Stroke Talk: My Life, My Way
I don’t remember the exact second it happened, but I remember the moment I knew something wasn’t right.
It was just a regular day — no fireworks, no dramatic music in the background — and yet, it changed everything. My stroke. My uninvited guest. My new roommate who never pays rent but somehow rearranges all the furniture in my head.
In the early days, I called it “The Thing.” I didn’t even want to say “stroke” out loud. It felt too big, too official. Like once I said it, the universe would make it permanent. But it’s been a while now, and I’ve learned that stroke talk is just part of my vocabulary. I toss it around in conversation like people talk about the weather.
“Oh, yeah, my balance is off today. Stroke thing.”
“Can’t remember the word for that… stroke brain.”
“Nope, can’t do stairs that fast. Stroke rules.”
I joke about it sometimes, but not because it’s funny. More because if I don’t, I’ll drown in it. Humor became my life jacket.
Morning with Stroke
Mornings are different now. Before, I was the kind of person who would bounce out of bed like a cartoon character hearing the coffee pot whistle. Now, I wake up slow. Like, slow-slow. My body and brain have this little meeting before they let me stand up. Some days they agree; some days, they’re at war.
I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for my balance to check in. If it’s a bad day, I can feel it before my feet hit the floor. It’s like walking through water instead of air.
But here’s the thing — I notice little victories now. Like the day I managed to put on my socks without losing my balance. Or the morning I made coffee without spilling it. Pre-stroke me wouldn’t have cared. Post-stroke me wants to throw a parade.
The Social Side of Stroke Talk
People don’t know how to react when you drop the word “stroke” in conversation. You can see their brains do a little double-take. They tilt their head like you just told them you wrestle alligators on weekends.
“Oh… wow. You look… good?” they say, like it’s a question.
Thanks? I think?
Some folks want details. Some go awkwardly silent. Some start telling me about their great-aunt’s neighbor’s cousin who had a stroke once and now runs marathons. I’m never sure if that’s supposed to be inspiring or competitive.
The truth? Every stroke story is different. Mine has some days where I feel like I could climb mountains, and some days where getting the laundry done is my Everest.
Brain Fog, My Old Frenemy
Before the stroke, my brain was my favorite tool. Sharp, fast, full of quick comebacks. Now? Some days, it’s like someone replaced my mental hard drive with a slow internet connection.
I’ll be mid-sentence and — poof — the word’s gone. Vanished. I can see the shape of it, taste it almost, but it’s hiding behind some dusty mental curtain. Stroke talk, man. It’s its own language.
I’ve learned to laugh at it. My friends help fill in the blanks when my words play hide-and-seek. Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes we end up talking about spaghetti when I meant screwdriver. It’s fine.
Good Days vs. Bad Days
Here’s the part I didn’t get before I joined the Stroke Club — recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s more like a drunk squirrel on a power line. Some days, I wake up feeling like the main character in a comeback movie. Other days, I feel like the movie got canceled halfway through production.
Bad days used to crush me. Now, I’ve learned they’re just part of the rhythm. I keep a “good things” list in my phone for when I need a boost. Stuff like:
Walked to the mailbox without a cane.
Remembered my neighbor’s name without checking Facebook.
Made it through the grocery store without needing to sit down.
Tiny wins, but wins all the same.
Family Stroke Talk
If you want to know how strong your relationships are, have a stroke. It’s like shaking a snow globe — the people who love you will come swirling around, and the rest… well, they stay on the shelf.
My family learned the new version of me. I’m not as quick. I need help with things I used to do blindfolded. But they also learned I’m tougher than I look.
We have our own stroke talk shorthand now:
“Need a reset?” means I’m hitting brain overload and need a break.
“Time to recharge” means I’m taking a nap whether the world likes it or not.
“That’s a tomorrow job” means whatever it is can wait.
Public Adventures
I used to be a “run into the store real quick” person. Now, going out takes planning. Shoes with good grip, mental energy check, making sure I’m not in a rush. Crowds make me nervous. Not because I’m scared of people, but because I’m scared of tripping or freezing up in the middle of the aisle.
But every time I go out and manage it, I feel stronger. I’ve had strangers offer to help me reach for something, carry a bag, or even just smile. People notice more than you think.
Learning the New Pace
Before the stroke, I lived life in fast-forward. Now, I’m on a different speed setting. It’s not better or worse — just… different. Slower mornings. More pauses. More noticing things I used to rush past.
I catch the way sunlight hits the kitchen counter. I feel the texture of the couch when I sit down. I hear my own breathing when the room is quiet. Stroke talk isn’t always about struggle. Sometimes it’s about being present.
Laughing Through It
If I couldn’t laugh, I’d lose my mind. Like the time I tried to say “can you pass the pepper” and it came out “can you pat the puppy.” Or when I tried to step up onto the porch and completely missed, turning it into an unplanned dance move.
I laugh because crying takes too much energy. I laugh because sometimes it really is funny. And I laugh because laughter feels like a little rebellion against everything the stroke tried to take.
Looking Ahead
I don’t know exactly what my future looks like. But I know this — I’m still here. Still moving, still trying, still learning how to live this version of my life. Stroke talk and all.
I don’t sugarcoat it. Some days are hard. Some days are ugly. But there’s also joy, connection, and a weird kind of peace in knowing I’ve been to the edge and found my way back.