Some of you know I was blessed with a stroke a couple of years ago.
Yeah, a stroke – as in cerebral hemorrhage.
I was upset by stress at work, and yes, I stroked out.
Physical therapy helped enough to make me think I could keep our business going, but the hubs put his foot down. He’d stroked out a couple of years before and stepped aside from our business and knew it was too much for me, but I gave it a shot anyway.
After all, hubby was the sick one – I didn’t have time to be sick.
I lost the argument. Still, it took a few months to shut everything down and let me “retire”.
That’s when the panic set in.
Not when they pulled me out of the MRI machine and strapped me into a helicopter for a life flight to a neuro-surgical hospital.
I panicked at the thought of not being productive. Not being creative. Not making things happen. Not “stirring the pot” anymore.
I didn’t *want* to be able to sleep in or *gasp* nap when I needed to.
I didn’t *want* someone else making the meals, shopping for groceries, doing the laundry.
I didn’t *want* endless hours to catch up on reading the hundreds of books I’d squirreled away for just such a time. Oh, no.
I must have been crazy.
But I’ve always loved working.
I *love* forcing myself into bed to sleep fast so I can get up and start again.
I wanted to be *working* again – but I knew it couldn’t be what led to the stroke in the first place, dammit. Of course, my brain was damaged just enough to keep me from thinking what I could be doing.
I wrestled the idea off and on (when I could remember to), and eventually gave up.
Finally out of options, finally realizing that this was something I couldn’t figure out on my own, one night I let go – really let go – and asked – really asked – “What am I supposed to do?” and fell asleep, not expecting an answer.
Next time: the answer.