[This is a very long an detailed account of my stroke in February through more shit that I ever want to live through again, right up to the the current moment. Hopefully, I will not bring anything but farther up to date.]

Getting Reacquainted
It’s been a bit more than two years since I first became acquainted with Traveling Matt, in December of 2014. It seems it it must have been longer ago than that, but a quick check of fingers and toes adds up as it should. The tricky part was that the two-years-and-a-bit were spread over three winters … and three winters somehow seemed ever so much longer than two years.

The last two years were even less surprising when viewed subjectively. So much has happened over the past couple of years that it almost seems like a lifetime ago. While acquiring Traveling Matt changed my life for the better in many ways, at the same time there was a progressive deterioration in my health that defied my expectations. As my readers have followed, I reported swelling legs, then increasing sleeplessness, sometimes lasting two or three days at a time, finally I finally resorted to sleeping upright in an office chair … since lying down had become impossible. From this, it was discovered – to my physicians surprise – that I had a lung filled with fluid. No wonder I couldn’t sleep, and the least effort led to exhaustion. I was retaining fluid around the heart as well, which was not immediately recognized. Later, as it obvious that I was not responding to diuretics as I should, I was taken by the hospital, because I was in a situation of congestive failure in progress.

And I was still not out of the woods.

In response to medication, things had begun to improve over a few next months. Unfortunately, the reprieve was temporary, and the swelling in my legs returned. Tests with a cardiologist produced negative results, indicating that the heart was not the cause of my condition. It was declared that my heart was fit as a fiddle – all I needed was to pump the water out of my lungs and the lining the around the heart

That was when I had the first stroke, near the end of February.

I was not very seriously affected. I felt almost normal within a couple of days, in fact, and was released from the hospital after less than of week. But now I had an arrhythmia, which no one had noticed until that moment. It had taken days of monitoring the valves and heart action to reveal the sneaky little bugger. It had apparently occurred only sporadically, lying in wait for the right moment.

So, I was prescribed some “magic pills” that would cause the arrhythmia to go away. It was a very effective medication, I was assured, and my life would soon be back to normal. Unfortunately, I was one of those unlucky one-in-five who didn’t respond to the drug of choice, and the second stroke was a lulu. I was back in the same hospital in less than two weeks, and this time the measures taken to deal with the damage were far more extensive. I was placed on a different medication that is just as effective, but requites regular monitoring … because small changes in my blood chemistry could conceivably kill me. Had I been put on Warfarin from the start, I would probably not have had the second and more, serious stroke. They didn’t bury my doctors’ mistakes this time, but it was near enough.

The long and the short of it, though, is that I actually have been feeling far better since February, when I began the gradual recovery from my stroke. Almost all the swelling from my legs is gone, I sleep regularly, I’m not subject to as many aches and pains that impede movement and make rest more problematic, I’m more active than I can remember being in a long time, I appear to have more appetite and I seem to be coming slowly up to speed with my writing again.

Inevitably, I still have some work to do. Notably, I can lose my fine control when excited, or tired, or at loss for a word. I also seem to have rather little interest in drawing … although ironically it was drawing done while in the hospital that showed the least effect on my abilities. Finally, I sleep too much. Everyone tells me it is therapeutic, part of the healing processes, and I should indulge myself. Before, I was just called a lazy bum, but I decided that I could easily live with that.

In a supreme irony, the Warfarin prescribed for my arrhythmia results prevents me from eating my vegetables! I am strictly forbidden to avoid sudden changes in my diet … so if I’m accustomed to eating hot dogs, burritos, pizza, donuts and ice cream, then that’s what the doctor orders! Any do-gooder who wishes I would eat a healthier diet is liable to kill me.

It might be said that I took Traveling Matt to the hospital with me, but it is as true to say that Traveling Matt took me. I managed to collect my gear when the magnitude of the disaster sank in, locked up after myself and drove the half-mile to emergency admittance. Whatever happened, because I had my own wheels and could look after myself, I would be alright. As I gradually recovered from the worst effects of the stroke, Matt was a pillar of strength during the ordeal. But to my consternation, I began to fear that Matt itself was ailing … not performing as well as it ought to. It some time before I became sure of it, and that my doubts were not merely reality conflicting with a faulty memory. All too many things seemed not to be working in my head as they should … not the least of which was Traveling Matt itself. Was it my imagination on the way home from the hospital two weeks later, or had I only enough juice in the battery to drive home from St. Joe’s? I was certain that I had once had enough power to drive all the way to the mall and back, without showing any loss of pep. I was equally sure that the trip back home was far slower than before. I feared that Traveling Matt was slowly losing its ability to carry me.

But had it always been that way … or was it a case of crucial neurons not fully awake yet? I was utterly confounded by the bread maker, for instance. With uncertainly at every step, I measured oil and water, added powdered milk, sugar, salt and finally yeast … and I ended up with a something like a small cannon ball. It too two more attempts before I was confident enough to reproduce edible results consistently. Similarly, not the devil himself could have made head or tail of the microwave oven. It was so far from intuitive that I had the social workers downstairs come in to look at it for me, and they were also unable to unlock the key all the mysteries of its operation. We had to settle for such simple procedures as turning on the power, and for low long. It was nearly a month before I could attempt sophisticated operations such as lowering the power settings, or even programming two or more power settings.

But nothing came close to the sheer confusion, dismay, frustration, anger and tears brought on by my the attempts to operate the wide-screen television. It seemed like it should be a simple matter … turn on the set, adjust the stereo amplifier for sound, then select the appropriate screen format to view the picture. Easy as pi. But it turned out to be unexpectedly complicated, and I somehow made frequent mistakes with the remote that defied explanation. I was coping just fine for a time … but then everything went two ways from Sunday, and the TV set rapidly approached a state of apparent uselessness. Panic-stricken, without either television or movies I could play, I phoned my sister, only to be offered the ancient wisdom that television sets do wear out or break down. She would help me shop for a new one over the weekend one if it was an emergency – and it was, trust me. Nothing to do without TV or movies? Unthinkable!

Fortunately, I was able a phone a friend that same night, and he offered to drop by next evening to sort out the trouble.

Oh, and was my face red. To be honest, I had so thoroughly mucked up the settings on the remote that I think I may have penetrated time-and-space and have been receiving gravity waves from intergalactic space instead of regular programming. But at the bottom of the trouble was that the batteries died, and it didn’t simply didn’t occur to me that was the trouble.

As for the computer, I couldn’t seen to remember from one moment to the next the passwords I wanted to type in, and would repeat my errors endlessly. I was only able to go on line with the supervision of my friend, Steven, who patiently copied or dictated messages me to the outside world for me. I remember vividly the first time successfully logged on myself, with no-one there to supervise. Then, in the weeks that followed, I slowly learned to make sense with words again. Only simple statements at first, then gradually more complex ones, and finally weaving my way through more difficult syntax to express more sophisticated ideas.

As my confidence with words increased steadily, my concerns about Traveling Matt where only temporarily abated. There was something definitely wrong with Traveling Matt. Over a startlingly short time, Matt was barely able to return home from down the street. Reaching the bank or the supermarket would soon be impossible.

Clearly, the situation had become critical enough that it became my first priority to contact
Traveling Matt’s maker, even though I had not found the means to cover repairs. No one seemed to have any advice at all about how I could Traveling Matt’s upkeep be transferred from the Ontario Disability Support Program to my government pension. In fact, initial indications seemed to suggest there was no way! But I wasn’t able to do without mobility for a number of weeks while the matter was sorted out. The manufacturer of the chair told me the replacement batteries cost $300 … a cost out of my own pocket that I was not glad of, but that I could bear. For a year’s worth of useful work from them, that seemed almost reasonable. I called the service rep, who said he could would make the call within the week. What I had no hint of was of that the chair required two batteries, not merely “batteries” in a collective sense. Two separate batteries, which together cost $800 … and no-one breathed a word to this to me. Apparently it was the most ordinary thing in the world for me to ready into my wallet and reach extra three or four C-notes as though everyone did this without even thinking about it!

I was almost reconciled with that, but the service guy was eying the right front shocks with a speculative eye, and listening for squeaks. To be fair, the squeaks were quite audible, and had already become a cause of mild concern. On the street, I sounded like an old gas buggy on a corduroy road. It was the service guy’s opinion that the fault lay in a design flaw, the result of two different metals in the shocks that corroded, and sooner or later failed. But there was no telling whether they would fail next week or next year. His recommendation was to replace the part immediately, rather than wait to find out.

Well, naturally – why not be safe when you have two-or-three thousand dollars to replace the part, and not be sorry – especially if it is the customer who pays for it. As soon as the repairman was gone, I was already phoning the medical supply company to complain about the surprise about the batteries, but I now also had the shocks to worry about replacing. However, no one was able to quote a price from a list. I had to wait another couple of days until I found a message on my answering, which would answer whether the repair would take another few hundred dollars … or whether I was likely to lining up in soup kitchens for the next few weeks.

I made it clear, fast, that unless I found some kind of assistance for the disabled on a very on a very fixed income, there might not be any repair. I complained to anyone who would listen that it was beginning to seem as though maintaining a mobile chair was going to be damn nearly as expensive as owning a used car! Surely it can not make sense for the government to provide Traveling Matt in the first place – through the Ontario Disability Services Program – and then have no plan to keep Matt keep it repair once I transferred from ODSP to the Canada Pension Plan … just let him sooner-or-later break down, wasting the previous investment for “the lack of a nail?”

So now I had to figure out how I get the government involved once again – and do it before I needed any more supposed repairs. Once the government has paid for anything it has not already agreed to pay for, you see, the money will never be reimbursed. That is a law of nature as inviolable as the laws of thermodynamics.

The bottom line was that I might take to take one solid $700 hit to the pocket, but not one that might conceivably cost me a extra thousand or more.

Technically, I hadn’t even paid for the batteries that were installed, let alone a costly repair. Until I’d sent in the bill, I hoped there was still a fighting chance that the company that made Matt might be persuaded to re-bill the government. I knew not to count on it, though. Businesses are usually very cautious about how to bill, and frown on creativity. If there is any prospect it will be me who foots the bill, I had best start counting my pennies.
Nor under any circumstances did it seem a viable alternative have to take my chances with sudden repairs. What alternative was there? Mobility was not an option. Yet I could easily be reduced to eating franks-and-beans or spaghetti for five days a week again … instead of the “new wealth” from my retirement that I had just become acquainted to.

There is nothing like mounting bills, worrisome decisions and growing headaches for having a stroke. You should try it.

But we must look at the bright side, since once the necessary government action is in motion, it may all work out in the end. I have already been told that the replacement shocks are not as costly as I first expected. Only another $150 … and that will include another $100 service charge, of course. But compared to what has been already spent on Traveling Matt, it could have been far worse. And if the battery life is good for another couple of years, I should be trouble-free for a while. It may be best to chalk it up to the cost of mobility.

I was assuming that the story ended at this point, but of course stories never end, and there are already more twists and turns in the plot ahead.

To keep this story from getting any longer, I will only add that Matt was in the shop the for the whole week, but the work was never begun. Instead, I was left waiting for them to call, only to be informed – finally – that the repairs which had not yet started would require 2,000 more to complete … “and when can we begin,” I was asked? I made the brutal observation that under the circumstances it was not possible to begin repairs at all, that Traveling Matt would just have to break down when for the silly old bugger could no longer carry me, and I would then spend the rest of my life on a walker, within a few blocks of home.

At this point, I was convinced that I had become involved in a car repair scam from a TV sitcom.

My luck may finally have turned, however. I was given a number to call to put me in touch with the city’s Emergency Assistance Program, and – for once – there was living human being on the other line of the line, who had actual information to help me. In a single afternoon we blew through all the red tape, established a written estimate quote for the repairs, and I will be visited by a case-worker in a couple of days. Assuming all goes well with the interview, it should be only be a matter of time before Matt is as good as new, and “the world begins again“… even though a weekend in Vegas would have cost almost as much.

It will certainly be good to be free to travel the distance down-town again … and not have to struggle up particularly steep hills an inch at a time. Summer is coming round again!

Whenever winter ends, it’s as though the world begins all over again. Trees come to life, drink the rain and shake the bark off the freshly awakened greenwood. Of course, my summer isn’t what it used to be. There are a hundred things I can no longer do, a hundred places I can only go with difficulty. A lot of places I’m unlikely to visit again just because it has become far more trouble than it is worth. I will certainly never again sit by myself in the middle of the night on one of the massive blocks of the breakwater where Lake Ontario ends, wondering whether the end of the world is really at the end of the black water. I don’t expect to see the moon rise over the ruins of a certain Edwardian fountain that was purposely abandoned in a wild place, or stand by while my backpack is ransacked by rowdy young raccoons in a North York public park. Nor am I likely see a Santa Claus parade in the falling snow again, or row a longboat from the base at HMCS York to the nude beach at Hanlan’s Point, where downtown Toronto grows almost quicker than they can deliver the concrete. There are secret ponds, mysterious wells, buried mansions and entire streets by the Don Valley River that have been entirely forgotten and swallowed up.

There is also the small swath of ground under which my mother, and which I have only seen in twice in my life.

While Traveling Matt will be repaired – with new batteries and parts – I have been revitalized as well, by medications. I hadn’t felt this good for so long that it had become normal to be wracked with stiffness and pains, to be incapacitated from lack of breath at the slightest effort and to sleep sitting in up bed. I had begun to forget what “normal” could be. In fact, I am far from normal – something people have facetiously reminded me of for years. Even now that I have become totally accustomed to slumbering upright, I recall that I have always been fond of sleeping in the seat a moving car, for some reason. At this point, a large part of my eccentricities may be due to my unwillingness to experiment with habits that work. But the difference between habit and revitalization is a crucial one. I move around the apartment in an almost normal stride … barring the unfortunate need to dodge around the bottleneck of Traveling Matt in the hall without spilling my coffee.

If there is a great deal that I don’t expect to see again, I have gained a tremendous amount of freedom compared to only fairly recently. It is as though I have shaken off the snow-clad branches after a long, harsh winter and begun to move again. For the first few weeks there are too many places calling me to decide where to go next. I must see High Park again, lay in a few pounds of fresh coffee beans at the Farmer’s Market, renew my acquaintance with Sunnyside Beach, visit the neighborhood festivals and pointlessly take all the same photographs all over again … just because the good weather is fun and exciting. Later, as the dog days of high summer begins, life forgets a lot of the hectic urgency of August, and one seeks a book to read in the shade instead … and turn up an efficient air-conditioner.

Then, all too soon, you begin the think about shorter hours and of author ahead.

But time enough for all that later. Instead, Traveling Matt will soon be up-and-at-‘em again, and then the two of us will be getting reacquainted once more.