I was only in the hospital for 2-1/2 days with my stroke, mostly waiting for tests to be scheduled. I was totally ambulatory the whole time and did not require much in the way of attention. I talked to the nursing staff at change of shift, during blood draws, etc., but didn’t interact much with anyone other than that. Yet 2 people came up to me to thank me for being so nice.

The first was the man delivering meals. Now I don’t think I did much other than thank him for delivering the tray and taking it away. And even at that, I wasn’t there for several of the meals, so I only saw him a few times. And yet he made a point of thanking me for being “so nice” unlike many other people.

The nurse on the evening shift also thanked me for being so good to work with. Now in her case, I think my “niceness” was just in comparison to the woman next door who, admittedly, sounded like a handful. Still, being called “nice” twice in one day seemed odd.

Then the next day when the home health nurse arrived, I was told the same thing. Again, I have no idea just what behavior of mine they found so remarkable.

It seems a sad commentary on society when merely being polite counts as being nice!

Since my little stroke, I have had all sorts of thoughts about life and death and what kind of life I hope I am living and other such stuff. I have had lots of things I want to write about, so much so that I’ve been a bit overwhelmed trying to tie them all together.

The answer, of course, is to give up trying to make one cohesive essay and write down lots of little ones as thoughts come up. That’s what I am going to try to do.

So first: having a stroke has thrown me more than I think a heart attack would have. I’ve always sort of assumed I might be done in by a heart attack someday. In fact, I’ve always said that my preferred method of dying would be to have a big enough attack that I just didn’t wake up some morning.

(Which leads to thoughts of “Who would know if that happened?” “What about my dog?” “Would the cleaning people come in days later to a real mess?” Ah, the problems of living alone.)

But I had never considered a stroke. The idea of being alive but unable to do anything is absolutely frightening to me. I think I would be more than ready to do the hard work if recovery was possible, but what if it wasn’t? The idea of being shuffled off to some nether world that was in the twilight zone between living and dying is anathema to me. Which is why I have given very detailed instructions as to what I want to the person who has my health power of attorney.

Which is not to say I’m planning on anything happening anytime soon. In fact, today’s good news is that the follow-up CT scan I had on Monday shows that all is stable.

Meantime, I’m spending at least an hour a day reading aloud and/or singing. I’m a little closer to being able to hold a note!

Had someone who saw my tulips at the physical therapy office ask me to make her a bouquet of 13 flowers in some specific colors: 4 dark pink, 2 light pink, 1 gold, 2 dark orange, 1 light orange, 1 purple, and 2 yellow.

I ended up making 2 sets; both sets started with white crepe paper. I colored one with inks and the other with Pan Pastels. The inked ones on the left seem a little more delicate to me, but I like them both. She liked them too; she bought all 26 of them!

10 days post stroke and I am doing quite well. My speech is basically back to normal, just need to be careful not to talk too fast. I have discovered one other side effect, though: I can’t hold a note at all.

On the morning of the stroke one of the things that clued me in to the problem was that I tried to sing the “Do, Re, Me” song to my dog and could not hit the notes. I still can’t. I’ve gone from having what I call a “decent community choir” type voice to one that grates on my ears.

A big solution to improving my speech was reading aloud; I have been doing that for an hour or so a day. Going to see if singing along to some songs will improve my voice in the same way. Trisha Yearwood songs are almost entirely in my range (or at least they used to be!) so I’ll be singing along to those while I sit in front of the computer.

Monday morning after breakfast, I was talking to my dog and realized I was slurring my words. Got to the emergency room and they started tests. Turns out I had a very small stroke. The only thing affected seems to be my speech; I have to speak a bit slowly and must be careful to enunciate clearly.

Got home yesterday afternoon. Spending this morning trying to set up all the follow-up visits with neurologist, cardiologist, primary care doctor, etc.

I was, of course, supposed to be going on a 33-day cruise starting next Wednesday. Another task for today will be cancelling that and talking to the insurance company about getting some money back.

I have a lot of thoughts about this whole situation, but I find I’m not ready to put them down yet. Mostly just thankful for all the people who have offered to help out.

I voted today! Make sure you vote too; it’s important!

I’m not sure when I first saw Rodin’s sculpture of the Burghers of Calais, but rarely have I been so blown away by a piece of art and the story behind it. I used to have a membership to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena and always stopped at the statue when I was there.

If you don’t know the story, here’s the Wikipedia version:

In 1346, England’s Edward III, after victory in the Battle of Crécy, laid siege to Calais, while Philip VI of France ordered the city to hold out at all costs. Philip failed to lift the siege, and starvation eventually forced the city to parley for surrender.

The contemporary chronicler Jean Froissart (c. 1337 – c. 1405) tells a story of what happened next: Edward offered to spare the people of the city if six of its leaders would surrender themselves to him, presumably to be executed. Edward demanded they walk out wearing nooses around their necks, and carrying the keys to the city and castle. One of the wealthiest of the town leaders, Eustache de Saint Pierre, volunteered first, and five other burghers joined with him. Saint Pierre led this envoy of volunteers to the city gates. It was this moment, and this poignant mix of defeat, heroic self-sacrifice, and willingness to face imminent death which Rodin captured in his sculpture, scaled somewhat larger than life.

According to Froissart’s story, the burghers expected to be executed, but their lives were spared by the intervention of England’s queen, Philippa of Hainault, who persuaded her husband to exercise mercy by claiming their deaths would be a bad omen for her unborn child.

What does this have to do with voting? Well, one of the questions I ask myself when deciding where my vote is going is this: Do I believe this person would sacrifice themselves to save their city/state/nation as these men were willing to do?

Of the two major candidates running for POTUS this year, there is one I am quite sure would not.

The tower and the roofing shingles are done. Next, the dormers and the chimney.