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A Stroke of Fortune - by John
Earp
Five weeks ago I suffered a stroke. Now, as strokes go, it was a
small one.
“A neurological lightweight,” they assured me in
soothing hospital tones.
“Hardly there at all,” they persuaded me with
white-coated medical certainty.
“Take heart, John. It could have been a lot worse,”
they comforted me through my pharmaceutically induced haze.
Okay, it worked. Mission accomplished. I’m assured,
persuaded and comforted. Thanks a ton. Truly. But I’ve also been rudely
alerted to this most irritating truth: Getting smacked by a small stroke
is like being whacked by a small truck: the damage could have been a lot
more disruptive, but what damage there is turns out to be more than a
little inconvenient.
Five days in the hospital, and now a month or more of
rehab at home, and I’m doing fine. Well, pretty fine. I’ve got most of
the use of my left hand. But not all of it. My barely adequate typing
skills have suffered. But, you know, it could have been worse. My left
leg feels like it’s made of Silly Putty. Still, I can walk up to the
local gym and work out for about 15 minutes a day. Then, exhaustion. But
it could have been a lot worse. I’m 95 percent fine, and will be 98
percent peachy in a year. It could have been a lot worse.
What surprises and dismays me is that my creativity got
cold-cocked. This little article is my first tentative foray into that
mysterious place where we writers go to make stuff up and write it down.
Part of my brain died, and it’s not going to wake up again. Scary? You
bet. But it could have been worse.
So, you all know the four-point sermon: weight, blood
pressure, cholesterol, and smoking. Consider it preached and say amen.
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You see,
the wider, deeper, and more lasting lesson has to do with infuriating
losses and astonishing gains. Some losses, some grievous losses, some
crippling and calamitous losses are unavoidable. Necessary they are and
inescapable. Loss is the price you pay for the privilege of limping
along through the years. Some losses wound and devastate you. They
cruelly knock you flat on your ass and leave your heart bleeding and
your soul broken. But, you know, it could be worse.
I mean, really, what choice do you have? You pick up
those pieces of your life you wish to keep, and march on. You pack up
your passion and your love, stow away a box of practiced skill and a
container of undiluted wonder, and head back out there.
It courses hot in the writer’s blood, that sense of an
almost sacred calling to grab with both hands, pain or gain, whatever it
is that life serves up to you. You are the ones who wring candor out of
melancholy, and dish it out in steaming organic low-calorie glops for
the rest of us to consume, digest, and draw strength from.
Gains? I’m so blessed it hurts. Good friends have
stepped up to help Debra and me. Strangers are offering prayers on my
behalf. And you know what? I think they’re working. I’m discovering the
joys of being a former smoker. And the limitless joys of a healthy diet
rich in fresh fruits and vegetables, a diet bereft of rare ribeyes and
limited in sodium and reduced in carbohydrates. Yum.
But the gains don’t stop there. There’s a pure energy
that rises up like fog when your mortality pops into plain sight. Love
is rarer, time is infinitely more precious, kids and dogs live sweeter
lives, hot coffee (de-caf!) is a miracle.
And you. All of you who have dropped notes, who have
written thoughtful notes, who have taken your time to share with me your
own stories of loss and gain. I am forever grateful to you. And without
the stroke, it could have been worse.
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