Hi my name’s Aly, I’m a third-year from Northern Virginia, and this semester, I had a stroke.
First, a disclaimer — I write this not to elicit sympathy or manipulate people into sending me food and cards. I don’t want the attention. I don’t want to be known as “stroke girl.” I just want to write because I love to write. I feel most like myself when I write. And it’s about the only thing I can think of to do right now anyway.
So, my story goes like this.
People have always told me that I walked kind of funny. They said they could recognize me from a mile away because of my peculiar gait. Well, a few weeks ago I noticed my gait went from peculiar to downright abnormal. It was more of a limp than a walk — my legs felt heavy and stiff. I became that annoying slow-walker blocking the foot-traffic between the E-School and Clark Hall.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. I had spent the entire summer sitting at a desk, so I assumed I was just extremely out of shape and laughed at my lack of athleticism.
Then I noticed I couldn’t type very well. I used to pride myself as being the fastest typist in my seventh grade computer class — yes, I had a seventh grade computer class. But then in BIOL 3000, I kept making typos, and my fingers just couldn’t keep up. How annoying, I thought. I really want to copy every single word Michael Wormington has to say.
These “episodes” mounted. I tried to play Für Elise on the piano. My fingers were sloppy and weak. I tried to lift a five-pound weight at the gym — I couldn’t lift it past my hip. I tried washing the mountain of dishes piled up on the counter. I dropped every other dish in the sink.
Something wasn’t right.
Fast forward a few days, and I’m sitting in Student Health across from this very kind and gentle doctor. She asked me what’s been going on.
I said, “I feel strange.”
She said, “How so?”
I said, “I just feel…strange.”
I tell her my scattered snippets of symptoms. I can’t put my left foot into my shoe without bending down and guiding it inside. I can’t throw a peace sign to a friend because my fingers won’t straighten all the way. I can’t play my flute because the act of both holding it up and wiggling my fingers over the keys is too much. I can’t point my toes. I can’t cut my nails. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
She watches me closely.
I tell her my wild theories synthesized from BIOL 2010 and WebMD — I think I might have Parkinson’s disease. I have that Ice Bucket Challenge disease. Multiple sclerosis. Blood clot. Pinched nerve. Unusual reaction to stress.
Maybe I had a stroke.
She looks at me with great sympathy and tells me not to worry. Come back in a week if it doesn’t get better.
So I go home, and I wait. I study, I sleep, I eat and I try to ignore the apparent loss of function in the left side of my body. For a few hours, I feel normal. But as soon as I type an email or stumble down the stairs, the hyper-awareness of my increasingly strange body floods back.
Fast forward a few more days, and I’m laying on a table, donned in a pastel hospital gown with headphones over my ears. The MRI machine whirs and beeps, as I’m slowly encased in this sterile cocoon. I get why people are claustrophobic now.
Laying inside the white metal tube, I am cynically optimistic. I expect the MRI will show nothing. The doctors will know nothing. I was just having a semi-psychotic breakdown.
The next day I get five missed calls from my doctor, then one from my mom.
I was right.
I had a stroke. A small one. But a stroke nonetheless.
I laugh when they tell me. I’m half-expecting Meredith Grey and Dr. McDreamy to come out of my fridge and tell me nothing’s real. But in a blur, I find myself sitting on paper and staring at a fuzzy white spot in the right side of my brain, and I realize this is far too real.
A week later and I’m waiting at the Adult Neurology Clinic, filling out paperwork as my mom whispers prayers beside me.
“What brings you in today?” the paperwork asked.
I scribble, “I had a stroke,” on the blank line.
“What neurological problems have you experienced?” Once again I write, “I had a stroke.”
The neurologist sits me down and tells me I’m rare. It’s very uncommon for someone my age to have a stroke. I wonder if that’s supposed to be uplifting. Everyone wants to feel special, to be told they’re “one of a kind.” It’s nice to be a mystery when it makes you feel sexy.
And yeah, maybe I feel a little bit sexy for boasting a rare medical condition. No one can figure me out. I’m elusive. I’m exciting. I am rare and interesting — the Heathcliff of the medical world. I am Asian and female with no high blood pressure or diabetes. I exercise regularly and eat decently healthy. I get eight hours of sleep most nights. I am 20 years old, and I had a stroke.
But then I wonder if I’ll ever get better. If I will forever be limping and never play piano. If all these things that I once loved/hated/was good at/better at will turn into things I just … can’t. I start to wonder if this is my life now — poked with needles and hooked to machines. And suddenly, I don’t feel so sexy anymore.
I guess you could say I’m confused, maybe scared, and a little bit angry. I can’t help but ask God, why? Why is it that my 55-year-old father can go on a four-mile run and I can’t? Why is it that it’s hard to see friends because they remind me what it’s like to only worry about tomorrow’s exam? Why is that now, I can’t sleep, because I’m scared I’ll wake up and not be able to speak?
But at least for now, this is my life — peeing in cups and waiting in waiting rooms. And each day it feels more and more normal. I won’t say I’m “okay,” but I am at peace, and I have much to be thankful for.
People ask me what they can do to help. And to that I say treat me like normal. Like I said, I don’t want to be “stroke girl.” Please don’t look at me like I’m fragile or like I’m about to explode. I guess I like food, and maybe you can carry my bags and send me notes when I have to miss class. And yes, there will be days that I cry, and I just want someone to sit with me. I am learning more and more how to be needy and I will need your patience as I figure that out.
Meanwhile you’ll find me clinging on to clichés and willing them to be true. God is good all the time — all the time God is good. Everything happens for a reason. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. You will find me reading of miracles — the blind will see, the lame will walk. And deep down, I will be praying, that one day that will be me.
Aly Lee is a Life Columnist for The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at life@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
Students practice art of persuasion at Karsh Institute of Democracy Oratory Competition
By Grace Roddy | 3 hours agoThe finalists — four undergraduate students and four graduate students — answered the prompt “Tell the story of a hero of our American democracy” for the chance to win $1,000.
A look into expanding Native American resources on Grounds
By Mia Tan | 19 hours agoStudent organizations, activist groups and academic programs have focused on highlighting individual differences among Indigenous students and bridging the gap between the University and Virginia tribes.
Pumpkin bread for chocoholics
By Malone Morchower | 5 days agoThe combination of fall spices creates a nutty and earthy taste, while the sweetness of the chocolate enhances the rich pumpkin flavor.
