Showing posts with label Agency on Aging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agency on Aging. Show all posts

Monday, June 10, 2013

I Dreamt of a Car. Then a stroke happened. I lived in my car, Doritos strewn about and numerous Coke cans.

I wish....nice!

It's morning.

Blearily eyed, I turned on the light for my aspirin and metoprolol (Lopressor) and the ever-present water. On the night stand, I gulp it down.

Before the stroke, I was a supervisor for Chrysler Motors, Sterling Heights Assembly Plant in the '80's.  I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. I loved the body shop. The plant is a swiss watch, something is always going on, somewhere. I worked the Sundance and Shadow line.

I lived in my car, Doritos strewn about; numerous Coke cans; just-in-case items of toothbrush, deodorant, change of clothes (Snowed in...Michigan winters) for the plant; caked eyeliner brushes from a distant memory; my stuff.

Fifteen years ago, 1999, I had a monumental stroke. I'm 68 and it's 2016; it's an ischemic stroke. I dreamt of a car, whizzing by, not a care in the world, gas pedal floored and eating a Taco Bell (extra-hot). The windshield wipers, the  turn signals, the rear-view mirrors (although, it's all's knows;  the garbage cans, the bike, the little tot, programmed to stop the car), and the ever-present radio, all of a sudden are confusing. What about the other guy?

The reflexes are not good.

For instance, the aspirin, Lopressor and the water in the morning. The screw-on (it's tiny) water bottle, generic aspirin (it's pop-top) and metoprolol "to open push down and turn" are pretty easy. But is it? It's the lids. I get foggy about the lids. Just for a brief moment, a nanosecond, I'm concentrating. Which is which? I close the lids. Yes, my brain is fried. I'm little aphasic, too. Well, a lot.

Ditto for:

I have Anita for everything; for shopping, dog walking, vacuuming and other things.  Agency on Aging with the conjunction of Twin Oaks in Hopwood, PA, one day a week. I depend on the provider. For example, lugging bird seed and an enormous bag of kibble for the dogs, Izzy and Percy. One-hand ain't good.

I shower and shave my legs and towel-dry...every time without fail (the caregivers knows's a joke) "Can I shave my legs, please?" 

"No...your arm pits", Anita, the caregiver, noted. "Pits, pits, pits!"  She lathered and shaved and clean-shaved arm pits. In my mind, legs, not arm pits. The stroke wired me. Concentration: legs and arms. I'll get it right.

Turn right or left; I forgot peanuts for the birds, trudged back; the ceiling fan...which is it?  The ceiling fan or the ceiling light switch?  I devised a plan. The short ceiling fan and the long light switch. And the remote TV? The Exit button and the Mute button; get it wrong every time...time after time after time. I know the exit button and the mute button. The word indicates exit and mute. Duh.

The reflexes are a dollar short, needless to say.

So the car is out. The rear back up camera, power locks and mirrors and fog lamps is no more. I love my quasi-car, but what about the other guy; God-forbid the rug-rat kiddos.


Percy and Izzy