Stroke recovery: Then and now

Helpful hallway feature

The second anniversary of my April 22, 2013, stroke is almost here. The hemorrhagic stroke zapped the right-hemisphere components of my brain and nervous system that control left-side movement and the reception and processing of sensory input on my left side.

The railings pictured above are in an Ocean Springs Hospital hallway. They are similar to the ones in the Singing River Hospital Comprehensive Rehab Center.

I spent 27 days there after I was discharged from the intensive care unit at the Ocean Springs Hospital. What a difference, though, in the way I used those railings then and how I use them now almost two years later.

In the current stage of my recovery, such features allow me to lengthen my stride and to get moving with more confidence. Just touching them with the fingertips of my right hand gives me an additional sensory reference point. And that helps compensate for the sensory input that I now lack.

My relationship with the railings during my 27-day stint in inpatient rehab didn’t begin until close to the end of my stay. The first priority was to work with me on retraining me in safe self-care such as showering and transferring from one surface to another, as from bed to wheelchair and wheelchair to potty. And all those things were challenging.

When the day came to do more in the movement department, the staff wheeled me into the hallway and positioned my wheelchair where the railing would be next to my right hand once I stood up. I think there were two techs holding on to my gait belt, one behind me and one on my left. Somebody was lurking with the wheelchair. 

The physical therapist was on a low rolling stool where she used one hand to keep my left knee from collapsing and an elbow to shore up some other weak body part against collapse.

My recollections are definitely a little fuzzy. What I remember clearly is the sheer terror. My left-side body parts no longer worked without conscious thought. Neither did they respond to my fierce concentration. Fear of falling and maybe dismay at the total lack of response from my body overwhelmed me.

The therapist assured me they would not let me fall. I accepted that intellectually and finally managed some forward movement, but that didn't diminish my fear. I was slow to trust.

Eventually holding on to the railing became part of several different walking exercises. In those early days “holding on” may have been too mild a phrase. 

Even later when I was in outpatient therapy, any nearby sturdy structure that resembled a railing tempted me to “cheat” on the assigned exercise and latch on with a left-handed death grip.

A confidence boosting rail

The ultimate goal in those early walking attempts was to traverse 20 feet, about the length of the section between the two doors closest to the camera in the photo above. The therapist and techs celebrated every advance toward my reaching that goal. Now I can’t remember if I ever actually reached that 20-foot mark during my stay at the rehab center.

I do remember, though, that the fear was slow to recede. Even though I was committed and determined, that didn’t keep fear from roaring back full force every time the therapists introduced a new walking exercise or environment. And that held true for outpatient rehab many months later.

That terror hasn’t struck for over a year now. Much milder fears do surface in certain circumstances. I usually avoid stores jammed with breakables or extra narrow aisles. Walking in crowds of fast-moving people can also still raise my anxiety level.

That is when my hiking stick comes in handy. When I use it, people see it and are usually careful not to bump me or dart across my path right in front of me. And it is not because I look like I’m going to bop them with that wooden stick. Most people react quickly to give me the space I need to maintain balance.

I am thankful for such simple kindnesses that come my way every day. They help me maintain balance in the emotional and spiritual realm, too.