Hi Wendy,
Here's the schooner story I promised you.
In 1992, my mom had a hysterectomy. They were a week late in removing the stitches. Mom said it was the worst pain she'd ever had (including the four pregnancies delivered to full term). They also took her off her blood thinner meds.
About a week later, she had a stroke, and it was damn lucky that she was singing with the New Oratorio Singers because as she walked past the mirror on the wall in the living room to go out to her ride, she looked at her face, and saw it was ugly. "I can't go to rehearsal looking like this," she thought. Then she went to speak some words, but they did not emerge.
Helen Albright came to the door, entered, and immediately noticed that Anne could not speak. She called (loudly) down stairs where Ralph and I were immersed in Monday night football (boys sometimes never grow up). "Anne has a problem."
I raced up stairs, took one look, and dialed 9-1-1.
They arrived inside of three minutes, and took her to the hospital. After the surgery, she had aphasia and could not speak. By good coincidence, one of my friends was the owner of a large physical therapy rehabilitation company in New Mexico. I called Laurie to explain the situation. She advised me, "Most of the speech therapists are excellent. They are also mostly women. Most of them got into the field because they had communications difficulties. But you have a very tiny window of opportunity which will close quickly. And you also need to make sure that she is diligent in doing the exercises.
So, we made sure all of the above took place, and she made excellent recovery, but, even now sometimes mixes up genders, saying "his" when she means "hers."
While in the hospital mom made a vow to herself: "WHEN I get out of here, we're getting on the internet." Which, quite clearly we did.
Things were great for a while. Dad REALLY loved it when mom could not talk, and has since become rather overbearing monopolizing every conversation where his younger brother is not present (Floyd has an even stronger personality than Ralph).
Then we had relatives visit, and mom quit taking her anti-depressants (because she felt so good, don'cha know) and she was so depressed, she couldn't even converse with her favorite childhood cousin, Jean Ann.
Well, this continued for quite some time, Anne's depression. But she and her best friend, Connie Craig, from Streator Illinois (where I grew up - I think you always knew I was not really a "Barrington Boy" -- just as I always knew, that you were not really a "Barrington Girl - you little Canuck, you .. rofl), had signed up for an elderhostel, working as shipmates on a schooner that had three lives: whaling boat, island transport to NYC and back, and finally, teaching vessel.
When she returned, the difference was incredible. She was relaxed, she was outspoken, she was happy, she was confident. She had done everything except hoist the anchor. No time to dwell on her own miserableness.
When we get down, we need to do something for somebody (even ourselves) to get out of our own petite universe.
E N J O Y ! ! ! !
Mark
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