SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF On the day I was released from The Medical City after a six-day stay of which three consigned to the Acute Stroke Unit, I began a journey of discovery that was quite disconcerting; humbling even. It was like I became a little child all over again – but in reverse! While a little child begins the voyage of learning what he can do, I embarked on an expedition of discovering what I could NO longer do! Like, a little child would learn how to stand up and walk; but I discovered that walking, that mindless chore of putting forward one foot after the other, was really a complicated process requiring the connected, coordinated and correlated functions and efforts of so many joints, muscles, ligaments, blood vessels and organs. The smallest dissonance, variance or miscalculation could result in monumental disaster. Like, the knee could just suddenly snap and fold up; and the skull could hit the pavement with the abrupt, ungraceful fall. Like, a little child would learn the magic of human touch as he delicately ran his fingers through the contours of his mother’s face; but it became clear soon enough that I have lost most of my manual dexterity – as exemplified, ruefully, by my inability to seek out the hands of my wife under the covers in the dead of night. My ingenuous intent was to just to squeeze them to let her know how much I loved her. I am left-handed, you see. And my wife slept on my left side. In the past, I did not attach too much value on being able to hold her hand as we slid to slumber land. But, all of a sudden, I found my left hand getting numb if I held hers for too long. And when I awoke in the middle of the night, I’d grope for her touch but usually gave up the struggle and I’d end up staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours until sleep claimed my consciousness again. Like, a little child would learn to use utensils when eating; but I found out the fingers of my left hand had somehow developed a grumpy, supercilious attitude.They feistily refused to hold a spoon to spade into my mouth whatever victuals were in front of me. Whenever I insisted, food would fly into the air and land everywhere except inside my oral orifice. I had no choice but to spear all my food with the prongs of a fork held decisively and with grim determination by the fingers of my right hand. I actually lost a few pounds in a week; but then, who cared to get rid of surplus weight this way, huh? Like, a little child would learn how to write; but, alas! I was aghast, bemused and crestfallen to discover I couldn’t even sign my name on the hospital’s release papers – unless you’d call a signature the screwy scrawl that was all I could muster but which resembled more the scratch on the ground made by a rooster seeking food. Also, I found out I couldn’t tap the appropriate keys on the keyboard of my laptop, much less the miniature letters on the touch screen of my android phone. Oh, how so horribly horrified I was to realize this! I mean, I am a writer; I earn a living from putting words together. Suddenly, there I was, totally incapable of weaving letters to create words, and sentences, and paragraphs, and…! Woefully, I had to bid goodbye to my favorite habit of tapping onto the Notes app of my iPhone5 whatever random thoughts flowed in my stream of consciousness. Yes, there were a gazillion other small stuffs I had to sweat. That guy who advised don’t sweat the small stuff had had a stroke. I mean, like, wriggling the toes of my left foot was a major production requiring the same amount of strength and concentration needed to direct an award’s night. Encouraging my left thumb to again befriend and touch my pinky finger was more difficult than coaxing two warring movie stars to shake hands for the camera. Lifting my left leg while lying flat in bed proved more frustrating than imploring politicians to give up their pork barrel. Thankfully, I soon ascertained the magnitude of my capacity for creativity and resourcefulness. Like, when cleaning my teeth, I squeezed toothpaste directly into my mouth because that was easier to do than putting it on a toothbrush. Also, I gingerly held the toothbrush with my left hand but, once it was finally inside my mouth, it was my head that did most of the moving – sideways, forward and backward, and round and round in circles; even as the fingers of my left hand holding the hapless toothbrush seemed limper with every calibrated effort to stiffen them. When applying cream on my face – (Yes, people like me blest by God with flawless skin do take seriously what we solemnly consider as our obligation to be good stewards of such a wonderful gift!) – I had no problem with my right hand ministering to the right part of my face, but my left hand was obstinately uncooperative. It had to be my left cheek and the left part of my forehead rubbing themselves on my flaccid left forefinger generously smothered with cream. As for my nose and chin and back of the ears and that part between the lips and the nostrils, well, my compliant and uncomplaining right hand had to compensate and do most of work. Now, taking a bath was a whole new world of misadventures. For one, the soap seemed soapier and more slippery; and the shampoo somehow made lesser lather even though it was the same brand I’ve been using for ages. For another, much to my chagrin, my left hand found enormous joy in the newfound sport of wrestling with the corded shower spout. The water drizzled on every tile of the bathroom wall as well as the light bulb in the ceiling; gratefully, some of it also managed to sprinkle on strategic parts of my body. Also, there were crucial body parts that I suddenly realized were no longer reachable. At first, it was frustrating; but I soon realized it didn’t really matter. Like, who cared, really, if my right armpit was not as soaped as I would have wished? Meanwhile, let us not even begin to talk about how I managed to successfully or unsuccessfully relieved myself of bodily fluids and, uh, solids… Suffice it to say that I am eternally indebted to whoever invented that toilet contraption called the bidet. Now, uh, if you don’t mind, that’s one story I’d rather keep to myself. Meanwhile, shaving proved to be an extreme sport. Like, it constantly posed clear and present danger if not to my face then to my sense of equanimity. Yes, I usually collected not just a few little nicks and scrapes after every shave. Now, I am diabetic. Ad even the littlest cuts could wreak devastating damage to diabetics. I remember a friend, who also had uncontrolled sugar levels, whose toe became gangrenous and had to be chopped off after his pedicurist nipped more than just his cuticles. This explained why whenever I grazed myself with my shaver, I asked myself if orthopedic surgeons also amputated chins? Now, let us proceed to dressing up. I did come to theorize that whoever invented the button must have been a little narrow in the head. Because why torture oneself? One time, it took me 30 minutes to button up my shirt only to do it all over again because there was one extra button but no more buttonhole through which to push it. Yes, I had put the first button into the second buttonhole, so… Two days after my hospital discharge, my rehabilitative therapy commenced; and it unlocked the portal to another entire universe of discoveries. I discovered that it was a herculean task to make little balls out of therapeutic putty, which looked and felt like clay dough but with a finer texture and softer consistency. To think that the effort basically required the cooperation of only the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I also discovered that, without using hand rails, it was utterly impossible to ascend just a single rung in a flight of stairs. Many times, I’d slump and collapse into the waiting arms of my Physical Therapist whose saintly patience must deserve nothing less than canonization from Pope Francis. And, I bet, you never knew any of the following… Lifting an arm could be a task only an Olympic weightlifter would find easy; because a hand, that end part of the arm with a palm and five fingers, could actually weigh a hundred kilograms, or even more. When I I had to reach something with my left hand, I actually needed to solicit the help of my right to hold and raise my left elbow. Picking up brightly colored pegs from a box, fitting them into appropriate holes, and taking them all out again could feel like building quake-proof skyscrapers that caressed the very face of heaven. It was quite humbling to learn that this was a therapeutic exercise originally designed for special children with severely impaired fine motor skills. Putting coins one on top of another could take forever because, sans painstaking care, they just fell and rolled down the floor and under cabinets; which trebled the effort of doing it all over again. What soon became a major part of my rehabilitative therapy was kneeling down on my knees, bowing my head and practically crawling on the floor to recover the pegs that played hide-and-seek with me – with them doing all the hiding and me doing all the seeking. Scratching the left butt face to ease an itch could prove impossible because the right hand couldn’t reach it and the left hand did not possess the power to apply enough pressure to do the job satisfactorily. Enough said on that one. Clapping, that grand gesture of expressing appreciation or admiration by raising both hands and slamming the palms together, could cause colossal frustration, really. I mean, the value of this simple act is basically measured by the slapping sound it creates; the louder it is, the better. So, if no sound, not even a tiny thump, is produced, the effort is worthless, right? To think that my claps used to hit the highest decibels and actually had the potential to harm a sensitive eardrum! Now, it must occur to you to ask, where was my wife? What did she do to help me do these little things I could not do? In fairness to Joyce, she wanted to help; and she did beg, beseech, implore and entreat me to make her an active partner in my journey. I said no; and my obdurate refusal to allow her to do anything for me was a source of incalculable torment for her. Not even her tears, which pained me endlessly, moved me enough to admit her into my adventure. Okay, here was how I felt about it. The stroke was the result of my recalcitrance. I was a bad boy. I ignored every special diet and exercise regimen that Joyce quite punctiliously researched on cyberspace for people with my particular menu of ailments – fatty liver, diabetes, hypertension, elevated uric acid, high cholesterol level, kidneys that leaked protein, etc. I continued to gorge myself with all the bad food; and exercise for me was a bore. When the stroke happened, I knew I was accountable and had to take full and total responsibility for my intransigence. To my mind, making Joyce share the burden resulting from the stroke was unfair, unjust, iniquitous, dishonorable. I was the sinner; I deserved to suffer alone the consequences of my sinfulness. To my mind, nothing could justify making Joyce suffer for my sins as well. So it was my way of doing penance to suffer alone, the best way I possibly could. I did allow Joyce to help me climb a flight of stairs once; and I did ask Nhoel, my son, to accompany me to and from my check-ups and rehab appointments; but whenever I could do things on my own, I stubbornly forced myself to do them all by myself. There was a point when the going got really tough and the tough in me just couldn’t get going. I bit my lips in frustration. Tears came unbidden. My thoughts turned up. And there was God gazing down at me from His heavenly abode, smiling with that beatific glow that only celestial beings could. It was then, and only then, that I was able to finally understand and be enlightened by the fullness of the simple fact that I have never really been alone. God has always been there. Even when I sinned, God was there. He was sad; but He was there. Even when I followed the way of the world and repudiated His, He was there. He was aggrieved; but He was there. Even when I kissed the very face of the Evil One, He was there. He was in tears; but He was there. During my darkest hour, His light was there; I was just too blind to see it. During my deepest pain, His comfort was there; I was just too engrossed in my misery to notice it. During my deaths, His Life was there; my hands and my heart were just too full with everything except Him to accept His offering. And even when I refused His care – which I did whenever I ignored the people He sent me to warn me, to correct me, to show me the right way, He never stopped caring. Even when I refused His love – by saying no to people like Joyce whose only desire was to be a source of my healing and restoration, He never stopped loving. And, yes, I now profusely and profoundly thank my ischemic stroke for it allowed me to gain a bottomless understanding of God and of the workings of my relationship with Him. And here’s my greatest discovery of all. Sometimes, God makes us lose the power to do the simplest things to remind us to value and be grateful for even the smallest gifts that He bestows not because we are deserving but purely out of the enormity of His love. We fret. We complain. We cry out in pain. The agony overwhelms sometimes. But, ultimately, we are thankful as the Lord paves the way for us to be restored to the fullness that, since the beginning of time, He has already designed for us. I am mortified. I am humbled. I am grateful. Lord, bring it on – if it be Your divine will…
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 03:40:32 +0000