Everyone said I
was lucky it was a small stroke. That I would recover use of my right side, but
it would take time-- weeks or months.
Homebound, basically stuck in our second floor bedroom, I had nothing to
do. I couldn’t walk, write, or read without extreme focus or pain for the
first month.
As the numbness
and tingling of my nerve endings receded slightly, I contemplated the future.
Of course I looked at the dark side of mortality. Planning my funeral, or even
worse, accepting the limits of living an active life, pressed me into
depression. That was the second month.
Loss of reading
and writing hampered me the most. The two activities had kept me sane through
31 years of teaching and 36 years of raising four children. Now, I could do
neither, not even work part-time at the library or freelance write for two local
newspapers. Just lie there in bed, take my pills and cry; I was really having a
pity party.
Only for brief moments,
I would not allow self-pity to bring me down. I would make plans for the
future, no matter what. We needed to sell the house and move to a
rancher—downsize that’s what I told my husband and friends. Of course, I
couldn’t do the lifting, packing, moving as I discovered quickly when I tried.
I did walk to the new neighbors’ house and get their tossed out moving boxes. I
spent two days back in bed recovering from “over-doing” that much energy.
That’s when I
decided. I’m going to write my memoirs.
I’ve never done
anything famous or heroic, but things just happened to create my complex story
that sounds unbelievable in some ways.
But after 60
years of love, friendship, family and work, I think every one has a life that
is uniquely designed just for her/him. We are all “nobody” until we tell our
stories.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish -- you know!
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
By Emily Dickinson
