I’m learning a lot about aphasia, including an impromptu metaphor from yesterday’s visit to Lincoln City that frames a cautionary tale.

Aphasia can be compared to a fracture, similar to a broken bone.  Aphasia is a frequent injury resulting from a stroke, and the fracture occurs somewhere in the brain between one’s thoughts and its communication, whether it be via speech or in writing.

A person who suffers from aphasia is not a vegetable.  At the Aphasia Network workshop Alice and I attended, two couples – one member of whom is a survivor; the other a caretaker – participated in a panel discussion.  We witnessed how alive each survivor was, and indirectly learned how easy it can be to underestimate survivors’ mental faculties.

Like Alice, a survivor can be overwhelmingly brilliant, but people in the outside world sometimes mistakenly view these individuals to have lost the ability to make rational decisions, viz a viz total brain stupidity.  A frequently held bias by family members, often they might usurp an aphasia sufferer’s God-given right to make decisions for herself (or himself, as the case may be).

Alice gave birth to five children, and many have fallen out of touch with their mother.  One particular daughter, who presently shall remain unnamed, fears for Alice’s safety, especially after a post of how Alice drove alone to express a burning need to remain independent.

When Alice returned, she showed off her prize from shopping at Target, and I was summarily impressed.  There is no question how controlling I can become, and there should be no doubt how much an alpha female Alice can be.  That conflict between the two of us serves as a loving battleground.

Yesterday, this daughter’s fear for her mother’s safety and security metamorphosed into a demand for a date- and time-stamped photo showing Alice alive and well.  The photo under the headline is not so camera-labeled, because it’s meant to entertain readers of this website/blog.

Nevertheless, if Alice’s daughter wants to verify my life partner’s wellbeing, all she need do is call the Blackfish Café in Lincoln City, Oregon, where yesterday, 4/20/15, on a brilliant sun-filled afternoon we celebrated the date with a palate-pleasing lunch of fish and chips (for me, with a beer) and a Philly cheesesteak (for Alice, with a glass of pinot noir).  We are easy to identify, since Alice’s longtime height of 6’3″ turns her into a standout woman.

While we were in Lincoln City, I learned about a sad event that occurred there almost 80 years ago, and a memorial statue and plaque serve as this cautionary tale for anyone who wishes to defy Alice’s inner desires.

In March 1936, a battle-scarred male sea lion came on shore in the little Oregon beach town of Nelscott (where the memorial is erected), and the animal was discovered by resident Dave Dewey.  He named the sea lion Joe, and although Dewey created a fenced-in area for him, Joe soon began exploring other homes in the neighborhood.

This so delighted the townsfolk that they soon discovered that Joe enjoyed being bathed with a garden hose and having his back rubbed with a broom.  The novelty of a wild sea creature’s loving relationship with these residents made the front pages of Portland’s Oregonian newspaper, and soon up to 5,000 curiosity seekers visited the anomaly.

Residents of a nearby town became jealous and complained to a local game warden.  Dutifully, he loaded Joe in a truck, took him back to the ocean and forced Joe to swim away.

Years later, the body of a dead sea lion matching Joe’s wounds (a blind eye and a deep scar on his neck and shoulder) was found in the nearby Sea Lion Caves.  Joe, the Sea Lion of Nelscott, was eventually donated by Suzanne Griffith Allen to the town of Lincoln City, the subsequent name given to the combined five towns that incorporated Joe’s adopted seaside oasis.

The memorial to Joe was erected on August 1, 2014, a fitting reminder what happens when man contradicts a wild creature’s desires.  Indeed, Alice has become my wild creature, and I am pledged to speak for her whenever she cannot.

The idea of writing about Alice’s recovery from aphasia on this website is her idea, not mine.  The decision to move to Oregon from Pennsylvania was her idea, too.

Please honor her wishes as I try to do each day.  It hurts me when others mistake our mutual good intentions.

Thanks.

/UPDATE/ — An hour and a half after she left, Alice returned, safe and sound.  Well, not too sound.  She’s pissed at me, but I’ll accept that as suitable criticism.  Thanks for your concern!/

Maybe it’s me.  Perhaps I’m too controlling.  But now that Alice left our apartment to drive all alone, just to prove she can do it, I’m a nervous wreck.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think she is in danger.  All doctors’ visits to date cleared her from taking occupational therapy.  On the surface, Alice is back to her self-confident self, albeit with substantial speech communication difficulties.  We’re both confident her recovery will be complete, even if it takes longer than anticipated.

But this?

Earlier this afternoon (remember we’re on Pacific Time), Alice expressed impatience and feelings of boredom.  She said she wanted to drive, but I objected.  “No doctor cleared you to drive, Alice,” I said.  I then read her the Rehabilitation Institute of Oregon’s (RIO) “activity after discharge” recommendation: “Do not drive.”

She didn’t want to hear it.  Two hours ago, I monitored her driving skill (or lack of same) while I sat on the passenger side.  On three successive occasions before making a turn, she failed to anticipate the correct turning lane until reaching the intersection.

But Alice is not easily dissuaded by my critique.  She said I was making her nervous!  So half an hour ago, she left in our Ford Escape in her usual bullheaded manner to visit a department store.

I hope Betsy watches out for her.

As I said earlier, perhaps I’m too controlling.  Because I’m on edge, I’ll update this website when she returns, and at that time I hope to appear foolish.

No matter how much I hate being wrong, it will be easy to spread good news as soon as she walks through our door.

After all, that’s my Alice!

Will cellphone wonders never cease?

A constant problem for cellphone users – losing track of one’s phone – was quietly resolved by Google yesterday (April 15) when its phone finder feature was unveiled.

You know the problem, right?  You remove your cellphone from a shirt or pants pocket for one reason or another, and forget to put it back.  The absence of the phone doesn’t become apparent until you get home and need to make a call.  Where is it?  Could someone have stolen it?

Frantically, you run up to your husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, sibling, parent, whoever, and excitedly blurt out, “Did you see my phone?,” only to see a blank look across that person’s face.  You retrace your steps for the last few hours to no avail, realizing how much of your life could be exposed to, egad, a stranger?

Well, Google has finally come to the rescue for Android users.  On your PC or notebook, all you need do is type into its Google search bar, “find my phone,” and voila, your quandary is solved!

The GPS in your cellphone will reveal its location – usually within 100 feet.  Of course, if the phone is somewhere close, the breakthrough doesn’t reveal its specific location.  But if you left the phone at your hairdresser or supermarket, or even inside a car, you’re no longer in the dark.

One further pulse-lowering solution: No longer do you have to ask a loved one to dial a phone for you, which may be a heart-thumping problem if you’re all alone!

CNET reports Google can now ring your phone at maximum volume!  No longer does forgetfulness matter, under any condition.

One caveat, though: You must have identical email accounts synchronized on your Android and desktop/notebook computer.  Then you can set up the new feature.

Apple users already have the feature, and a similar one, Android Device Manager, was made available earlier.  But at long last, Android users of cellphones – and tablets too – can find their mobile devices without having to download a new app.

A simple setup procedure takes only a couple of minutes.  And it works fine!

To set it up yourself, check out the CNET webpage.  Just click on the link here, and kiss your memory foibles goodbye!

A brilliant mind is a terrible thing to waste when you can’t find your phone.  Let Google do it!

My partner, Alice McCormick, is making substantial progress following the Aphasia Network’s second annual Spring Workshop last weekend.  Suzanne Gardner, inspirational force behind Aphasia Network, and Lisa Bodry, director of programs, oversaw the network’s second annual workshop attended by more than 60 people who filled a study room in Pacific University’s Berklund Hall at Forest Grove.

Tim Lundgren and Kamran Lehman, two graduate speech pathology students who are well on target for master’s degrees, gave four hours of their expertise to Alice and me.  (Each survivor and his or her caregiver received more than empathy; each participant received hands-on attention from other budding speech pathologists.)

Alice began our unique four-man session by regaling us with shaky pronunciations so comical that anyone within earshot couldn’t help guffawing at her side-splitting bastardizations.  Portland’s professional basketball team became known as the “Trailer Blazers,” and her attempt to say “word” came out as “turd.”  Alice wasn’t embarrassed either; her tendency to laugh at herself reveals an ability to transcend frustration that led the four of us into a productive lighthearted session.

Lundgren and Lehman showed ways to break through communication gaps while Alice transforms thoughts into intelligible conversation.  One useful tip given was to locate a target picture (or flashcard) that identifies the relevant topic.  Then one should narrow the subject down as to whether it relates to a larger group, some kind of use, an action, an association, a particular location or if it relates to one property of the topic.

Through the process of elimination, roadblocks caused by stumbling can be overcome, our guides explained, as long as a recovering person and caregiver take their time.  In other words, get plenty of oxygen.

A good part of the four hours spent with Lundgren and Lehman explored numerous cellphone or tablet applications as useful restorative therapy for users with aphasia.  Many of the apps, however, seemed unnecessarily expensive or limited to iPhones or iPads.  Alice and I have Android phones; fortunately, Alice discovered “Talkpath Therapy” by Lingraphica, and she is using it daily ever since.  (We hear quizlet.com is helpful, also.)

During a sandwich-laden lunch break at the workshop, two couples affected by aphasia participated in a panel discussion, revealing how they have coped after a stroke or suffered brain damage.  Attendees learned a loss of self-identity can lead to depression and that depression can be manifested without words.

A number of speech-therapy notables attended the workshop, among them Dr. John White, program director and professor of Pacific University’s School of Occupational Therapy; Aphasia Network vice president Lynn Fox; speech pathologist Christine Chambers, who works with the Veterans Administration; and University of Washington representative Diane Kendall, who recruited Alice and me to participate in a research study with the University in cooperation with Portland State.

Our future in communicating is improving, and we have nowhere to go but up.  And if you’re wondering about Alice’s disposition, a trip we made to the Coast two days before the workshop reveals the splendor she experienced from a surfer-populated cove at Oswald West State Park south of Cannon Beach.  Being enraptured by the Pacific Ocean at this scenic treasure brought Alice to tears, the kind an artist loves to shed.

Talk about a stroke of luck.  The Aphasia Network’s second annual Spring Workshop happens Saturday, April 11, less than 20 miles away from Hillsboro, Oregon.

The five-hour program of workshops makes sense for Alice and me.  A cursory look at Saturday’s agenda reveals caregivers will be enlightened with survivors’ points of view and vice versa.  The Living With Aphasia workshop is promulgated to survivors of stroke or brain injury.  Often family members get the impression survivors become brain damaged when they are not.

Speech aphasia impacts a person’s ability to take what’s inside his or her brain matter and emit it as intended from vocal chords.  The result: garbled language.

The organization’s workshops appear vital to expedite communication between a survivor and caregiver, or in my case a partner.  Suzanne Gardner, an event organizer, explained that survivors sit on one side, while their caregivers are positioned on the other.  A valuable partner, Pacific University of Oregon, takes part in the proceedings.

Registration begins at 9:30 am, followed by an orientation at 10 o’clock.  One half hour later, two options are offered.  The first option focuses on communication tools and strategies where enrollees are given one-on-one tools for smart phones and/or tablets.  It doesn’t matter what technology to which enrollees are subscribed: Apps for Android and Apple phones are covered.

The other option is more oriented toward occupational therapy, centering on leisure and daily living activity tools.  Survivors and caregivers are similarly segregated as other enrollees, which reinforces the different perspective caregivers share than their respective survivors.

Box lunches – either turkey or vegetarian – are supplied at 11:40, but time is limited.  A panel discussion is scheduled to take place while enrollees munch away.  Then back for another workshop at 1 o’clock, until the event wraps up at 2:30.

The Living With Aphasia second annual workshop takes place at Pacific University’s Berglund Hall at 2043 College Way, Forest Grove, OR 97116.  Interest in the workshop seems to be piquing, so Gardner has offered to expedite late registrations by calling 503-577-1282.  Registration cost is $15 per person, $30 for two.

Directions to the Pacific University campus and more information is available at The Aphasia Network’s website.  Just click this link.

Alice and I hope to meet new friends and learn how they are overcoming inherent difficulties and frustrations in the new world in which we now live.  While we’re there, a lot of folks are going to witness how Alice’s ability to laugh at herself is enabling her to speak all over again!

In case you haven’t heard, local dignitaries lately touted the star power of Portland Airport’s hideously funky aquamarine carpet, exalting it as grand marshal of its May 30 Starlight Parade.  The 1980s cross-hatched geometric monstrosity was chosen, apparently to proclaim how weird Portland can be, but probably so sections can be sold at outrageous prices.

There’s no need for officials to try so hard; the weirdness that abounds this town speaks for itself.

In the meantime, we’ll leave it to the local canine population to show its distaste for PDX’s old carpet.  Portland dog lovers better keep their animals firmly leashed, though, because two TSA security officers have been assigned to protect the carpet on parade day.  Perhaps the airport’s gendarmes won’t use deadly force whenever wayward animals piddle upon Portland’s pitiful celebrity rug.

After all, how can you enforce human gentility if Fido celebrates Portland’s weirdness in the animal kingdom’s time-honored custom?

A mid-morning event in our area of Hillsboro caught me by surprise, as a passing shower pelted apartment windows with the telltale sound of mild percussion.  Peering outside, I invited Alice to share my gaze, because our Bermuda grass lawn was being whitened by nickel-sized hail.

No lightning or thunder accompanied the gray clouds, so the hailstorm, although predicted by weather forecasters the day before, was unexpected.  Fortunately, the falling hail was not big enough to damage the automobiles parked outside, including the Ford Escape we call Betsy.

Ordinarily, such a distraction would not be newsworthy, except it preceded a phone call from Kaiser Permanente’s anticoagulation nurse.  For the second week in a row, Alice’s clotting level measured in the ideal range, denoting the warfarin medication is working as hoped.

Having one’s blood drawn frequently becomes old quickly, so I will take the weather anomaly as a portent of good news.  Why?  Because if Alice’s clotting level continues to stay at this level, soon her blood work will be done monthly, or even every six weeks.

Alice needs help recovering her ability to speak, and earlier today I began blaming myself.

I thought, “With all the plaudits that relatives and well-meaning friends send my way, what good am I until Alice connects her brain energy to those vocal cords?  There has to be some measure of personal accountability here, and it’s time to look in the mirror for help.”

There’s credence for my self-criticism.  Before Alice was released from RIO, speech therapist Jennifer Bonas provided a rehabilitation notebook filled with exercises designed to link key words with their sounds.  “Try to fit in three 15-30 minute sessions of Speech Therapy work daily,” the manual advises.

Yet, I speculated, “How have I frittered away the time?”

Watching March Madness – the NCAA basketball tournament.  What’s worse, our DVR can record four channels at once, so I’ve been able to watch all games that are competitive.

Tomorrow, March 30, Alice and I are scheduled to meet with speech therapist Jordan Johnson at Kaiser Permanente’s Central Interstate Medical Office.  If we’re honest and heed Johnson’s instructions, we can turn this whole thing around.

But what sacrifices must be made?  Before you answer, here’s the kicker: Alice loves the tournament, too!

Inevitably, we’re stuck with an operative dilemma: How to avoid the empty wide-eyed stares associated with becoming basketball brain junkies.

Alice won’t let me take the blame alone for the slow pace of our speech recovery.  Like everything else in life, we’re in this together!

So the upshot of this whole exercise in beating oneself up has become: Do you know how frustrating it is when the one you love refuses to allow you to be a martyr?

The photo above is slightly out of focus, and that’s all right.  Because that’s the way I remember the syringe.

It begs a penultimate question:  What would you do for the one you love?

As a child, I abhorred needles.  Whenever I waited to receive a vaccination, I would cringe.  At our family dentist’s office, the moment the kindly, spectacled doctor reached for a hypodermic to numb part of my mouth with Novocain, I grasped the handles of the patient chair so tightly my knuckles turned white.  And that was minutes before the threatening needle was removed from a drawer and positioned near a tooth that ached.

Watching excess Novocain squirt from the tip of the needle caused my pulse to race.  I knew then I could never opine for a career in the medical profession.  How could interns sit in a surgical theater to watch a real-life operation without throwing up?  Good luck, Charlie.  See you in scrubs, Maryjane.

So after Alice was released from rehabilitation to come home with me, I never imagined what horrible task I would be expected to perform.  Give my wife twice-daily injections of enoxaparin, commonly known as Lovenox – in the stomach an inch from the navel, no less.

What torture, what anguish.  Could I walk through a pit of fire for my lady love?  Would I lay down my life for her?

The first injection was the worst.  “What if I hit a blood vessel?” I wondered.  Could the needle do physical harm or cause unbearable pain?  Nine hours after being released, now lying on our bed, she exposed her belly and looked down at me.

I removed a plastic cap unleashing the profane needle and stared at Alice’s abdomen where previous injections caused black-and-blue bruises.  Would I be responsible for more horrendous scarring from previous body blows?

I called to mind the 45-degree angle at which I was instructed to inflict unfathomable distress.  I flicked the top of the syringe with my forefinger to position the air bubble atop the fluid.  Finally, I stared at the area I was going to attack, moving the needle back and forth uncertainly.

I cursed my timidity.  “I can’t wait forever,” I admonished myself silently.

In one fell swoop, I pierced her skin and pushed the needle deep as Alice gasped, slowly pushing the lever until the 30 milligrams of enoxaparin was emptied.  Pressing hard against the top of the hypodermic device, I caused the needle to withdraw automatically into its plastic housing, bringing to an end our mutual ordeal.

For the moment, that was.  I repeated the dastardly deed five more times at 12-hour intervals.

On Monday, March 23, as I turned 72, I escorted Alice as instructed to Kaiser Permanente’s Westside Medical Center where a skilled technician drew a vial of blood.  If all went well, I was told, we might be granted a reprieve.

Alice showed him compassion and honesty.  She complimented the tech on how little pain his experienced hands caused.  And she spoke perfectly.

As the rest of the day unfolded, she and I waited for the results, jumping each time the phone rang.  Alice had prepared four birthday cards earlier, but neither of us was ready to open any of them on this day of traditional celebration.  We hoped for good news to free us from an ungodly routine, plus medically empower Alice to imbibe wine anew.

When we heard nothing by 5 pm, nervousness set in.  Alice prompted me to leap into action.

I tried every phone number that seemed plausible for an informed interpretation and set us free from our emotional pain and suffering.  Ahhhh, Alice was fine, I was the nervous Norris.  What a wuss I am!

Each query ran into a roadblock, though, and sure enough I began to consider the worst.  Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst is my motto.

Suddenly, the phone rang.  It was Kaiser Permanente’s anticoagulation nurse, April!

For what seemed like an eternity, April offered a litany of warnings and made us aware of potential threatening side effects from various medications that could require immediate transport to KP’s emergency room.  Then she broke the happy news.

No more injections were necessary!  And Alice could have a glass of wine, too!

Half an hour later, we feasted on a sumptuous dinner of pork chops, thick and juicy.  And Alice lovingly presented me with my birthday cards, each of them meaningful.

By 8 pm, we drove out to Tanasbourne’s Bugatti Restaurant, where Alice feasted on a slice of tiramisu and a glass of wine, and I exalted over the culinary-splendid spumoni.

Before we left, as we were the last patrons to leave (Bugatti’s closes at 9 pm on Mondays), we sang happy birthday to yours truly.  And we rejoiced over the best birthday present I ever was given: not having to give my partner any more injections.  Such relief was unimaginable.

What a night, and I rejoiced over the best birthday present I could ever have.

While Alice recuperated from her stroke at Legacy Rehabilitative Institute of Oregon (RIO), I observed a cooperative medical team in action.  I do not use the word “team” lightly, like many in the corporate world do.  I use “team” in the highest sense; they’re restoring lives.

While staying with Alice at the highly regarded facility in central Portland, I observed a medical team put its collective conscience to work on stroke sufferers, and witnessed members of patients’ families glean unexpected insights.  Each member of RIO’s team works in tandem (kind of funny, since Alice and I live on “Tandem Way”), keeping each patient so busy that former dwellers there term the experience “boot camp.”

I want this post to pay tribute to the women and men who look after patients there.  Alice and I spoke with one particular neuropsychologist, Dr. Diane Pierce, who found Alice’s decision to go public with her stroke laudable.  And she agreed heartily when the idea of writing about Alice’s new life was floated.

What do you think?  Should the subject of strokes become de-mystified?

Every writer needs a mission.  Making a difference has always tugged at my heart.

How could I refuse such a challenge?