Disabled

I have mixed feeling about being officially classified as disabled. First, right off the bat, I toned it down for myself, as if the is classified as disabled is some how better than just saying I’m disabled. It seems, I believe, at least to some extant, toning it down again, disabled means less than. I suppose this means I get some of my identity out of what I do. If I am what I do, then if I can do less than what I use to do, I wind up believing I’m less than who I was.

My faith teaches me my identity comes from who’s I am, that I am the adopted son of the most high God. Apparently I am still learning. I still have some minor balance issues and I tire easily. I view my self as not up to snuff.

This said, I woke up this morning with the thought, I feel pretty damn good. This points to the part of my faith that is working, for the lack of a better word. It’s got something to do with “the peace that passes all understanding.” It indicates that part of me also is “living in my faith.” I put it in quotes to distinguish it from believing. Believing is not enough. You have to step into it, so to speak. It’s not something I’m trying to do or something I convinced my self of. It's more the universe I live in.

But I was talking about disability. I defiantly need the money, the pittance it is. I also allowed to make about 950 a month. This Monday, I’m going on the job to see what I can do, see if I can start putting in nine hours a week. My boss is willing to give it a try.

Notice how I keep trying to avoid talking about disability. It’s the lack of physical strength that’s the issue. I’m always checking my right bicep. When I had the stroke all the muscle in my right arm, along with much of my right side, turned to mush. When I made a muscle with my right arm, all that mush that used to be my bicep slipped down to hag like lose skin on an old lady’s arm. This is not something a man wants to see, particularly a man who has made his living on the strength of that arm. I used to call myself a carpenter and a cabinetmaker. I might be that again, but right now I not. Right now I’m disabled.

I’ve been doing a few things in my shop. Technically, it might be considered working. I call it putzing, fiddling, trying. When I go to work for my boss I’m worried I’m not going to be worth an hourly wage. That’s why I want jobs for my shop, I won’t be on somebody’s clock and I can rest when I get tired. I suppose being on the clock will push me some and that’s not altogether bad. It should help me get my strength back. But I don’t know how good I’ll be at telling if I’m pushing to much.

I’ve got the complication of the bad rotator cuff. It’s got a couple of small tears, some impingement. Therapy for the stroke and the shoulder get in the way of each other. And then there the hernia. I haven’t mentioned that yet. It’s making its first public appearance. It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel it now. It’s something that has to be addressed eventually, sooner rather than later. I Have an appointment with the neurologists on the 14th of July. They have to Okay me being taken of aspirin for seven days which I take for circulation. Then I can get that fixed.

I used to worry a lot about my body breaking down because I use it to make my living. I don’t have to worry about that happing anymore. It’s true. I spent a lot of time being afraid of it an the fear was definitely worse than it actually happing. I thought when it happened my life and usefulness would be over. It turns out I’ve just been in training for what happens next.

Take One-Half Tablet By Mouth Every Day For Mental Health

Take one-half tablet by mouth every day for mental health. That’s what it says on the plastic pill bottle with the childproof cap. So those of you, who have been waiting all of these years, finally have your smoking gun. Maybe this is one of those things you’re not supposed to put on Facebook so it doesn’t come back to haunt you.

It’s call sertraline; an anti-depressant and I got a prescription for 25 MG a day. It’s a mild dose so I guess I’m only mildly off my rocker. At least it’s not an anti-psychotic. Did I just add to my own stigmatism in an attempt to downplay it at the expense of others?

I have what is called labile mood. My emotions are very close to the surface. This is common in stroke victims. I also have a history of depression. I was depressed at least all through high school, maybe into my late forties. I remember a Thanksgiving dinner at my friends, the Sutherland’s, and afterward feeling very strange. It drove me crazy for two weeks until I figured out what it was. What was wrong was there was nothing wrong. I had had a good time, a foreign concept for me during a holyday.

Anyway, I’ve been crying at the drop of a hat, flying off the handle with my wife. A few days ago I got what I can only describe as hysterical. I’m not saying there were not significant things going on to trigger it or I was unemotional before the stroke. I am saying the stroke has defiantly compounded the matter in such a way I’m willing to give pharmaceuticals a try.

The doc at the VA said there are about thirty different anti-depressants out there and sertraline has proven particularly effective with stroke victims. He said I’d start noticing a difference in three weeks. I’m a bit worried how this will affect my writing, if it will hurt the emotional integrity of it. Please let me know if you notice anything different. I’m also not so sure how I feel about getting my mental health out of a bottle. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

It says on the warnings it may effect my ability to drive or operate machinery and I should be cautious until I get used to it’s affects, so I’m afraid I’ll cut off my finger if I go down and work in my shop. I’ve got a call into the doc to see what he thinks.

The doc also recommended I see a psychiatrist, another first for me. I’ve seen therapists before, but now I’ve made the big time.

Worse And Worse

Tuesday evening my old small group showed up along with my friend Karen and her husband Dave and my older sister Josephine. She likes to mother me a bit too much at times. I had to tell her only my wife gets to play with my hair. Maybe Val was there, too. For every body’s visit I sat I the chair. It was important to be that I not be in the bed all the time. I didn’t want to be bed ridden.

Everybody told me how great they thought I was doing and how I didn’t look as bad as they thought I would and how clear my voice was. I thought I sounded and looked like shit. Every chance I got I looked in the mirror to see how much the right side of my face was drooping. I put on a good front for my visitors, stiff upper lip and all that. I knew I had gotten worse than I was the day before, but I didn’t want the visit to be a downer for them. Every body left about eight-thirty or nine.

I called for something for pain as my shoulder was bothering me. It had been bothering me for a year and with the stroke it got worse. It turns out I have an old rotator cuff injury. I didn’t know that yet. I watched another movie on TBS. I can’t remember if they gave me something for the pain or they told me they would let the doctor know.

Wednesday morning I couldn’t move my arm, my hand was balled into a fist I could not open and that’s when my leg would not work and I fell into the chair. The nurse came in about six to take my blood pressure and give me my morning blood thinner shot. I said something about the arm and she said she would tell the doctor and the doctor would be in soon to make his rounds. I think my wife called and I told her I was worse. She said she would be in soon.

It was a hard day and I don’t remember how everything went and what time things happened but eventually the head neurologist and the regular neurologist were in my room with me and Jackie asking what’s what? I think I had already told my wife they had said earlier they didn’t know if I would get any better than I was then. She say I just said I might not get any better. They weren’t sure what was going on with me. They said for the first time I had had a major stroke and started talking about the possibility of permanent paralysis and an maybe it was an ongoing event. They said it was important I lay back and not elevate my head too much.

They trasfered me to intensive care. Wheeled me up in a wheelchair right then. They stock those little electrode thing on my chest again so the could moniter my heart. They had done that five or six time now. I have a fairly hairy chest and it was starting to get small bald patches. They ordered another CAT scan and MRI and put me in a wheel chair and sent me down to get them. I got the CAT scan right away and then they wheeled me outside the room for the MRI and parked me in the hall.

After I was there for about ten minutes I started wondering about my head being elevated. They left me in the hall for about forty-five minutes. The technician that ran the MRI seemed to have a problem with me getting another MRI so soon. I over heard him pontificating with his staff. He seemed to be generally and big fat angry guy who thought he knew more than all the doctors. I don’t think he liked he had to fit me in to his schedule.

He didn’t like my ring in my ear. He tried to pull my ear off getting it off. “I can’t give you an MRI with that in your ear,” He said.

“The other guy taped it up,” I said.

He yanked on it some more. “That in your ear, it won’t do any good if I give you one.”

“They told me it’s bad if I sit up to long.” I said, trying to move thing along, wondering how bad it really was.

He went to make a phone call. I heard, “this guy, earring, just had one, and busy.” Then he didn’t say anything, just held the phone to his ear until he hung up. “What do I know”, he said coming back to get me. “I just run the damn thing.”
He wheeled me in and barked out orders at me, shoved me into better position on the bench thing and strapped me down, jammed this cage thing over my face so my head couldn’t move. “Lay still,” he barked.

A Turn For The Worse

Kelsey went to get my wife. The hospital people kept coming in to ask me how I was doing. After the cat scan, one of the doctors told me he didn’t think I had a stroke. He changed his mind after the MRI.
Jackie got there and asked me how I was? I hadn’t had the MRI yet. Maybe I started crying and then made a joke. Maybe I told her I’m sorry because we’re both have pre existing conditions and I have no insurance and that’s why I started crying. Maybe I knew I had fucked around for a good part of my life and have little monetarily to show for it and I was not prepared for this. Maybe I knew this was going to be hard on her MS. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to me and held my hand and maybe that’s why I started crying because I was glad she was there. Maybe I started crying for all those reasons.
Anyway, I think when she got there and asked me how I was doing I started crying and then made a joke. “I’m a cheep date now. I come pre slurred.” Or something like that.
Some time there I went to have my MRI. It confirmed I had a stroke in my brain stem. Eventually here, I’ll get my records so I can fill you in on the technical details. In layman’s terms, what happened when I had my stroke is I’m pretty sure plaque broke of from somewhere and caused a blood clot in my head deigning blood to a small part of my brain causing that part to die. I’m not sure about the whole blood clot thing so I’ll have to get back to you on that, but they did say part of my brain died. It’s the same mechanics as having a heart attack except in the head. It was taking it’s time, shutting of a nerve pathway here and there. I thought what happened had happened and here I was. It was only happening, and it was still early.
I think from the emergency room they transferred me to a ward in between ICU and regular hospital care. I was in a single room, which surprised me. They set me up with a fluid drip and I didn’t feel all that bad. I had right side weakness and my voice was slurring some, but I could go to the bathroom by myself, and tomorrow I didn’t have to work outside In the cold. It seemed a tough way to get a week or so off work, catch up on my sleep, but I wasn’t going to grouse. Kelsey, I think, came back and gave Jackie a ride home. I watched a movie on TBS. We don’t have TV at home.
In the morning I was stiffer on my right side, I could barely lift my arm and my fingers didn’t work so good. I was a little less stable when I got up to go to the bathroom. I got a shot in the arm of some kind of blood thinner. I would get that shot three times a day, either in the arm or the stomach, my choice, for the next three and a half weeks. I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink yet. The squeezed some stuff out of a tube and rubbed it on my lips and teeth with a tiny square sponge to moisturize them. It seems they didn’t know if I knew how to swallow anymore, they were worried I might swallow whatever they gave me into my lungs. I guess if you do that with water it gives you pneumonia. I don’t know what happens if you swallow a bite of Salisbury steak into your lungs?
I saw about half a dozen doctors that day. They must have compared notes because they all came in and asked the same questions and did the same things.
“Big smile. Raise your brows. Squeeze my hand. Harder. As hard as you can. Put up your. Put up your dukes.” The demonstrated. “Don’t let me pull. Don’t push. Step on the gas. Don’t let me pull. Close one eye, close one eye follow the light. Close the other eye. Lean forward. Big breath, another, another, one more.”
That isn’t all of them. And the never say anything about them. They just all come in and do them. They introduce themselves and any body that might be with them. If there’s one that one of them they refer to you as “the patient” and talk like you can’t here them. I got a little better until about noon. And then I started stiffening up again.
A speech therapy doctor came in a very cute slim blonde, and talked to me about the importance of over articulating when I talked. She gave me some exercises to do with my tongue. She smiled a lot and was very friendly.
Jackie came about one in the afternoon and asked how I was doing. I said I seemed to be worse. My sister Clara came and did a good job trying not to cry when she came in the room. I was the big brother. I was at her house two days before when we had our New Years with relatives get together. Now here I was in a hospital with an IV drip, slurring my speech and my smile not quite working right and my right eyelid drooping.

January 4, 2010

On January 4, 2010, after our holiday break from work, at about 7:30 in the morning, I stopped at the drive-through at Burger King for a dollar breakfast muffin and a senior coffee, then parked in front of the job site on Racine and 31st about a half hour before work. I ate my sandwich and listened to NPR. It was the first day back at work after the two-week, Christmas break, a week of which was paid. Work started at 8:00 am. By 9:30 AM I was in the emergency room at the Jessi Brown VA Hospital in Chicago with slurred speech and a little difficulty walking.

At work I first noticed I felt tentative carrying a heavy pre-hung, exterior door with Lucas. I figured it was due to the cold morning, ten degrees maybe, there was snow on the ground, and I was walking over frozen jumbled bricks. We were building a new house, cinder block with a brick veneer face. Before the break we had just put the roof on and got the windows in. Now we were putting the doors in, trying to close it up and get some heat in it so we could work without freezing our nuts off.

I was in the basement, no floor yet, with Bill, my boss. He was going over with me how he wanted the door put in, how it needed to be framed to work with the interior walls and the height the floor would be. I noticed my speech slurring trying to talk to him. I had noticed it before when Lucas and I took the door out of Bill's van. I told my self it was the cold. I tried to correct without success. I tried harder to speak clearly. I still slurred. I had to go out to my truck to get a tool. Lucas and Bill were on the first floor talking about another door. It was hard to pick my way over the brick. I stumbled a little. They asked me if I was alright. I told them no. I started to cry. I said I couldn’t talk right and I didn’t know why.

“It’s cold,” Bill said, coming down the steps. “let’s put you in your truck for a little bit to warm you up.”

We got me in my truck, a good-looking, red F150. He went back to the job. He came back in a minute fishing in his wallet. “Here’s an aspirin just in case you might be having a stroke.” I think that had occurred to me as a possibility. “I carry a couple," he said, "because I have high blood pressure.” He left and came back with his son, Kelsey, who had just got out of the army after serving more than one tour in Iraq.

“How are you doing?” Kelsey asked.

“I don’t know.” I was scared.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said again.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Ya.” I started crying again.

“You be okay,” he said. “Will take my car. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

I got out of my truck. He took my arm and led me to his car, a Dodge Durango. The hospital was fifteen minutes away. In a half hour I was in a room in the emergency wing. About ten people in white or light blue clothes rushed in and started doing things to me. I watched the clock on the wall. I figured I could put off calling my wife until 12:30. I always called at lunch. I had until 12:30 to call her and tell her I had to go to the hospital but everything was all right. I seemed to be getting a little better.

They took blood, blood pressure, got me ready for an IV. Sent me for a cat scan. Several different people came in and asked me, “How are you doing, Mr. Lipuma?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

About 11:30 I asked the emergency room doctor what was going on. When did he think I could go home?

“I don’t know,” he said. “With your voice slurring like that there’s something going on. You’re definitely here over night.”

I called my wife. I was in the hospital three and a half weeks.