Struck!
I first read Jill Bolte Taylor‘s “My Stroke of Insight” (published 2008) a few years ago, and was, well, struck by the book. Bolte, a neuroanatomist, or someone who specializes in the anatomy of the brain, wakes up on the morning of Dec. 10, 1996, and realizes that things were happening to her body and that these changes can be traced to the brain: body weakness, pain (from her descriptions, like an ice cream freeze when you suddenly take a large scoop), and changing perceptions of the body and reality, like being gripped then released, gripped then released.
She also realized she could not talk, read, or write, and was moving about rather slowly and actually finding the whole experience fascinating, in her words, like “being in Lalaland.” But she would alternate between tripping in Lalaland and experiencing dismay, realizing something was drastically wrong, and that she had to do something quickly. In so many words, she realized, as someone trained in neurology, that she was experiencing a stroke.
Bolte obviously survived the stroke and went on to write a book and to give well-attended talks about the many attempts she made to get help, including an excruciating trial and error process to dial the phone and ask for help (it was like watching a suspense film as she tried to dial each digit).
Last Feb. 4, I was at my college in Tagaytay preparing for a class. I was walking up a flight of stairs, and by a stroke (!) of luck, I was with our medical director, Dr. Elijah de Guzman. I felt some dizziness, which I dismissed because I’d been having balancing and mobility problems for a few weeks before.
Eli and I got to my classroom and noticed that, as I talked with him, I would occasionally end up stuttering and getting words twisted. This worsened, and I realized I had seen/heard this kind of “conversation” many times before from my mother, usually while she was talking with someone on the phone and, once, during dinner. Those were mini-strokes, and I used to kid my mother that she had them like other people had colds.
I turned to Eli and told him, calmly, “Eli, Eli, something seems to be wrong. Am I talking sense? I think I’m having a mini-stroke.”
I wasn’t sure because, as far as I knew, I’d never had a stroke of any size. Strangely, I kept thinking “petit”—more of that later.
Eli had noticed as well and asked if I had taken my maintenance medicine for high blood pressure. I smiled sheepishly again.
He called for Jam, our school nurse, and asked me for my maintenance drugs’ prescription, which I had in my cell phone. Within half an hour, Eli and Jam had taken my blood pressure, administered the maintenance medicine, and sent word that my class for the day was postponed.
I was able to finish the day with a shorter class, rested, and got back to Manila. I’ve called several physicians to schedule neurological and cardiovascular tests and am slowly getting back to my teaching and writing, with some nagging protest from friends and relatives.
Readers have had to bear with several of my columns during the last two months about my mobility problems, difficulties with balancing and walking, which have been plaguing me for a few weeks now, including several accidents: falls, tripping, and much more, with Tagalog having a rich vocabulary of words to describe these little accidents. Little, but more dangerous than they seem, given that the risks of more occurrences are growing and that they were, in fact, connected. Brain and heart links aren’t just for Valentine’s.
As things go, after something like a stroke, patients end up even more “stroked” by an avalanche of advice and questions after the mini-strokes, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to produce several articles—a mix of the medical and social on strokes and heart attacks, because there are so many misconceptions going around that can complicate matters, even delay necessary treatment. I do promise to make the columns at least more entertaining than politics.
That includes such basics as the differences between heart attacks and strokes (and there are many types) and clarifying confusing terms like cerebrovascular accidents, apoplexy, and “la petite mort” (little death), which did cross my mind several times that afternoon. Those of you who know French, be quiet for now.
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michael.tan@inquirer.net
