Testing, testing

Today Neal and I went to a psychologist for testing as part of the process to apply for disability.

The woman at Social Security and the psychologist kept using the word "deficits." Usually I think of "deficits" in the context of budgets; I don't like the word when it's applied to me.

The doctor didn't have to search far for deficits: I couldn't say the year, although I explained that I could write it, and I did. The testing was very tiring, but it was interesting. It was the most thorough test of my memory since the stroke.

Although my pride was wounded, I think I'm a shoe-in for disability. 

Babes in the woods

These days L's favorite friends are two Beanie Babies called Chips and Nut. No, I meant to say, Chip and Nuts. Or are they Nut and Chips?

Several times a day I'm corrected by a testy five-year-old who is very particular about singular vs. plural. I'm certain that a malevolent person at the Beanie Babies company made up the names especially to torture a parent with apraxia.

Chip and Nuts: friend or foe?

Happy... Happy... Happy...

Today is my dad's birthday. Although we see each other at least two times a week, I want to phone him today to wish him birthday greetings.

Me: Hi Dad.
Dad: Hi Grace.
Me: Happy...  happy.. happy...

The word is sticking in my mouth, like a huge sneeze that can't quite come out. I know that "Thanksgiving" is the wrong greeting, but the word is blotting out any other words in my mind.

Dad: I know what you are trying to say.
Me: Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday to a giving, patient, loving dad.

Frustration is the mother of progress

Sometimes I'm too patient. But even I have my limits, like this week when I was face-to-face with a bowl of left-over Halloween candy. Alone.

I'm sure that my OT will be pleased that I can cut--especially candy wrappers--with scissors now with my right hand.

My Happy Stroke - Not

One of my doctors at MGH said right after the stroke, "in nine months, it will be a bad dream."

So it's been about nine months.

Even without the insomnia, the iron problems, the seizure, and other littler problems, I think the doctor was overly optimistic. I still have a good prognosis (I hope), but the time scale was way off.

It's like climbing a mountain, with a lot of false peaks. The more I feel like my old self, the more I realize how far I have to go.

Moving on

I hate good byes.

We're finally moving my therapy from Spaulding Boston to Spaulding Medford, which is closer for us.

On Thursday I had my last therapy at Boston. I cried. (My speech teachers have reassured me that one of the after-effects of a stroke often is some heightened emotional volatility; in turn I've reassured them that I was like this even before the stroke).

To Varsha, Rick, and Jenna, thank you. You are all so skilled, involved, and most of all, kind. I could go on about the ways you have helped me, but then I would start crying again.