One Step in Front of the Other

A few weeks ago, I talked to a delightful young woman who lives in North Dakota. She is a mother, a writer, and a long-distance runner. Like so many of us, she is also a brain aneurysm survivor. 

Her name is Kathleen Wriggley and she is running the Fargo Marathon tomorrow. Bless her heart. Like me, she is also blogging about her journey which you can follow here. 

When Kathleen found out in early summer that she would need a couple aneurysms clipped, she says her life took a screeching U- turn. She needed to prepare her two school aged children for her upcoming surgery and make sure her preschooler would be okay. She had to get her work organized and ready for her absence. “I cried every day that summer,” she said. “I could have had the surgery then, but I wanted my children to be in school so they would still have a routine. I thought it would be better for them.”

Her husband was consumed with worry and was in a turmoil of his own. Would Kathleen be okay? Or would she come out of surgery different?

Last September, when her kids were back in school, she and her husband traveled to downtown St. Paul where the great doctors at the National Brain Aneurysm Center did their surgery. She, like me, is grateful for Drs. Madison and Nussbaum, as well as every single nurse and technician who cared for her.

She is so grateful, in fact, that she is using each step of the Fargo Marathon to raise awareness and funds for the National Brain Aneurysm Center. Why? “Running this marathon is symbolic for me,” she says. “It tells me–and everyone else–that my life is back and I’m okay.”

I could not run a marathon, even if I was younger and perfectly healthy. My admiration for Kathleen is enormous. In fact, I’m in awe. I am praying for her and willing her strength and success each and every step of her journey. She is truly amazing.

More my ability is the Stroke Walk in Plymouth. May is Stroke Awareness Month and a bunch of us will be strolling through French Park enjoying ourselves, our friends, our families and, of course, our renewed lives. The Minnesota Stroke Association is sponsoring that event. Those of us who suffered vasospasm strokes when our brain aneurysms ruptured may have a slightly different twist on strokes. But a stroke is still a stroke and recovery is not easy.  I’m sure it will be fun to stroll through a beautiful park on a beautiful day and enjoy the new adventures that each day brings.

Whether it’s a marathon or a walk in the park, we all must put one step in front of the other. Only then will our journey be satisfying.

Moving slowly in an Ipod world

When people ask what it’s like to recover from a ruptured brain aneurysm and vasospasm strokes, I always say, “It’s like traveling at 33 mph in an IPod and IPhone world.”

People with names like Linda, Bill, Brenda, Sue, and John know exactly what I mean.  As for those named Ashley and Ryan? Not so much.

In today’s world it’s easy to feel out-of-step. Maybe all those brain surgeries affected my ability to conquer modern communications technology.  Are my fingers clumsier?  Are my brain neurons too disconnected and slow to interpret tiny images quickly and accurately? Did I lose the capacity to learn new things?

With our handheld  phone we can shoot pictures and video, write messages for immediate delivery, talk, play games, navigate through town and get 24/7 news alerts and information.  It’s amazing, exciting, addictive and, for me, perplexing.

I’m perplexed because I honestly don’t see the point.  Yes, our handheld technology gives us fingertip communication and information accessibility. But it doesn’t supply us with peace, quiet, or spirituality. Nor can it replace face-to-face smiles or soothe our hurts and sorrows. It can’t increase our concentration or improve our attitude.

To be honest, I didn’t mind traveling 33 rpm in an IPod world. Brain trauma and its recovery taught me to appreciate life and its simplest achievements. It taught me to balance choices and value simplicity.  It taught me to slow down and enjoy little pleasures.

So I’ve made a choice. I don’t and won’t Twitter, Tweet or Text. Traveling at 33 rpm is just fine by me.

Navigating grocery stores can be a chore

The Brain Aneurysm Support Group at St. Joe’s is high on my “must attend” list. At a recent meeting, our group spanned the decades in age.

One delightful young man was just a few months into recovery. A beautiful young grandmother has an aneurysm that isn’t yet fixed. Some of us have had many aneurysms clipped and coiled. Others have dealt with one or two. Despite our many differences, we share lots of common group, including a great sense of humor and a loathing of grocery stores.

Grocery stores? Yes. Anyone who has recovered from a ruptured brain aneurysm, brain surgery, a stroke, a concussion, a migraine or just a clunk on the head knows about the dreaded trips to get groceries. 

Supermarkets cover thousands of square feet. Lighting is less than friendly to our eyes. Noise comes at us from everywhere—overhead music, announcements, other shoppers, squeaky wheels on carts.  (Is that MY cell phone ringing or someone else’s?) As we shop for our items, we constantly check our lists and coupons, scan bins and shelves, compare prices and brands, steer around displays, and try not to bump into other shoppers.

Getting groceries is, at best, a multi-tasking challenge.  Just when we learn where everything is located, stores move some of the items to a different aisle or display. When that happens, grocery shopping becomes a nightmare.

Yesterday we shared some of our grocery-shopping experiences, frustrations and fears. We offered each other a few ideas to lessen the angst. We laughed a lot.  

Because Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve fall on our usual meeting day, our last meeting for 2009 will be December 10.  If you have a brain aneurysm or have had one fixed, if you’ve ruptured an aneurysm or care about someone who did, you are welcome to join us. It’s free of charge. Just call Tess at the National Brain Aneurysm Center. She will send you a parking pass and make sure there are enough coffee, tea and cookies to go around. Who knows? Maybe YOU can solve our grocery store dilemma!

Recognizing Miracles When We See Them

San Diego, here we come! Our youngest son, the Grand Finale, is graduating from boot camp into the Marine Corps. It’s an accomplishment few achieve.  We are proud of him.

The fact that he made it through such grueling physical and mental challenge is amazing. It’s a miracle, actually. When he came to our home, he was one day shy of his first birthday and weighed a scant 12 pounds. In this era of robust babies and toddlers, he was so small his height and weight wasn’t even  listed on the medical growth chart for his age.

Sadly, his size was not as puzzling as his strength. He could barely sit without support. Walking? No way. This little guy couldn’t crawl much, let alone stand.  So I took him to his doctor, a highly respected pediatrician. That doctor checked over the little guy and told me, “Don’t get your hopes up. He was born a low muscle-tone baby and he will always be a low muscle-tone kid.”

WHAT? GIVE UP? Was this God’s plan for the boy?

I remember bundling up the Little Guy and saying, “I can’t believe you pre-destine children.” The next day our family doctor gave that foster baby a going over, discovering elevated lead levels, anemia, RSV and a slightly clubbed foot.  When we adopted him three years later, our boy’s cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright, his smile mischievous, his weight and height smack in the middle of the growth chart. Could he walk? You bet. Run? Like the wind. Climb? Like a monkey. In short, the low-muscle-toned kid was gone. Taking his place was a boy with incredible strength, humor, resiliency and determination.

People said it was a miracle. For a long time I agreed. But now, having defied the odds of survival myself, I see that miracles don’t just happen. They are created.

Would our boy have grown into Marine-caliber strength if I had believed his first doctor’s prognosis? Would he have played hockey, football and lacrosse if I told him he would never be strong enough to compete? Would I be alive to fly to San Diego for his all-important graduation if my own doctors had given up on me? What if they believed the odds of my survival were too dismal to overcome?

Every day is a new adventure. Some adventures are challenging, scary and hard. Others are exciting, easy and joyful. But if we don’t embrace all of our adventures and take each journey with spirit, optimism and resolve, how will we know what can happen?