Too much anger, too much stroke card

We’re going to try to write something without swearing. Ready? It won’t be easy. If you want to know how I’m really feeling, imagine that everything you read here is laced with profanity.

Wouldn’t it be swell if my heartburn went away? Yes. That would be swell.

Of course, I’d never use such language on a public blog. Because it’s inappropriate, see. HA. Want to know what I feel like saying to anyone who thinks my language is inappropriate?

MY CHILD HAD A %$#@ STROKE. AFTER YOUR CHILD HAS A STROKE, PERHAPS I’LL ALLOW YOU TO TELL ME WHAT IS AND IS NOT APPROPRIATE.

That’s probably not playing the stroke card. Or is it? I’ve been extremely wary of playing the stroke card for, well, almost a year. And by playing the stroke card, I of course mean silencing everyone into submission, and/or getting things from people, by mentioning that my child had a stroke.

It scares people, you know. Because it’s something that doesn’t happen much. 6 and 7 year-olds having strokes, I mean. “Ooh, I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” First of all, I know you can’t, and who really cares? Who’s asking you to imagine anything? (Of course, I’ve said the same thing to millions of people over the years. Getting irritated by kind, well-intentioned people is one of the things you’re allowed to do when your child had a stroke.) And second of all, yes you can. It doesn’t take much imagination, especially if you’re a parent. Just think for two seconds. Think of it happening to your kid. Right; the thought paralyzes you with terror. So what? Think of it happening anyway, no matter how paralyzed you are. Think of watching it happen. Think of staring at your kid in the back of an ambulance. Think of suddenly realizing, far more acutely than ever before, that no matter what happens inside her body, that child is yours. It’s her body you’re responsible for, first and foremost. It’s her body you brought into the world. Of course, you’re responsible for her happiness, emotional well-being, etc., too, but some things can suddenly throw into sharp relief the fact that whatever inhabits that body, that is what you must take care of. That is what, to be blunt, you’re stuck with. No matter what happens, no matter how it changes. You can imagine that, can’t you?

Not doing the best job explaining what I mean. But I don’t have to explain what I mean, because my child had a stroke.

“Ooh, we can’t pay all that tuition. See, my little girl had a stroke [sniff, sniff], and, well, the medical expenses — you know how it is — [break down weeping].” I was exceedingly uncomfortable when we (by which I of course mean, G) were filling out the tuition assistance applications. Not one thing he said was a lie or exaggeration — not one thing — all he did was relate the facts, along with the numbers, in a completely straightforward, non-emotional manner — and the facts are that there are a lot of expenses, even with our (thank God thank God thank God) health insurance. But I still felt uncomfortable, because what could the schools possibly say? “Stroke, huh? Yeah, well, we all have problems. Pay up, please.” Maybe they should say that, but I knew they wouldn’t. Because it’s a stroke. This is a family whose child had a stroke. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were somehow using R’s stroke for personal gain. I know, we weren’t. But something about it still didn’t feel right.

There have been other examples. I can’t remember them right now. This subject has been on my mind as a possible post topic for a long time, because it feels so conflicting. On the one hand, shut up, all of you idiots, my child had a stroke. On the other hand, yes, my child had a stroke; that doesn’t mean you should leap out of our way and treat us with kid gloves. That doesn’t absolve us of other responsibilities. It doesn’t mean everybody has to drop everything and give us whatever we want. Does it?

They do drop everything, of course, and they did drop everything. My in-laws. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.” Both of my in-laws are somewhat important people in their professions (and in the Jewish world, for that matter, and in the world in general, but who’s keeping score?). People and institutions depend on them, in extremely concrete ways. Cancel your afternoon? Every time? Every day? Well, sure; my child had a stroke, see. My sister. “Come over right now.” Our friends and neighbors. “Pick up our kids. Bring food to the hospital. Come by my house and do this and that and the other thing.” They will, of course, and they did, and they have, because my child had a stroke. But it starts to feel wrong.

Hey, can I try this on my professor? “You know that stupid exam you don’t remember telling me [hey, that post is also somewhat about swearing] 7 years ago I didn’t have to take, and it turned out you were mistaken, so now I do have to take it? Well, you see — [sniff, wipe eyes] — my little girl had a stroke — three, in fact, if you count TIAs — and, well, it’s a bit difficult to study [commence bawling]…” Do you think he’d say “Oh, I think we can waive the exam requirement this time. Congratulations, here’s your MA!”? Maybe he would. Because my child had a stroke, see.

Of course, that’s somewhat true. I can’t study. I can’t make chicken soup (though I did, somehow). I can’t read a bunch of academic books and remember what they say. Want to know what I can do? I can sit and stare. I can sit frozen on a stool in my kitchen while my baby siSter fries eggs for lunch for her son (the smell almost killed me. Heh), and I can text a few people — “R can’t talk again. On her way to the ER with G. SuperStroke has been notified” — and then I can sit some more. With my nausea and heartburn, of course. Because the Small Gestating One doesn’t know its sister had a(nother) stroke-like thing. The Small Gestating One has work to do — it has to gestate, see — and that work doesn’t stop. So I can sit, and feel sick, and continue to sit, and stare, and not move. I can mumble self-flagellating things to myself, so my baby siSter can say to me harshly “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Oh YEAH?? My child had a stroke. Don’t try to tell me what I did and didn’t do. I can wonder why I’m not davening. I can try to whisper my child’s name, but of course I then immediately have to spit.

Know what I can’t do? Cry. I can’t cry when I need to spit so much. I can’t cry when I already have a sticky painful wad of phlegm in my throat (going on 3+ months now). Crying makes the phlegm 100000 times worse. So what I can do is sit, and stare, and berate myself, and spit, and not cry, and feel sick, and my head can explode with rage and fury, and I can swear in my head. I can swear at God. I can swear at myself. I can swear at R. I can do anything I want in my head, except study for my exam. Because my child had a stroke.

Of course, that’s all a description of what took place in my kitchen two days ago, between the hours of 12:45 and 1:53 PM (that start time may be wrong). But to a lesser degree it’s what happens every day, whether she’s having a TIA or not. Because she did, and she could, and when people ask how she is, we can only really answer about the past. She hasn’t had another one, yet. You can ask me again in five minutes. No stroke yet. No stroke yet. No stroke yet. Repeat from January until June. MRI scheduled for July 6. Maybe she’ll make it until then? Maybe she hasn’t had anything for so long because… she’s better? Because the arteries are no longer bad? Maybe the July 6 MRI will give us… good news?

HA!! HA HA HA!! June 16, sucker!! TIA!! 1+ hours of paralyzed terror until she suddenly starts talking again! And you thought there might be good news. You thought it might ever be over. Time to rev up all that stuff that’s always, always in the back of your head, and bring it to the front. Time to swear some more. Time to… well, we know the drill.

“Anything I can do?” texted more than one person.

“Yes,” I responded to one of them. “You can run me over with a truck.”

(She declined.)

“Don’t throw yourself in front of a truck,” advised another friend.

“Why not?” I demanded. “You think it may not work?”

I yelled at RS and YS last night. They were supposed to be in bed, of course, and they came out, of course, because they wanted attention, of course. I yelled at them both. I suck. I can’t do this. Someone run me over now. Either that, or cure my pregnancy symptoms. “Hey kid,” I said last night, to the Small Gestating One. “Do you think there’s anything you can do about the heartburn and the nausea? I’m having a hard time coping right now, and, well, it would be best for everyone if I felt a little better.” No response. Kid hates me already.

No, I am not in danger of hurting myself. No, I am not in danger of hurting my kids. I’m an irritable basket case, perhaps, but they’re fine. There is no need for concern.

Except about the stroke, of course. Because my child had a stroke.

Don’t be afraid of me. You might be afraid of me after you read this post. But I’m not completely unapproachable. Completely irrational, yes, but you can approach me. I (probably) won’t hit you. I might bite your head off, internally or externally, but please be assured that this has nothing to do with you. I’d probably bite your head off no matter what you say or how you say it. Because I’m sick, and I don’t feel good, and my child had a *&%$# stroke.

Here’s wishing for a peaceful Shabbos. And if you’ve seen my son’s sandals, please let me know where they are.

Tags: Stroke