The Stroke: Part 2

By Jack Krayenhoff [Read Part 1 here]

A month has passed since the last article on my stroke. “You look healthier than ever,” say my friends, not knowing that I take ultra-violet treatments for a skin condition at the same time that gives me a slight tan. “Have you been to Mexico?” and they think: that stroke seems to have done him good.

Well, it is true that in other ways I do great. The weakness on the right has left me and I can pretty well walk as far as before. To see if I could do it, I left my car for service at the Finlayson Toyota centre and walked home to Dallas Road. I motivated myself by waiting for a faster walker to pass me and then to keep up with him, following some ten yards behind. One time it was a girl in her twenties, who looked surreptitiously behind her and made a right hand turn when she saw I was not falling further behind. I told myself that perhaps she wanted to turn there anyway, to get away from a ‘stalker.’ Just imagine what I would say to a cop who stopped me on the suspicion of stalking: “Oh officer, I just wanted somebody to set my walking pace a little faster.” Would he believe me?

The only other defect I noticed is when I played cards. I wanted to play my queen to go unfortunately under the ace of the opposition, but instead pulled out a trump card that sat next to the queen. This is bridge, and it is illegal. Could I blame the stroke for it? At the time, I did: the fingers didn’t quite do what the brain told them. The excuse was accepted. Afterward I thought: “wait a minute! I held the cards in my right hand, but I drew the trump card with my left, and there is nothing the matter with the side of my brain that drew the trump.’ But that is long after I finished the game and the friends are gone. So I let the deceit sit, or go. I write about it because my conscience is uncomfortable. I hope my friends will read this article.

The only disability that is left is the speech defect. For the life of me, I cannot find the word that the situation demands sometimes, and then I get nervous. The general conversation stops, and people gaze at me. Some want to be helpful and make suggestions: stigmatization? Making sure the point is made? Laying the blame where it belongs? I say: “no, no, no” but I get all the more nervous. I stutter as I try to find the word myself, and in the end I give up. Can you blame me for not wanting to speak at all?

But I have a secret weapon. The keyboard! And with any luck at all the people at the Beacon will print it.