It's Greek to Me

My aphasia is mild now. I can have a conversation. I can write short emails without too much trouble. And of course, I can write a blog.

But the aphasia is still there. Even the people I'm closest to sometimes don't realize that I'm struggling in certain ways.

For instance, I still have some auditory processing problems, especially with numbers. Last April, my mother and I were watching the Boston Marathon on TV (this was before the bombs went off, when finishing times still mattered). We were enjoying hearing about Joan Benoit Samuelson, a fellow New Englander who had won 30 years ago. In the commercial break, my mother and I had a conversation that went something like this:

Mom: Wow, 2:ΣΨ:ΠΏ. They had said that she wanted to finish the marathon in under 2:ΣΔ:ΓΦ.

Me (looking blankly at my mom): uhhh…

My mom probably decided that I couldn't hear her.

Mom (in a louder voice): I said, she wanted to  finish the marathon in under 2:ΣΔ:ΓΦ, and Benoit’s time was 2:ΣΨ:ΠΏ.

Me (still looking confused): uhhh...

Mom(in a loud voice, again): it was two minutes under the other time.

Me (in a loud and agitated voice): Mom, don't you know that I can’t understand numbers?

It was my mother’s turn to look blank. We had a short conversation about how my brain can't handle numbers in certain situations, and then we went back to watching TV.

Sometimes I think that recovering from a brain injury is like peeling an onion: there's always another layer to peel. Each layer gets thinner and harder to see, but I know it's there.

(Fortunately, I can usually understand written numbers. Samuelson's time was 2:50:37, better than her goal of under 2:52:43. Go Joan!)

My Cane

Around of the end of last summer, I started walking around my neighborhood without a cane. It was a little scary at first, but I'm happy that I've made the leap (so to speak). I'm putting more weight on my affected side, and in general I feel stronger.

But I still do use my cane, especially in bad weather. I also use it, for instance, when I go to a store; or to a meeting; or any time I might encounter a crowd--especially a crowd of children. When I have my cane, people give me more room to pass. They hold doors. Parents ask their children to step aside. When I can't spit out the words at a normal pace, people (usually) give me more time to speak if they see the cane.

Sometimes I think I should ditch the cane, but I wish there were some other way to signal that I might need extra space or time. I guess I could hang a sign around my neck, that says: "Warning: Brain-Injured Person," but the cane does seem more elegant.

I have many canes, but this is my favorite

Piano Therapy

Since the spring, I’ve tried to practice piano regularly. It doesn’t sound much like music yet, but I have progressed a lot since the early days of my recovery. I work on scales, basic exercises, and pieces I learned when I was in third or fourth grade.

Sometimes I do have a good cry at the keyboard. I miss making real music. But I do think that trying play the piano has helped me a lot, in unexpected ways.

When I practice, often I don’t focus directly on finger dexterity, because it’s too frustrating. I still don’t have much sensation or proprioception in my hand and arm. So I focus on looking symmetrical while playing. I compare the angle of my right wrist to my left wrist, or left chest or the right chest,  or the angle of my forearms.

Then I make tiny adjustments of position or posture, and at some point, I usually get a sudden feeling of awakening in some muscle in my right side. Usually it’s a muscle (or group of muscles) in my trunk: my shoulder, or upper back, or my chest, or my abdominal muscles. It can be a stretching feeling,  or a heavy feeling, or an itchy feeling. But that feeling of my body waking up is addictive. So I try to hold on to that feeling, and make it happen again.

One day a few months ago, I was getting tired after about 15 minutes. I needed a change of pace, so I decided to really  to work on arpeggios for the first time (but with  my left hand--it’s too frustrating to try with my right hand at all). When I (and most people) play arpeggios, I have to lean from end one of the keyboard to the other end, and back again. So I leaned, and voila: I had that wonderful awakening feeling--in my right buttock. Now I think of arpeggios as “butt practice.”

I’m sure I could find a few reasons why regaining sensation in this part of my body is good. But the biggest is very utilitarian: any gain of sensation also helps me regain strength, and any gain of strength helps me to improve my gait. In stroke recovery, everything is connected.