i was having trouble with the doorknob. that’s when i knew something was wrong. i was walking fine and i, i grabbed the doorknob and tried to twist it but it wouldn’t budge, and i was frustrated and tried to say something, but all that came out was gibberish. next thing i knew, i was lying in a hospital bed. stroke. big one. this hand don’t turn doorknobs anymore. this hand is a constant reminder that life is a fickle son of a bitch, destined to fuck with you in ways you never knew possible. just when you think something fine, BAM, stroke, or BAM, brain aneurysm. then you’re a cold slab of meat on a stainless steel bed. or you’re like me, where half of your body wants to be a cold slab on a stainless steel bed, except it can’t because the other half is still kicking. now i get to spend the rest of my life wondering what i did to deserve this. bad diet? not enough exercise? who fucking knows. everyone tells me to look on the bright side. i’m not dead, they say. well go have a stroke and then tell me if it’s better being alive. i go to physical therapy every day and all the people there look miserable, even the physical therapists. they try so hard to not look completely devastated by their job but we all know it. we see it in the haggardness of their eyes, their slow, calm pacing around the room, or when they bolt for the exit for their smoke break. they all smell like cigarettes, even though their wash their hands after they smoke.
it’s miserable. you’re supposed to find hope in a moment like this. the only solace i have is that my husband still loves me, but he’s an old bag like me too and it’s not like we’re gonna get divorced at this point. we’re just gonna stay together until we croak. i guess that’s good.
i guess that’s good.