Thoughts about aphasia part 2

I tried to capture my talents again, though by this time I realized I could not feel the right side of my body. I tried my hand at crewel, sculpture, art, and writing courses and even took dance lessons for a short while, but all were to no avail. Finally, I arranged an appointment with a Speech Therapist at Kent and Canterbury hospital. I was examined by way of an American aphasia test, which concluded with a thorough report on my aphasia. This condition is what I have, have had since I was 20 and will always have it. The word is clear and I have permanent disorder.  She organized a meeting with people who had had strokes. They all had aphasia, but not one of them was in an accident, which made me think that they were not relevant to me. I was certain that I was the only person who had my own unique aphasia. So isolated was I that the similarities of the people who had suffered a stroke was unlike in nature.  

I arranged to attend a “hand control group” at the hospital, but some had Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and others harmed fingers and hands. I alone could not feel my right hand. One of the exercises was to reach into a large bowl and grasp an item with the damaged hand, but when I tried, my fingers seized up in dislocation. The occupational therapist massaged the hand or both.  I was dismissed because I could not manage. What upset me the most was that both the nurse and the therapist knew only vaguely the definition of aphasia. My doctor suggested I reclaim my right hand for my benefit. Twice she wrote a prescription to enroll me into the gym to strengthen my right side, but the effort was wasted. I failed. They failed.

I seized the opportunity to volunteer as a teacher at the Adult Studies Centre because there were adults there that read or learned numbers slowly (similar to me, now). I trained to be an assistant teacher, internally only and insisted on teaching one-to-one.  I earned the Guild certificates of Literature and basic numbers, to add and subtract, but still I was not satisfied. I left six years later.

One of my daughters helped me to find a job by scouring the newspaper, persuading me that I could be a reliable and gentle carer. She argued that I had been a full-time mother for 29 years and had nothing to lose. I was successfully employed as a carer at a local Alzheimer’s Care Home. I was overjoyed because someone needed me. But I was too slow. One of the residents said, in her demented state: “You are a bloody nuisance”! My boss thought otherwise though and tried me out as Recreational Therapist. I worked at the Nursing home for eight years enjoying the ability to raise a smile or even laughter, perceiving the person behind the cruel disease. But, sadly, that came to an end through the new owners mismanagement of the money.

My children matured in turn, and I was proud of them; however deep inside of me, my psyche existed in a tunnel under the earth. It felt as though my life was pointless except for my being a vehicle for my children to be born. I did know that I had no personality. My identity was a mismatch of the characteristics I admired in the people I knew. I was waiting for someone to recognize my plight to urge me to raise myself from this tunnel but it was I who unearthed me.

Find out what happened when I discovered Connect in the third part of my story – coming soon.

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