Could there be anything more boring than listening to people going on about their operations? As for writing about them, the assumption has to be that such an individual is still suffering from the ailment.

With that out of the way, I now propose to recount the story of my brief encounter with the fairies after my own mini-stroke. I hope that what I consider a success story may encourage fellow sufferers to believe that recovery is within their grasp. Ah, there’s a turn of phrase! Even a minor stroke such as mine meant that grasping things became a major problem.

But let us start at the beginning with a minute-by-minute account of the day I lost control of bits of me I thought I could depend upon. I got up much as normal and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. With tea bag in cup, I became strangely unsure of what to do next as I entered a floating dream world where my head and my body seemed unrelated. I somehow steadied myself and left the kitchen to return upstairs. My wife, who was also up and about, immediately saw that I was not myself. In faltering words I told her that I was feeling lost. I think that was how I expressed myself — at least I still had the power of speech!

‘You’d better see the doctor,’ was the worried response. ‘We can go round now — better than phoning. The surgery is just around the corner.’

I can only surmise that I looked pretty dreadful so the receptionist got me in to see the doctor almost straight away. I suppose I didn’t need to say anything by way of explanation. The doctor studied me for a few moments, and then, extending his arm, he revealed something strapped to his wrist. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to his watch.
‘Er..m..m,’ was about all I could manage. Of course, I knew it was a watch, but the words refused to come out. I knew then that at least one bodily function was not following instructions from the brain. The doctor’s verdict was expected. ‘You’ve had a mini-stoke,’ he pronounced.

Overcoming a Stroke

From that point on, my life changed. First, there were the prescription drugs to lower my cholesterol, and then I was sent for tests to see if the heart was pumping blood to everywhere it was needed. But more of medication and monitoring later, my immediate concern was to check motor functions for myself. I had been lucky: only my right arm or more specifically my right hand movements seemed to have been affected.

I took full account of how totally right-handed I was only when I tackled that delayed cup of tea. My wobbly right hand alone was not up to the task as more tea was spilt than reached my lips: a two-handed approach was the only answer.

Next came the daily ablutions: my toothbrush found my mouth successfully, but only after the left hand was recruited to locate teeth and apply brushing action. Also, I prefer not to dwell on my bloody exploits with what is laughingly referred to as a safety razor. The solution here was to use my old battery dry shaver and go two-handed as per drinking procedure.

Every simple task became an exercise in total concentration: buttons refused to enter buttonholes, cutlery techniques had to be adapted to enable food to reach the mouth, and unreadable squiggles were the best pen could produce on paper. I had reverted to childhood as shoelaces and hand movements became strangers once more.

After the completion of the basic blood tests, I decided to visit a private physiotherapist. I left with lots of good common sense advice, an exercise regime, and a spongy yellow ball to squeeze. The advice was to retrain my right hand to do what my right hand normally did, and not to favour my left. Easier said than done, but now, some three years later I am back to normal, except for one thing: I still find it much easier to operate my computer mouse with my left hand.

The explanation is, I think, obvious. When the stroke struck, I was already 74 years old and I had only just mastered mouse-clicking right-handed: it was hardly a lifetime skill. The only other area of diminished competence is — and yes, still is — handwriting!

I worried about my writing from the outset. In those days, one still had to sign credit card receipts: PIN numbers were not the norm. I decided on a daily signature revival programme, as what I was producing at the time could have been the efforts of Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. Come to think of it, though, would anyone have noticed? Every day, I practised the difficult art of writing my name. Slowly, but Oh so slowly! I came to recognise the spidery marks as a written representation of myself. But it wasn’t my signature — and it still isn’t quite right! I can now write in longhand, but I cannot do it at speed. Any hastily penned note remains unreadable to this day. On the positive side, I would not like readers to think it took me three years to produce a reasonable signature. Can’t remember exactly — a couple of months, I’d say! The medical profession would naturally point out that no two cases are the same — this was just my experience.

Even from day 1 (after the initial shock) I did not look incapacitated and I felt almost a fraud as I attended the specialist’s follow-up sessions. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the doctor’s assessments confirmed my own feelings of progress.

Finally, I return to Day 1, and the medication prescribed on the first visit to my GP. It is probably routine practice for stroke victims to be put on aspirin to thin the blood and tablets to lower cholesterol, but my first blood test after taking the anti-cholesterol drug showed a lower than normal cholesterol reading. I was immediately taken off that medication, as it was not needed although I continue to take the aspirin (when I remember). The whole thing remains a mystery to me: my blood pressure and cholesterol levels were and still are normal.

A mystery it will remain: my diet is healthy — plenty of fruit and veg and I enjoy a pretty active lifestyle with walking a regular and frequent activity. The only thing I cannot control is time. Who can? I always remember someone remarking about an old friend who had just passed away, ‘He had a good innings.’ I am 77 not out and still batting pretty well. Who says I won’t make my century!

© Basil Turner 2008