When I Was 26, I Had a Stroke: The Escape

You know what it feels like when you can't identify a snail?


Before my stroke, I was a dot-comer with a hip job in a downtown office painted kindergarten colors. I wore vintage clothing and stompy boots. I was cute enough: small and wimpy, pale, with very dark hair and strong eyebrows. I lived in Washington, D.C.'s Adams Morgan neighborhood. Other generations were jealous of young professionals like me.

But when I was 26, I had a stroke. My mind went pop. I found myself in a D.C. hospital for the summer, a different person. My motor skills had been slammed. I couldn't really move my right arm at all, which was always folded tight against my chest, as if I was defending myself. My right hand clenched itself into an angry fist that I could not open. My trunk muscles and my right leg were a little better. I could get around, for short distances. But most of the time, maybe 20 hours a day, I was asleep, gone.

When I was awake, my speech felt the most broken. I wasn't making much sense. My words were coming out wrong, if at all. I would occasionally come up with sentences that were intact and appropriate. Hospital notes include me saying, "I like to go to obscure cultural events." 

Other times it was like... oh... and nothing was coming out. I was particularly bad at naming things. Therapists would show me a picture -- a snail, a harp, a harmonica -- and ask me what it was. More than half the time, I shook my head. I would understand people without difficulty.

You know what it feels like when you can't identify a snail?


That's one useful thing about having brain surgery. You can play really dumb if you have to.

I had brain surgery that summer, which improved things. After surgery, I was awake during normal hours. I could walk more steadily and talk more completely. My surgeon had shaved off a portion of my hair, and opened a square door in my head, on the left side, behind my hairline. Now a nurse practitioner had taken out my stitches, and an attendant who doubled as a hair stylist had cut my hair in a comb-over style to hide my punk rock shave. 

I wore only shorts and a t-shirt during the day now -- none of the pale pastel hospital gowns, the outfit of dependency. My hospital was worried about my circulation and leg clots so they had me wearing elastic thigh-highs. The medical stockings were white, with a horizontal weave that made me look like a mummy. I had lost nearly 20 pounds and was so skinny that the stockings wouldn't stay up and bunched up around my knees. This period was the closest I will ever come to supermodel thinness, but I was the opposite of sexy. Supermodels must find it difficult to sit; when you don't have any padding on your rear, it hurts.

My friends came to visit, but now that I wasn't asleep all the time, I was bored. I couldn't read. My mother had banned me from using my cell phone for fear that it had caused the stroke, even though my neurosurgeon said it wasn't my phone's fault. It took a couple of weeks for me to remember that I could dial into my cell phone from my bedside phone to pick up messages. Assuming that I remembered my own phone number. Problematic.

Toward the end of my hospital stay, I got word that I would be discharged on the following Tuesday, July 16, 2002. I would join a more active program, where I would live at home and come to the hospital during the day. This suited me fine, because I was already committing rebellious acts, like sneaking out of my bed and going to the bathroom by myself, instead of ringing for the attendant and waiting a very long time. I would hobble carefully to the bathroom, slinky as a cripple can be. I only fell once, sprawled out on the gray industrial bathroom tile, feeling sorry for myself.

Then I snuck out of the hospital and went to a party.

The Saturday before I was to be discharged was my friend Wendy's birthday party. Wendy was an entrepreneur, warm and comfortable. My friends who had come so faithfully to visit me in the hospital would be there. Earlier in the week, a friend had called my mother and asked if I could come. My mother said "no." She hung up the phone and sobbed. My friends decided not to tell me about the party, worried that I would be upset at missing it. Except no one bothered to tell my friend Aarti, who spilled the beans when she visited me that Saturday morning.

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Nina Mitchell is a writer based in Boston. She writes regularly at Mindpop and has written for The Hairpin.

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