Irony

For several years I deliberately avoided anything remotely connected to physical exercise, except for the occasional gentle stroll when I found myself in an interesting place. It wasn't until I returned to live in Edinburgh that I rediscovered the pleasures of a good brisk walk. Within the first few days of my arrival, I'd covered about half of the city on foot and continued to do so once I'd got settled into my flat and new neighbourhood, revisiting old haunts.

The irony is that, now that my mobility is limited and difficult, I long to be able to indulge in a few brisk walks. Exercise is no longer something to be avoided or reserved only for interesting areas. Although I've always been aware of the importance of exercise for good health, I'm painfully aware of it now that I'm trying to regain my former robust health and worry about not being able to get worthwhile exercise on a daily basis. It's not as if I'm sitting around on my fat arse 24/7 (okay - it's 23/7) because I do walk in my own limited way but, as in all things with me, it's not enough. Well now it's going to have to be enough because it's all there is for the time being.

No Point in If Only

Realizing that the leg brace is largely what prevents me from regaining independence, I decided I'll have to fight it and have left a message for my physiotherapist to let her know I want to learn to walk without a brace, even though the prospect is terrifying. My leg has become so dependent on the support of the brace, that the muscles may not have the strength to support my leg and even with the brace, my left leg can't support my weight alone. I stopped having physio several weeks ago when my therapist decided there was nothing more she could do for me but I'm desperate enough that I'm not willing to accept that. I've heard and read that therapists are quick to decide, based on statistics thata stroke patient has reached a plateau and all treatment then stops as it's considered a waste of time. Well it's not a waste of time for me if there's any chance of improvement, however small. I'm sick of prognoses being made about my recovery based on statistics. The plateau theoryis based on statistics that recovery stops after 12 months post-stroke. However, there are other statistics which prove recovery continues and is ongoing for several years post-stroke and those are the ones I'm going with. I'm determined and tenacious enough to keep trying and working hard at anything that might improve my quality of life so to hell with the defeatist and pessimistic statisticians.

On that note, this is as good a time as any to tell you that my arm and hand will be injected with Botox tomorrow for the purpose of loosening up the muscles enough to allow some therapy. At the moment, my elbow, wrist and finger muscles are too tight to allow even gentle stretching using my good hand to manipulate them. I can't even wash the left hand properly because the fingers tighten into a deathgrip. When I'm walking, the elbow tightens and pulls the lower arm up to my chest and the Botox should allow the arm to hang naturally. Loosening the elbow will also make it easier to dress. At the moment, it's difficult for me to get the sleeve of a sweater, jacket or coat on because of the rigidity of the arm. This behaviour is what prompted Evan to christen the left arm 'The Creeper' immediately after the stroke

I go into this treatment with no expectations - only hope that I might regain some function, however minimal. Some patients have shown improvement following this treatment and I hope I might be one of the lucky ones. I don't think I'll get back to the 70 wpm typist Jacki or the knitting Jacki (both of which I miss a lot) but if my left hand could be able to hold something (say hold a piece of bread to butter it or hold a jar to open it with my right hand), that would surpass my hopes for the time being. Although I'm quick to dismiss the statistics that don't suit me, the Botox statistics are positive enough that I'm happy to embrace them if they offer hope. Without hope, life isn't worth living, I think. That's a subject for a whole other essay.

If Only

If only I didn't need to wear a leg brace to help me walk and if only my left hand worked so I could put the brace on myself. If only I didn't have to depend on other people to help with my personal care to get me up an running every day. If only all these things. If only I could be independent, I might be happy again and not cry all the time. Today started out badly, with the person who came to do my morning care bullying me about getting my bedroom furniture moved. I live in a place where caregivers are scheduled to come to help me twice a day and some of these people aren't very nice. Conversely though, some of them are lovely and when my day starts with one of them, everything's alright. It's horrible not knowing who'll be coming through the door and such a relief when it turns out to be one of my favourites. Independence would add such value to my life and I long for the day when it might happen. All I can do is hope that some kind of function, even if limited, will return to my left hand. I did have a brace made that I can manage with one hand but it affects my balance and gait in such a way that I don't feel safe when walking. Next week, my specialist will begin treating the muscles in my hand and arm with Botox, which will relax them enough to allow some therapy. At the moment they're too tight to be able to work with.