9. Day Two: The Morning After

I awoke early the next morning to a medical student who came rushing in to take a medical history. I thought it curious that she had not been informed that I was a stroke survivor who could not speak or understand language. I realized that morning that a hospital's number one responsibility should be protecting its patients' energy levels. This young girl was an energy vampire. She wanted to take something from me despite my fragile condition, and she had nothing to give me in return. She was rushing against a clock and obviously losing the race. In her haste, she was rough in the way she handled me and I felt like a detail that had fallen through someone's crack. She spoke a million miles a minute and hollered at me as if I were deaf. I sat and observed her absurdity and ignorance. She was in a hurry and I was a stroke survivor - not a natural match! She might have gotten something more from me had she come to me gently with patience and kindness, but because she insisted that I come to her in her time and at her pace, it was not satisfying for either of us. Her demands were annoying and I felt weary from the encounter. I realized that I would have to protect my precious energy with keen caution.

The biggest lesson I learned that morning was that when it came to my rehabilitation, I was ultimately the one in control of the success or failure of those caring for me. It was my decision to show up or not. I chose to show up for those professionals who brought me energy by connecting with me, touching me gently and appropriately, making direct eye contact with me, and speaking to me calmly. I responded positively to positive treatment. The professionals who did not connect with me sapped my energy, so I protected myself by ignoring their requests.

Making the decision to recover was a difficult, complicated, and cognitive choice for me. On the one hand, I loved the bliss of drifting in the current of the eternal flow. Who wouldn't? It was beautiful there. My spirit beamed free, enormous, and peaceful. In the rapture of an engulfing bliss, I had to question what recovery really meant. Clearly, there were some advantages to having a functional left hemisphere. It would allow me the skills of interacting with the external world again. In this state of disability, however, attending to what I perceived as chaos was pure pain, and the effort it would take for me to recover, well, was that my priority?

Honestly, there were certain aspects of my new existence that I preferred over the way I had been before. I was not willing to compromise my new insights in the name of recovery. I liked knowing I was a fluid. I loved knowing my spirit was at one with the universe and in the flow with everything around me. I found it fascinating to be so tuned in to energy dynamics and body language. But most of all, I loved the feeling of deep inner peace that flooded the core of my very being.

I yearned to be in a place where people were calm and valued my experience of inner peace. Because of my heightened empathy, I found that I was overly sensitive to feeling other people's stress. If recovery meant that I had to feel like they felt all the time, I wasn't interested. It was easy for me to separate my "stuff" and emotions from other people's "stuff" and emotions by choosing to observe but not engage. As Marianne Williamson puts it, "Could I rejoin the rat race without becoming a rat again?"

Andrew, another medical student, came by that same morning to give me yet another neurological exam. I was wobbly, incredibly weak, and not capable of sitting up by myself, much less capable of standing up on my feet. But because he was gentle yet firm in his touch, I felt safe with him. He spoke calmly, looked me directly in the eyes, and repeated himself as needed. He was respectful of me as a person - even in this condition. I was confident he would grow up to be a fine doctor. I hope that he has.

Dr. Anne Young, who was, at that time, the chairperson of the Massachusetts General Hospital Department of Neurology (I call her the Queen of Neurology), was my neurologist. I had heard about the famous Anne Young for years while working at the Harvard Brain Bank. She served on the Advisory Committee for the Harvard Brain Bank and just two weeks earlier, it was my privilege to sit next to her at an Advisory Counsel luncheon held at the annual Neuroscience Meetings in New Orleans. At the luncheon, I presented the outreach efforts I was engaged in to increase the number of brains donated for research by the psychiatrically-diagnosed population. Dr. Young had met the "professional me" that day, so by the time she found me on her morning roster, we had already established a special rapport.

Among the many circuits in my brain that had gone off-line, it was my good fortune that my circuitry for embarrassment had also gone awry. Very much like a mother duck followed by her long row of ducklings, Dr. Young and her entourage of medical students arrived at my doorway for morning rounds. To my retrospective horror, I was buck-naked with my derriere in the air and in the middle of a sponge bath, when the Queen of Neurology and her party arrived!

Dr. Young's eyes were soft and kind, and she smiled as she looked me straight in the eye. When she approached, she immediately reached for my foot - much like a good horse handler will touch a horse on their backside as they pass behind it. Dr. Young helped me into a comfortable position. She then stood by my shoulder, gently resting her hands on my arm, and spoke softly to me - not to her students, but to me. She leaned over the edge of my bed and got close enough to my face that I could hear her. Although I could not completely understand her words, I completely understood her intention. This woman understood that I was not stupid but that I was wounded, and it was clear that she knew that it was her job to figure out which circuits of mine were still active and which parts needed healing.

Dr. Young respectfully asked me if it was okay that she teach her students about the neurological exam, and I agreed. As it turned out, I was the brain scientist who failed every task on cue and Dr. Young did not leave my bedside until she was confident that I had no more need of her. On her way out the door, she squeezed my hand and then my toe. I felt a huge sense of relief that she was my physician. I felt that she understood me.

Later that morning, it was time for me to have an angiogram that would outline the blood vessels in my brain. We needed a really good picture of exactly what type of hemorrhage I had had, and the angiogram was the test of choice. Although I thought it absolutely absurd that anyone would ask me to sign a form of consent while in this condition, I realized that policy is policy! How do we define "of sound mind and body" anyway?

Bad news certainly travels fast. Word of my stroke surged through the networks of both McLean Hospital and the membership of NAMI. Here I was, the youngest national board member they had ever elected, having a stroke at 37.

Two of my colleagues from the Brain Bank came to visit while I was in the Neurology ICU that afternoon. Mark and Pam brought a little stuffed bear for me to cuddle, and I was grateful for their kindness. Although I could sense their initial trepidation, they brought me positive energy and told me, "You're Jill, you're going to be just fine." This confidence in my complete recovery was priceless to me.

By the end of day two, I had accumulated enough oomph inside my body to roll myself over, sit up on the edge of the bed with assistance and then stand upright while leaning on someone for support. Although I found this activity to take every ounce of energy I had, I was making terrific physical progress. My right arm was very weak and continued to ache, but I could wield it around using my shoulder muscles.

On and off throughout the day, the energy in my body waxed and waned from a little bit of energy to a completely empty tank. With sleep, my reservoir filled a little and then I spent that energy trying to do or think something. Once my reserve was used up, I had to go back to sleep. I learned immediately that I had no staying power and once my energy was shot, I fell limp. I realized I had to pay very close attention to my energy gauge. I would have to learn how to conserve it and be willing to sleep to restore it.

Day two ended with a visit from Steve bearing news that G.G. would be arriving in Boston early the next morning. Initially, I didn't understand the significance of G.G. - as I had lost the concept of what a mother was. I spent the rest of my waking moments that evening trying to piece together Mother, Mother, Mother. G.G., G.G., G.G. I kept repeating the words to find those files, open them and remember. Eventually, I kind of understood what a mother was and what G.G. represented...enough so that I felt excited that she would be here tomorrow.