Occupational Therapy | lilicasplace

After the entire fall incident, things began to fall into place. I had a routine to follow, which was important for me then. I had Physical Therapy (PT) and Occupational Therapy (OT) four times a week, Speech Therapy (ST) three times a week and Recreational Therapy (RT) twice a week. I did exceptionally well in PT. By my third day, I was able to stand between the parallel bars and walk half way across and back. My left foot dragged a bit, but at least I could get her to move. I kept forgetting about my left arm and she kept hanging back. My PT would tap me and remind me to ‘bring her along’. My right arm would dutifully come around and drag my left arm forward to bring her up to speed.

My speech also improved, although it was still my most frustrating therapy. The inability to find my words, my constant stuttering, the feeling of being overwhelmed, and the inclination to cry when asked simple questions began to slowly diminish. I didn’t notice it until a few sessions in, when my ST pointed out that I had answered a question and did not cry; or I did such and such exercise without a hint of a stutter. It was a hell of a breakthrough for me; at least I knew people were understanding what I was saying to them.

Same thing in OT. We worked a lot on ‘daily living’ things: folding clothes, zipping zippers, buttoning buttons, etc. This was in addition to dressing, washing, brushing hair and teeth. They always focused on working my left hand and arm because that’s where my deficit is.

One thing I was notorious for, was clutching utensils in my left hand (or any other item–pens, pencils, mini-lotion bottles, etc) without even realizing it. Some days coming back from meals, aides or therapists would notice and have to take it out of my hand with a bit of force. I was just unable to let go, even though I willed my hand to. The staff caught on quick though. Every night before I went to bed, my assigned aide would go through my bed. Sure enough, by the time she was done, she had a handful of spoons, forks, straws, body lotion, and rolled up paper in her hand. 🙂

It was a lot of work, but I progressed nicely. I always looked forward to RT. I was always allowed to choose what we were going to work on. Since I wanted badly to be ‘normal’ again, I would pick games that required thinking skills like Scrabble, which I used to be really good at. Of all the times we played, I may have won one game; but it was a sweet victory. It was near the end of my stay.

In my down time I used to watch TV or read magazine that visitors bought me while I was in the hospital. Christmas was only days away, so I had visitors come see me while I was in rehab too. It was nice having the people I love and care about around me. A neighborhood family volunteers every year at the rehab center to sing holiday carols and popular songs in the lobby on Christmas Eve. I advised the floor nurse that I’d wanted to go, so when they were ready to start, a volunteer came up and wheeled me down to the lobby. It was a girl, her father and her grandfather. Three generations with their own little band. They played everything from Silent Night to Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. It was amazing.

My family came on Christmas Day to see me and visiting hour rules were ‘ignored’ by the staff on my floor. I was grateful for that. As much as the staff tried to bring holiday cheer to us, it just wasn’t the same. It just made me itch to want to go home even more. Every time the doctor came by, I asked him how long it would be before he thought I’d be ready to go home and do my PT, OT and ST on an outpatient basis. His answer was always, ‘Let’s give it a few more days’. I hated that answer.

Over the next few days, I busted my butt and worked really hard on my PT. I had graduated from using the wheelchair all the time to using the walker from my room to the lunch area or PT/OT, which were right down the hall. (I still had to sit in my wheelchair for further distances, like ST). I would be out of inpatient rehab as soon as humanly possible.

If I couldn’t do it for New Year’s, well then as soon after as I could,

That’s all I’ve got for this Part, I should have Part 6 up some time next week,

Until then, love you guys!

Coming Clean About My Stroke-Part 2 (lilicasplace.com)
Coming Clean About My Stroke-Part3 (lilicasplace.com)
Coming Clean About My Stroke-Part4 (lilicasplace.com)

So, it was time to say goodbye to the hospital and hello to rehab. I was nervous and really excited. Excited simply because I actually made it out of the hospital. It was going to be an awkward trip for me. That I knew. I was all bundled up in bed with my bags on a chair next to my bed. I was waiting for the ambulance that was going to be transporting me from the hospital to the rehabilitation center. What was I going to do? Or say? These were my people. I may not know them, but it hurt my heart knowing that they were coming to get me; doing what I should

(c)LEBlake

be doing for someone else. I want to say they arrived about lunch time. I’m not exactly sure. They were professional and polite. It was a male and a female. That I remember. I couldn’t aid them in any way since my left side was useless and my speech was poor, so I sat there and smiled a crooked post stroke smile.

They put me on the stretcher and my belongings placed on top of me. Off we went. I was in the back with the female EMT and the male drove. She introduced herself to me as she was going through my file and started writing her report. As she went through my file, she noticed my occupation. “Oh wow. You’re an EMT too. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” I did my best to let her know it was OK and began to explain what happened. She listened intently and never made me feel bad for struggling with my speech. She told me more than once that it was OK and she understood what I was trying to tell her. I still became so frustrated, that I couldn’t help but shed a few tears on the way.

I wish I could remember her name, but unfortunately I can’t. I saw her a few times during my stay at the rehab hospital. She made it a point, she eventually told me, to jump the job when she could to take me to my plasmapheresis appointments when she could. That made me feel good.

So we finally get to the rehab hospital. I’m taken to the brain injury unit and not the stroke unit. I guess because of the type of stroke; I don’t know. . . I’m greeted by the nurse and my case worker is there also. I’m taken to my assigned room and gently placed in a wheelchair by my new-found EMT friends. 🙂 I haven’t met my roommate yet because it is, in fact, lunchtime. While my paperwork was sorted out, I’m taken three doors down to the little dining area and served lunch. My first day was uneventful. I met my roommate later that evening. The damage from her bleed was worse than mine. She was a very nice, heavyset lady who couldn’t remember anything. She was a good twenty-five years older than me. Her brain injury was the result of a severe car accident. She was funny though. That I do remember.

The second day was not so great. It started out well enough. It had only been a few days since the Foley was removed, my muscles weren’t strong enough to keep me continent through the night. In that respect, I was like a child again and needed to be “changed”. Humiliating is an understatement when trying to explain how I felt. All I could do was apologize. All the reassurances didn’t make me feel better at all. Professionally, I know it’s natural for accidents to happen after a patient has been with a Foley for so long. God Bless them for trying to make me feel comfortable though!

I needed help from my bed to the wheelchair and could not go to the bathroom without assistance. That, I was OK with because I knew I couldn’t stand and turn by myself. Baby steps. I had my first Occupational Therapy session that morning and it consisted of learning how to wash my face, brush my teeth and hair, and attempting to get dressed (with her help, of course). That took my whole hour. Then came breakfast. Next was Physical Therapy. That wasn’t too bad either. I did most of my exercises in my wheelchair. After PT I was wheeled back to my room and helped into bed. I had lunch delivered to my room so I could watch TV. My Social Worker comes in soon after. She takes a seat next to me and has a stack of reading material in a binder that she went over with me briefly. She tells me I’ll probably be interested in reading it when I have some free time. It had information on stroke survivor support services, exercises, resources, articles and a ton of other information. I told her I would read it after I finished Speech Therapy, which I had after lunch.

So far so good, right?

So, the staff brings me my lunch and I enjoy it while watching whatever show it is on TV. When I’m done, the Speech Therapist comes to pick me up for my first Speech Therapy session. This session only lasted a half hour and it felt like an eternity. I was so flustered and confused from the start. I stuttered, stammered, and struggled to find the words I was looking for when she asked me questions. We tried to do a few simple exercises. I was able to complete some, but not all. The therapist said I did fine considering it was our first session. She gave me some ‘homework’, and we would go over it the next day. When the session was over, she wheeled me back to my room and asked if I wanted to go back to my bed. I told her no, that I wanted to read the binder that my Social Worker had given me. She said OK and left.

I took the binder off the tray table where I left it and opened it on my lap. The next thing I know, a bunch of brochures and papers fall out of the binder and onto the floor. I close the binder and figure I’ll just bend over and pick the papers up. As I lean forward and reach for the papers, my wheelchair topples over and I go with it, cracking my head on the floor as it goes. I’m so stunned, I don’t know what to do. I want to get up on my own, because I’m just a stubborn ass sometimes. I’m laying in a ball underneath my wheelchair demanding my body to move, to get the hell up, to DO SOMETHING! And she tried, she did. With everything I had in me, I tried to move the wheelchair and roll myself over, but I couldn’t do it. Defeat. I refused to call out for help. I stayed, curled up in that ball, amid all those papers with tears streaming down my face, not uttering a sound. I just kept praying that if I calmed down a little bit more and focused harder, I would be able to drag myself to the bed and up eventually. I don’t even know how long I was down before the nurse happened to pass by the room and notice me down and called whatever the code word is for a person on the ground, maybe twenty minutes or half hour. Next thing I know, there are three people in my room, lifting me up off the floor, checking to see if I’m OK and putting me back in bed.

The doctor had to come check me because I had a nice sized hematoma on my forehead. My family had to be called because that’s the facility protocol. From that moment on, for the next week or so, I was on protective ‘lock down’. My wheelchair and bed were fitted with a device that would sound an alarm when it sensed that I was trying to get up. Really?!? Talk about punishment.

That was the second most depressing day I had while at inpatient rehab. I think about how helpless I felt that day and know that I’ve come a long, long way.

That’s it for this week’s post. I hope to have Part 5 up by next week some time. As always, love you guys!