t all that concerned—I suffer from ocular migraines and I’ve experienced vertigo in the past. Admittedly, this was different, but I assumed it was somehow related. We briefly discussed what to do, but I felt fine. Whatever it was, it seemed to be over.

So, I went on my walk. About a mile in, I realized I still felt a bit off. I decided to call my husband to pick me up but couldn’t control my arm and hand well enough to take my phone out of my leggings’ pocket. I tried to call from my Apple watch, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at this point. Before it occurred to me that I could use voice commands to call him, the symptoms went away and I was able to use my phone.

“I think a lot of people would’ve reacted this way. Even on the best day, the ER is not a fun place to be. I didn’t want to spend my Friday in the waiting room, only to be told it was nothing serious.”

During the drive home, we further discussed what to do. Going to the ER seemed overkill because I felt fine now. I could call my doctor, but she would undoubtedly tell me to go to the ER because what could she do over the phone? We ended up tabling the discussion and taking the dogs for a walk.

I feel foolish as I write this. It’s so obvious that I should’ve gone to the ER as soon as the first symptoms showed up. But they’d disappeared so quickly it didn’t seem necessary. Surely, there was a non-serious explanation for this.

I think a lot of people would’ve reacted this way. Even on the best day, the ER is not a fun place to be. I didn’t want to spend my Friday in the waiting room only to be told it was nothing serious.

We’d just rounded the block on our dog walk when we began discussing a nearby house that had been for sale for awhile. It interested us because the price seemed high for what was essentially a tear-down. We’re not in the market, but I keep a close eye on local real estate because it interests me and I’d recently learned something about this particular house.

“It’s pending a sale,” I told my husband. Except I couldn’t say “pending.” I knew the word I wanted but I couldn’t get my mouth to say it correctly. After I finally got the word out, we both admitted that I probably needed to get whatever this was checked out. We walked home and finally went to the ER.

Most of us have probably been to the ER at some point. Luckily, it wasn’t crowded when we arrived and they could see me immediately. The ER doctor ordered blood tests, a CT scan, and an EKG. While I was getting the first of many blood draws, the loudspeaker alerted the staff to a possible stroke. I perked up. That couldn’t possibly be for me!

With a day of waiting ahead of me, I told my husband to go home and I’d call him when I was done. At that point, all the tests were finished and I was just waiting for the results. The ER had become much more crowded, but I seemed to be a priority. I guess being a possible stroke victim entitles you to some benefits.

“While I was getting the first of many blood draws, the loudspeaker alerted the staff to a possible stroke. I perked up. Surely, that couldn’t be for me!”

Mid-day, I was told the neurologist wanted a brain MRI. This concerned me, not because I feared the possible results, but because I’m extremely claustrophobic. I’ve had several MRIs, but none that required my head to be enclosed and I’ve always been afraid of that. In retrospect, the anxiety caused by the prospect of that MRI was more intense than anything else that occurred that day.

Later in the afternoon, I was shown to a curtained alcove. Eventually, the neurologist came in and said they were still waiting for the MRI results, but everything else had come back normal and he believed that my symptoms were related to my ocular migraines. It was just as I’d suspected! But I was glad I’d come to the ER, if only for the reassurance.

I texted my husband and family to tell them what he said. I still had some waiting to do so I told my husband to hold off on picking me up. An hour later, the original ER doctor came in and gave me an update: the MRI showed I’d suffered what he called a “small stroke.”

He delivered this news so casually that I had to ask him to pause a second so I could process what he’d said. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it then and, to be honest, I still can’t. His bedside manner was very kind, but he seemed to forget that while strokes might be commonplace in his line of work, they were not in the least bit common for me. I needed a moment to gather myself.

He left the room and I immediately googled “small stroke.” The results led me to believe I’d had a transient ischemic attack (TIA), which calmed me a bit. It wasn’t until a nurse came in to inform me that I’d be spending the night in the hospital that I learned I’d had an actual stroke. About six millimeters of brain tissue in my left front lobe was officially dead.

RIP.

Up until then, I’d never spent a night in the hospital. My husband kept me company until about nine o’clock, but after that, I was on my own. A good night’s sleep was impossible—between my loud roommate (no shade, she was in a bad way), vital sign checks, and blood draws, the most I could get was a wink or two at various times throughout the night. I’d just received an advanced reading copy of Kellye Garrett’s forthcoming book, MISSING WHITE WOMAN, and believe me when I tell you it got me through that night. I couldn’t put it down.

On the whiteboard in my room, the nurse made a list of the things that needed to happen before they released me. I don’t remember everything but they included assessments by the physical, occupational, and speech therapists and some kind of advanced heart test that would determine if I had any blockages. I’d been told they planned to release me at some point that day, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind I was thinking I’d lose my shit if I had to stay another night.

Spoiler alert: everything came back normal and they released me. Hallelujah.

Why Did This Happen?

On Monday, two days later, I had a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor’s physician’s assistant. We discussed how this could have happened. I’m not young, but I’m not especially old, either (even though I often joke about it). But fifty-five-year-olds do have strokes and heart attacks, probably more often than most of us know.

I had existing risk factors, the most significant of which was my cholesterol, which had apparently shot up nearly one hundred points since January. The PA reviewed my blood test results and I’d also become hypothyroid since January. He said that might account for the sharp increase in my cholesterol count, but the fact was that my numbers were so high that genetics were the likely problem. Nothing I do diet-wise and/or exercise-wise at this point will bring them down to an acceptable level. Medication is the only solution (don’t @ me about this).

The big question on my mind was whether COVID had played any role. All of the doctors who’d cared for me at the ER knew I’d had it recently, but no one mentioned it as a possible trigger so I hadn’t given it much thought. But it turns out that COVID-19 does increase the risk of stroke, especially in people like me who have existing risk factors. I spoke to the PA about it and he confirmed that my recent case of COVID may have contributed to the stroke.

What Now?

For nearly as long as I can remember, my weight has been an issue. I’m a naturally chunky person and have been since I was a child. It’s no exaggeration to say that for most of my life, I’ve hated my body.

“After throwing a mini-pity party in my head, it occurred to me that my body hadn’t betrayed me at all—maybe it had actually saved me.”

Directly after the stroke, I had this sense that my body had betrayed me. According to BMI charts, I’m obese, but despite how I feel about my physical appearance, I’ve never seen myself that way. My diet isn’t great but it isn’t terrible, I’ve exercised regularly for over a decade, I see my doctor a couple of times a year, I get regular blood tests, and I take my medications as directed. I’d been doing many of the “right” things for a long time. My health wasn’t perfect but I was doing my best.

After throwing a mini-pity party in my head, it occurred to me that my body hadn’t betrayed me at all—maybe it had actually saved me. People die from strokes or they’re left impaired, often seriously. And here I was, completely recovered within twenty-four hours. It’s almost like it never happened.

All those weights I’d lifted, all those miles I’d run. All of those healthier food choices I’d struggled to make, all of the mental health work I’d done. Maybe that all helped to make the difference between life and death for me.

That simple reframe had a big impact on my attitude towards my body and health.

But I also lost something because of the stroke and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back. I no longer trust my body the way I used to. All of this happened so suddenly I’m on constant guard that it will happen again, especially since I’m now at higher risk for having another stroke. I’m much more aware of my mortality and the mortality of those around me. I’ve always contemplated death a fair bit more than is healthy, but I think about it even more now. The knowledge that everything can change instantly haunts me in a way it never did before.

But mostly, I feel good. I’ve finally begun to accept who I am fundamentally, both inside and out. I’m not naturally thin, I love food, and I hate exercise. There are risk factors within my control and risk factors out of it, but I’m working with what I’ve got and I’m learning to love myself in ways I never did before.

Do I have the stroke to thank for that? Well, yeah. A little bit. Which is weird to say, but sometimes you need a wake-up call. I got mine, and I’m doing my best to answer it.

About That Stroke

It's not as bad as you think

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