Stroke recovery isn’t just physical therapy sessions. It’s also cheap soap, supervised showers, and the kind of indignities no one tells you about, and it’s my stro-called life
Here’s an excerpt from my new memoir, My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me:
My Stro-Called Life: Notes From the Brain That Betrayed Me
I’m naked, parked on a damp blue shower pad like a soggy noodle, gripping a handheld showerhead and lathering myself with cheap, hospital-issued green goo that smells faintly of mint and despair. It’s an all-in-one shampoo/body wash situation, the kind that promises convenience but delivers dry, scaly skin that later flakes off in my sweatpants.
My left side feels like it belongs to someone else. I reach for the shampoo and my arm ignores me. So I clamp the handheld between my knees to free up my right hand, which mostly results in surprise sprays to the face—or dropping it so it flails on the floor, misting the entire bathroom.
Orla, my assigned shower chaperone and occupational therapist, is seated just outside the stall.
A thin plastic curtain separates us, flapping open at both ends to let in cold air and awkwardness—and giving her a clear view of the spectacle if she decides to look. I’m sure she glances over now and then to make sure I’m safe, but it’s subtle enough that I don’t catch it (thankfully). To her credit, she never stares. If she does, she’d see me in all my naked glory: ghostly pale, skinny but flabby, bruised like a banana from failed IV attempts, and with random patches of grimy medical adhesive still sticking to my skin. (The green hospital goo is no match for medical adhesive.)
As I scrub my armpit, it makes a loud, wet squelch. Orla, ever polite and probably assuming it was the last bit of goo being squeezed from the bottle, asks if I need more gel. I don’t correct her. I’d rather let her think it was the bottle than admit it was my own armpit betraying me.
“No,” I call out. “I’m fine.”
I keep scrubbing, trying to get clean while settled into a shower chair that’s probably hosted more naked bodies than I care to imagine, wrestling an unruly handheld showerhead, and shivering like a wet cat.
“Are you okay?” Orla asks—for what feels like the 27th time.
“I’m good,” I reply, my tone flat.
It’s my new post-stroke voice—monotone, devoid of inflection. Handy for keeping emotions under wraps, not so great for sounding like a fully functioning human. Still, a little peace and quiet while I lather my bits with institutional mint goo doesn’t seem like too much to hope for, right?
Stroke recovery = not exactly glamorous. This is one of many humiliating, hilarious, and strangely human moments I unpack in my memoir, My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me. It’s not a story of triumph-over-tragedy—it’s a story about what happens when your brain betrays you and you’re left to rebuild with humor, honesty, and the occasional bottle of mint-scented despair.
No release date yet—because apparently writing a memoir is a lot like stroke recovery: messy, unpredictable, and not on anyone’s timeline. But when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know. Stay tuned for more excerpts from my book, stories that prove recovery isn’t always pretty, but it can be pretty hilarious. Because if I can survive supervised showers and green hospital goo, you can survive waiting for the book.