I was in ICU, I was in a state of fear and panic like I'd never known. I have not to this day any memories of my stay in ICU or what they gave me and did for me. All recollections are based on what people have told me, what nurses said when they saw me later and therapists who treated me when I first arrived. All my friends agree on one main point of view; that I wasn't doing well. It was unknown if I'd recover nor in what shape that recovery would take was up to me and me alone. If I recovered I might be shipped to a nursing home and that was a big if. If I did recover the road ahead was sure to be tough and filled with pot-holes I'd have to maneuver around but why consider them when it wasn't a sure thing that I'd ever recover in the first place, one thing at a time.

The wild man of Borneo Cathy called me, eye's wild with panic and fear, unable to move my right side was flaccid and just hung there. I was unable to speak clearly I was like a wild creature but broken. My blood pressure was seriously out of control and keeping me calm and getting it back down to a reasonable rate was the order of the day.

One day I was aware of my cell phone and charger showing up but I didn't know who'd brought it, must have been Cathy as she was the only one to have keys to my apartment. But I couldn't remember her being there to see me. I found out later that it was Cathy and she had talked to Lorri and told her I was in bad shape and they weren't holding out a lot of hope for me. I was totally paralyzed on my right side and I couldn't talk very well. It wasn't that there was no hope just not a lot and it looked as though I would be going to a nursing home if I survived.

I apparently could talk well enough to be heard but my words were slurred and my speech halting as I searched for words but I used that cell phone to communicate and the numbers that were stored in speed dial were a life saver. That phone became my lifeline to the outside world while I was incapable of helping myself. It became my lifeline to the friends I had who answered my calls no matter the time of night or day. It was my lifeline to the nursing desk when I was in trouble or pain through the friends who'd call the nursing desk to tell them someone cared for me.

I was incontinent and I was on a catheter to collect my waste, I wore adult diapers but as I say I was unaware of the time or days of the week. Apparently when they put me in a chair I'd start listing to the bad side and couldn't right myself. One morning while I was eating breakfast the therapist came in and told me it was time to get to work. I replied that it was uncivilized to disturb me when I hadn't finished my coffee yet. At least my sense of humor hadn't left me and there was hope for me still.

So began the mornings of the rest of my stay in ICU, apparently I was held there until I recovered enough to be move to the general floor. I have vague recollections of the move out of ICU and getting into what was to be my room for the month of my stay in the hospital. Somewhere in that period the hospital had provided me with a wheelchair and I now could move around the floor and start on getting my life back in some semblance of order. I had only the gowns provided by the hospital and a robe, the catheter and a bag hanging between my legs I was all set.

Every morning before breakfast I'd wheel myself down the hall and pass the nurses desk and down the length of the hall. I only had half a body that would respond to me but it got me where I wanted to go. I'd maneuver down the hallway to a window overlooking the entrance to the hospital and I'd sit there proud of my ability and determination. From that widow I could overlook the seasons change from spring to winter and watch the hustle and bustle of life pass me by. And I could dream too of a time when I'd be better and whole again of that I was sure. It would be a long time in coming but I found an inner strength I could call upon.

Then it was back to my room or if my breakfast wasn't waiting for me I'd wheel my self over to the doors of the Rehabilitation /Recovery room to see when my torture was to begin that day. Each day they post the list of tortures and the selected time for said torture. The routine was 4 hours a day we'd sit in a circle and pass the ball one way and then the other. Or we'd hold a sheet with a ball in the middle that we'd try to pass to a selected individual for an hour. Then the arm and leg bicycle that they had to strap my hand to because I had no control of it, same with passing the ball I could only use one hand. Then an hour of exercise to try and get the muscle back. I was lucky that I walked and did some yoga and I had some muscle tone to work with and it wasn't so hard for me but it was plenty hard I tell you. When the therapist found out about the yoga she got out a large ball and had me lay on it and trying to remember my exercises I did and that was the key moment for me. My body had the memory of what it had done and I was calling upon it to do the same moves.

     Now all of this sound like I was making miraculous recovery, it wasn't it was step by step one movement built upon another. There were hours and hours of time spent on remembering to move. Some where there was a kind of group therapy going on, each week we'd get someone newly stricken and had to introduce ourselves and tell a little bit about our lives before. Usually this came before lunch and then the maimed were wheeled out to a common room to eat. This was the most hideous part of the whole having a stroke thing. We were lined up at a common table and could watch the others who weren't doing as well and weren't likely to get better. We did this for the befit of the nurse's aides to have everyone in the same room to open their creamers and juice and to cut their food into bit-size portions. And of course we had a priest to say prayers for us and to bless the food we were about to eat. I hated everything about it, having to line up at the table and having to listen to prayer from a guy who was obviously uncomfortable being there with us and could only make small talk about his religion. I soon decide it was not for me and would have my meals in my room while watching the noon news, it was far better company, even if I did have to struggle with my food.

Then I'd get a break and time to recover or take a nap, like a little kid again, learning to control my bowels , learning to crawl, learning how to live a productive life again. Learning to slow down and think before I sat down on a chair or the toilet anything, I had to learn it all. And time to practice my exercises that I could do in bed. Or go for a spin down to the nurses desk and down the hall to sit and think or try and make phone calls to different friends or just to my answering machine to remind myself that there were people living a life out there, a safe normal life.

The speech therapist to teach me learn to talk again clearly and distinctly and to slow down and catch myself, to learn little tricks and control over my speech that I employ to this day. She was a peach because along with the speech she'd ask me how I was doing, asked how I was feeling and how was I dealing with the things I was dealing with. I remember one day I just broke down in tears and told her I needed to take the time to mourn the life that I'd lost, the me I'd lost. I was sobbing openly unashamed of crying, crying for me and me who wasn't me anymore. When it was over she gave me some tissues and told me all of the regular stuff about my recovery and how I could do only what I could do for a time and that I could recover some but how much I could recover was up to me really and my stroke. In time..., in time I would be almost be whole but there was that almost to deal with.