Is it a change of heart or giving up?

What is it that separates changing your mind from giving up on your current situation? That's a good question, isn't it? It's a question that I've recently been challenged with.

I've always advocated living with passion. I always tried, my best, to live my life by that. If I don't have passion for it I feel it's not worth doing. That being said; I've noticed that my passion has been guided by the possibility of success.  I found myself locked in my comfort zone. I rarely venture outside of things that I'm good at. That probably explains why I've resigned myself to being an eternal student. However, as I've gotten older my priorities have changed. It's no longer the possibility for  success that drives my passions. It's the other way around, as it should be.

I'm struggling to get to the most recent goal that I've set. I've lost the passion for it. One might ask "which came first the chicken or the egg? Did I lose passion because I'm struggling? Or am I struggling because I lost passion? After much introspection I can say with 100% clarity that I don't have the passion to propel me forward in this direction. While trying to make myself feel something I no longer do I'm making myself miserable. I'm not in pursuit of a passion, right now. I'm pursuing SUCCESS. I'm going after a way to make a life for myself, in which I'm well paid and live a comfortable life. A career in medicine is something great and something that I did have passion for. At  some point down this path that passion fell apart, where it is merely fragments that lay at my side.

When you put your focus on what your heart wants often your ideal changes. So yes, you can have a change heart the minute you let yourself be guided by it. Once I quiet the practical brain I see I'm not having a "change of heart" A change of heart is when you allow yourself to be guided and fueled by a passion that may lead you down an impractical path. "Giving up is a conscious decision to stop trying altogether.

I've never given up on anything in my entire life! However, I do reserve the right to to have a "change of heart."  

Moving mountains

I recently began a rapport with someone, incredible. I wont apply the pressure of saying he "inspires" me me. But I can say that he makes want to be a better version of myself. Occasionally the topic of mountains comes up. I can't help but see the beauty in that metaphor, as it applies to the human condition.

The most glorious lie ever told is that self belief is all you need. Society perpetuates the story of "The Little Engine That Could." - "I think I can, I think I can ..." It's a resounding untruth that is forced upon most of us. Especially, those of us who face any challenges.  Here's what we're not told: Self belief without actual application is just a dream, that will probably never come to fruition.

We are all standing before a mountain. Regardless of the size we are all staring directly at some mountain. And there we stand with all the faith and that we can get past this mountain. We believe we can. We have that faith someone or something will get us to the other side of this mountain. Some of us stand there and scream "Get out of my way!" Some of us get frustrated and emotionally cave to the grandeur of this thing before us. We doubt everything we thought about ourselves. Because we stand here believing in ourselves and in our abilities, but this mountain wont listen. We can't get it to move!

Here's the truth: This mountain can't move. It is a part of the earth, a formation that existed long before  we got here. We'll never be able to make it move, and we can't magically walk through it. The only way to the other side is to take the long trek up: become bruised, watch the calluses form and allow yourself to feel your grip to hold on. You'll most certainly feel the ache, and fatigue but you don't stop, because you know you'll fall and all the previous work will be for naught. And when you think you cannot make another move you realize you're at the top. From there you can scream to the world: "I am bruised, and I am tired, but I am now as strong as I BELIEVED I was. Then with very little effort you descend the other side. And there you stand seeing things unfolding that were previously blocked from view. Undoubtedly, there will be another mountain. It won't necessarily be any smaller, but will be far easier to climb. The strength, courage and endurance that blossomed inside you, as a result of that first uphill climb has set you up for the next one, and the one after that .... and thus success is achieved. And the world will look vastly different from the opposite side of every mountain you climb. So don't tire yourself out screaming, and begging for that mountain to move. Take  all you have right now, strap it to your back, grip tight and start climbing.  

What we leave behind

When our tombstones are carved they will inevitably have the date we were born a ----- followed by the date of our death. We all know the date on which we were born. Our loved ones will sadly know the day we died. But who will really know the   -----? What seems like a pointless way to separate those two dates is really everything that we've done in between.  That dash interrupts who we were when we we arrived from the person we were when we died. That represents an entire life  lived. Who will know, or care about that "space.?" I think everybody wants to leave behind some kind of "legacy" We all have the desire to be remembered, and to mean something. Therein lies  our quandary. 

At it's root what does it actually mean to "mean something?"How many people must one impact, or share themselves with to feel like they've meant something? The answer to that question is there is no real answer. We're bombarded with images of people who, in our eyes, mean something: Men contracting the Ebola Virus trying to help children, who have it, in Africa. Veterans returning from a war, most of us know little about. Commercials of people wrapping wounded puppies in blankets while a depressing  Sarah Mcgloghlin song echos eerily in the background. Then we're moved, and touched, and sometimes even envious of these glorious beings that are doing things that will ultimately "mean something." It's a vicious trap that is so easy to get caught in.

I'm extremely guilty of this. I've always known that whatever I do would be great. But I also knew that I needed it to be profound, and have a huge impact. As far back as I can remember I've wanted to change the world.  When I was nine I sat in my parents kitchen, with my Smithsonian Chemistry set convinced I was going to find a cure for AIDS. With every bubbling reaction a created I believed I was on the cusp of saving lives. I ignored the fact that every bottle in that set had a label that read "Warning harmful if swallowed."  For years my quest for greatness marched on. I wanted to find undiscovered planets that I'd tell NASA about, and ultimately have named after me.

Was I a narcissist or just really naive? Perhaps a little of both. The quest to mean something and impact people is at the core of who I am. Yet I'm forced to question why I want it on a grand scale. When I'm gone I have a desire that everyone knows what that dash between my dates of birth and death meant. And that is where I've gone astray. 

I saw a man at the gas station, the other day. I asked him to help me with using my debit card at the pump, because I can't see the screen. He graciously gave me assistance, and in a roundabout way told me he hoped the 5 dollars he had would get him home to Farmingdale. I knew with the price of gas 5.00 would barely get him down the street! I thanked him for his help and ran inside and paid the clerk 10 dollars for that man to have an additional 10 bucks worth of gas. That man was extremely grateful, and thanked me more times than I can count. When we parted ways I knew, regardless of how infinitesimal   I had meant something. In that small act of kindness I had an impact on someone's day. 

While little things may not be life changing, or world enhancing. They do make the world a slightly better place. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said:  "The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.” 

    

The "I" word.

I've been reading and hearing a lot of talk about use of the word "inspiration." The opinions vary, as much as usage does. Some within the "disabled" community find the word "degrading" in a sense. While others feel it is an endearing compliment. I know you can't play on both sides of the fence, but with this subject I do. 

I've always, strongly, hated being called an inspiration for doing things that were naturally expected of my peers. When people called me an inspiration for going to college I'd cringe. The implication was that  I couldn't or wouldn't achieve such a "normal" milestone under, what others viewed, as an "abnormal" existence.  What those people ignored was it was (is) my existence. it was all that I have ever known, therefore, I saw nothing abnormal about it.  I lived/live the life I was given. What's so abnormal about that? So don't be inspired by my trips to Target, or my ability to have an average day, just like yours. 

The word "inspiration" can often be "crippling" What is so ingrained in me, at this point is: I can't falter. I can't fail, I can't quit on anything. Why? Because the first half of my life has served as demonstration of "overcoming", to family, friends, and people who barley knew me. Just my getting in my car, and getting on the highway has inspired somebody. So it often feels a normal moment without great achievement lets down the world. I'm struggling through a Chemistry class, and I want to drop out of it. Someone actually said "But you've already been through so much!" Big deal! I have been through alot, but I don't want to go through Chemistry! I know that image of failure, or my giving up pulls away some of my "inspiration" status for you.   

I once said I've never done anything special. I believed ] that anyone would have done the things I did if they had to. That  was some naive attempt at humility. The truth is: No, not everybody could weather my storm ...That's why it was my storm. But what everyone can do is stand back up in the middle of their own storm. Wether or not they do is a choice. 

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In the appropriate circumstances and for a valid reason the word inspiration is a compliment that touches me deeply. Ok, yea my graduating college with honors, the same year I  almost died from a cerebral hemorrhage might be inspiring. But what touches me most is when a kid, from one of the classes I've spoken to. A young boy, the target of bullying calls me inspiring and wants a hug. I know there is purpose and legitimate reason for him saying that. Or when someone who has intimate knowledge of the path I've walked says it, I'm overjoyed. That means that person has watched me fight, and validates that I've made good choices, and when it all ends my struggles have meant something, to someone I value.

Where outsiders have seen strength and determination, my family saw insanity. My family watched me ignore,medical advice, make up my own rules, and do drastic things with the hope that it would all work out. That, somehow, it would all be worth it. 

So if you're going to find inspiration find it in the fact that I live my life, Not in the fact that I live my life despite the way you THINK it could have been lived. Driving a car, being in college, having a social life, none of that should be inspiring. Nor do I want these things to serve as some "power" that someone uses in their time of great trial. Admiration and insipation are two very different things.  You can admire my character and attitude without  thinking my life can provide some footprint for you to follow, simply because I get up every morning and plant my feet on the ground. Because I'm pretty sure you do that too!    

First comes LOVE ... then comes marriage

I haven't had the most productive "love life." Of all the things, in my life, that didn't fit into the mold of living "normally" my love life is the one that plagues me the most.

It was in high school that I realized that having a disability may actually put me at a "disadvantage" where men and relationships were concerned. It worried me a little, but I was only 16. I had plenty of time to deal with those issue. Never did I think that on the cusp of my 34th birthday I'd still be dealing with this.

I was talking with my best friend about dating and the desire to find "Mr. Right." "It's not easy being a 4' tall woman and finding someone to see beyond that. I know I'm not "standard."  Those words fell right out of my mouth without my even noticing. It wasn't until I was alone, that night, in the quiet of my mind that I realized I verbalized those thoughts. While those are feelings I had, they were also feelings I kept secret. Even when those feelings were my reality I never uttered those words aloud. To share that with someone made me vulnerable to some confirming and solidifying the way I felt.

I live my life with unmatched confidence. I've broken boundaries and overcome obstacles with ease and grace. I always thought I embodied the cliche of: I get knocked down and get right back up. Yet when it comes to love and relationships my self-esteem is crippled. The confidence I pride myself in, is replaced with doubt and fear.

I was in love, with a man who said "I love you." No one had ever said that to me before. I had finally heard it, and those words resonated so deeply in  every cell in my body. My heart was feed, as I heard "I love you" on a daily basis. I was having a love affair with the idea of being in love. When that ended my heart was shattered. He actually said "I'm too superficial for you." At that point everything I thought I thought I believed about myself and my world were now just fragmented questions. I'm just like everybody else. Was I, really? I'll eventually meet my prince charming. Is that possible? People see beyond physical differences once they get to know you. Really? Who are these people, and on what planet do they exist?

So I took everyone's advice and "put myself out there and tried "dating." How else do you date in 2014? You join dating websites and go on a bunch of awkward first dates at Applebees. Every date or initial first meeting, at a coffee shop, was my campaign to be seen for who I am. We'd ignore the elephant in the room. And that goodnight hug, would be some poorly choreographed "routine" that started with me  wrapping my arms around some man's waist, and ended with him crouching down on one knee. (and not with a ring!) After all, it looked rater odd and inappropriate for my head to be inches away from a man's crotch in the doorway of some restaurant. So naturally a true gentleman (or any man that didn't want our encounter to be anymore "strange" and uncomfortable.) would prefer to crouch on his knee.

 There was never a "natural" way to address that elephant in the room. What could I say? "Yea, I'm 4 feet tall. And yes I drive.  Sure, I live a normal life. Yup, sex is a possibility ..." And run off the rest of the list of things I can do? So made sure it was known and accepted ahead of time. I updated online profiles to include that I had physical differences, and if that would be a problem or something that couldn't be accepted let's not waste each other's time. Or if met someone at a bar or Starbucks I'd openly preform my daily "acrobatics" to climb up on the stool or reach the straws, and things like that. As strange as it is, it was may way of saying: "yea, I'm different but I handle it." If you can get a guy to still chat with you after you've used the corner of his stool to push yourself up on yours, you can be sure he got the message.

However, being blunt and open has also backfired. Now what I'm getting in return is the tongue in cheek "you're the perfect height" joke. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that I'd be able to retire tomorrow. Most recently I heard "I always had a fantasy of being with a little person. Would you wanna go out, and maybe make a baby." So now I'm some kinky fantasy? I can't win!          

The superstition of being "well."

I'm sure we've all experienced the feeling of "this is too good to be true." Bathed in euphoria as a persistent thought floats in and out of our consciousness: "This can't last." I've heard this in reference to: lovers in new relationships, excited new employees who feel they've landed the perfect job. However, there is one group that this feeling resonates with, louder than any other.



Ask any person that has battled, fought, or beat any disease, illness, disorder and they'll tell you that fleeting thought of "this can't last" strikes utter panic amidst the euphoria of feeling "well." In a misguided attempt to hold on to your "victory a superstition can take root. With each passing minute, hour, and day the superstition grows bigger.



I woke up the other day and realized that I haven't had a seizure in 6 months. I wanted to shout that from the mountain tops but I quickly hushed myself. "Shhh you don't wanna jinx this." I did the same thing when medication was reduced and I was still seizure free. Even as I type this a small voice is echoing that superstition so loudly I can barely hear my own thoughts. - I said I've been seizure free 6 months. In saying that did I ruin the possibility for 7 months?



Health is such a continuum with an ever changing status. I WAS seizure free for over a year. What about the woman who's Breast Cancer WAS in remission? Or the little girl who WAS doing so well in physical therapy? Or when my mom WAS making progress?
What is it that transforms the "is" or "am" that belongs in those sentences to "WAS?" Is it some silly jinx? Is it a matter of counting our chickens before they hatch? Maybe it simply is the fact that things ebb and flow. Life has peeks and it also has valleys. That includes the status of your health.



The challenge is to temper caution with optimism. Find a way to stand upon those peeks and shout "I FEEL GREAT!" when you do, while maintaing a healthy respect for a valley that is just beneath you. There will always be an "is" that will become a "was" or an "am" about to be an "am NOT." The only "jinx" there is is the one in your head that will cheat you and everyone who loves you out of the joy of acknowledging the fact that you're feeling well and thriving!



As for me: I'm doing great! I'm back in my car, off one medication, got my hair cut and am back to living my life the way I'm use to. Oh yea .... I'm still SEIZURE FREE! (shhh ... don't tell the part of me that hasn't fully given up the superstition that I told you!)

Yield in order to proceed

I took my first test since having surgery (surgeries.) And of all the test that it could, it was a midterm. The moment the test date was announced is the moment I realized how truly worried I, about what I may have lost. I willingly gave up 3 weeks of classes so I know that I lost those lectures, and those notes. But I also may have lost things beyond my control? I needed to know that my academic cognition was still,  as I left it before surgery. My memory retention and recall would need to work. the word "midterm" carried he weight of all that. It also brought with it the reality that I, knowingly, risked all of that.

So much of my identity revolves around academics and how "smart" I am, and can be. I spent elementary straight through high school fighting stigmas, and misjudgments about my capabilities. So now I wear my GPA like some vindication badge of honor. I'd probably tattoo it across my forehead if they'd let me. Maybe that's why I'm 33 and still in school.

On the day of the midterm I stared down at that Scantron and thought to myself "Taniya, you better not have screwed this up for yourself!" I filled in my bubbles. Some I colored in with unwavering confidence, and some with dread. I went home that night and went over every question, I could, remember, in my head. I analyzed every question, searched through notes to try to find the potential answer. This was my effort to calculate which questions I definitely got wrong, and what my ultimate grade would be.

I got my test back on Wednesday, and I got an 88. If this had been a year ago I would have went home with my tail between my legs, completely dissatisfied. I spent hours studying, I lost sleep, and I stressed like crazy. It was at that point that I mentally slapped myself. Because if this were a year ago I would have still done all the above, and then had a seizure during the test.

This 88 was more than just a grade. This 88 is hope. This 88 is also proof that the gamble I took didn't cost me anything. I'm still "OK." it's too soon to speak the words "seizure free," but I can say that I got through an event that would often trigger a seizure, for me. (stress and lack of sleep.) and got through it "seizure free" and still have a brain that works well enough to get an 88 on a Neuroscience midterm. At this moment I can smile and say That's better than getting 100!!

When there's a curve in the road be sure to bend with it

My final epilepsy surgery was competed in February. I had the same team of amazing people rallying around. There were times when I couldn't tell who wanted this to work, more: me, my doctors, my family or my friends. The love and support I felt was overwhelming.

I spent my first night in the Neuro ICU, blissfully unaware of what my head had just endured. The question people ask, most often, is: Did it hurt? YES. I have high pain tolerance, and try to avoid narcotic pain killers, but that was not possible this time around! Being a "neuro patient" I got the joy of being harassed with a neurological assessment every 4 hours! That basically means some nurse would wake me, from my drug induced slumber, by shining a light in my eyes. They would then ask me any combination of the following questions: : "What's your name?" "What's today's date?" Who's the president?  Some questions received some snarky answers. Like: "Even if I did suffer some neurological deficit during surgery I think I would have memorized that Obama is the president based on the last 12 times someone has come in here to ask me, before your shift even started! ICU or not I felt well enough to remain my charming sarcastic self.

By day 2 it was my neurological assessment that I was going through. One of the very first things I established when i opened my eyes was that I could still see ... out of both eye. it sounds strange, and I know that. Leading up to surgery they go over all the risk, and the things you can lose as a result. My biggest one was the vision in my left eye, but I signed all the paperwork anyway! So knowing I could see was, already, a "win." After that I went through the small things: I knew I could speak, my memory seemed fine, I recognized faces and understood English. I was content, but not quite satisfied. I craved further validation. I need to know that as i lay in that bed I was still "smart" I wanted confirmation that I was still going to become everything that I wanted to be, within the timeframe that I had set. And then my phone rang.

My professor was calling to see how I was feeling, and how surgery had gone. He's a Neurologist so the first thing I told him was how idiotic it was to assume you are testing some's neurological function by asking who the president is every four hours! He chuckled and said "Well you sure sound like yourself!" Hmmm does that mean I complain and bitch a lot in my daily life? Then he said "Would you like me to give a quick Neurological assessment?" Oh good god! I thought. And then he started with his questions: "Taniya, give me the definition of phagocytosis." "In the Renal the outer portion of the kidney is called ____." He pulled questions from things that I'd learned over the past 13-16 months. And every time he said right I jumped on my mental pogo stick and went bouncing off into the sunset! That's exactly what I needed! I didn't leave any of what I, quietly, defined as my intelligence on that operating table.

After 3 days in the hospital, and week at home I went back to school. I was jumping right back into my life. If you want to go back to feeling well you have to go back to doing the things you did when you were well (if you are still able.) My doctor urged me to take off the semester off, but I refused. Last year I gave him an entire semester and the seizures came back anyway. I wasn't giving up anymore time. I settled back into my old routine, quickly.

I had been having dizzy spells on and off since coming home. I found 100 of things I could blame them on: I aven't eaten, it's the medication, I'm overtired etc.

Last week there was no explaining things away. Surgery had felt like it was so long ago, so complications were no longer on my radar. I could see, hear, speak and pass any A&P test in my sleep. I was in the clear. Wasn't I? ... Not quite just yet. The thing about "complications" is they can be anything and happen at any point. I always viewed complications as something that goes wrong during or IMMEDIATELY after surgery. I certainly didn't think they were something that would show up almost a month later, nor was it something I was willing to think about.

Post surgery, my body wasn't absorbing my cerebrospinal fluid as quickly as it was produced. Essentially I was accumulating "water on the Brain."  Getting back to the list of risk and complications ... I'm not sure I paid much attention to this one! It got my attention real fast when my surgeon came in and said "I know how to fix this." Note: If a surgeon tell you he knows how to fix something, trust it involves cutting someone open! He said "I'd like to take you to the O.R on Monday, and put in a shunt." I'm sure if I could have sat up I would have yelled something obscene. But I was too dizzy to even be able to sit up. I was disappointed and upset. I saw the one path I was, already, on. The one that had been free from complications and drama, for nearly a month. I didn't want to start over or try again. I just wanted to be seizure free ... and for a month I had been.

Where was this unforeseen turn taking me? I didn't know, but I had no choice but to turn also. My brain was literally drowning in it's own fluid. The world, viewed through my eyes, was constantly spinning. So with shaking hands I chased the signature line around the page, as it continued to spin. I quickly scribbled some version of  "Taniya L. Faulk" that may, or may not have resembled my actual signature.   And with that I went to surgery. That was almost 2 weeks ago.

This isn't the way I want things to go, but looking back all I ever asked was for them to go wee. Thus far they have. I hated the need for an additional surgery. (sure, I'll eventually add it to my tally and feel even cooler!)  However, I had to find a way to be ok with things were going to play out. For me to recover and continue to thrive I had to follow that small bend in the middle of my path.

I don't want to be a muse, and I certainly can't be your "hero."

Since I consented to a second to another Neurosurgery, my life has been a whirlwind: There have been test, request for more test, data collection and data review. The more I'm being taught, in school, the less foreign the language is. I know the law of Neuroplasticity. I understand hyper vs. hypo polarization, and I can interpret parts of my own EEG (not very well but I still got the gist.) There's a certain peace that is lost with gaining of knowledge. I guess that's why the phrase "ignorance is bliss was coined." Because it really is!

The question "why" has been hang off the lips, of just about everyone. Some let it be verbalized, and others just bite their tongue. Yet, I know they all want to know: "You had one failed Epilepsy surgery, why would you try it again?" Because any shot at success is better than no shot at all! I'd rather try and fail, than fail because I didn't try.

The other reason, and the one that is so hard for people to wrap their minds around: I find it so damn interesting! Sure, I'll have another test, but make sure I get a copy of the report. You can put pins in my legs, but I must see the X-rays!  I'm my own "laboratory rat." I've become my own muse. I want to create something beautiful, from my experiences. So yes, when the Neurologists and Neurosurgeon all agreed that they got it wrong The scientist in me said: "OK let's get it right." - I know I'll receive the direct benefits, from this surgery. However, this, all will reach far beyond me: When I can hold a patient's hand and say: "I understand" those words will hold truth. Or the day I put a cast on a little girls arms, and whisper: "Sweetie, I know it hurts." I wont be lying.

On the flip side of that, I'm no martyr. Nor, am I a hero. My professor called me his hero, and that was beyond awkward! That man, and his career inspire me everyday! I've accomplished what you expect most women, my age, to have accomplished.Sure the road I've traveled may have had more potholes than most, but I didn't do anything heroic! I just navigated my road well. When I eventually find the solution to world peace, or cure world hunger ... than you can call me your hero. For right now, just call me some relentless chick who became real good at falling down, and jumping right back up!        

Self talk

It's vitally important that we are careful of how we talk to ourselves. The thoughts that we give a voice to become internalized beliefs and perceptions of ones' self.  I hear it all too often:

-I'm Broke

-God, I'm so stupid

- I got sot so fat over the holidays

- I'm SICK of this or SICK of that. 

-I can't take it anymore.

-This is KILLING me.

This list could stretch for miles. I'm not above any of it. I've found myself indulging in my fair share of negative self talk. We all go through phases where we hate our thighs or get frustrated enough to call ourselves dumb. While that might not be the biggest deal in the world the ideas that can take on physical manifestations are cause for concern. 

I remember, in 2004 the man of my dreams decided I was no longer the woman in his. I did all the cliche things you would expect to see in a Jennifer Aniston movie. There was lots of wine, tears, and moody depressing love songs vibrating the walls of my bedroom. There was also me proclaiming how "broken hearted" I was, to anyone who would listen. Boy do I have good friends because not one told me to shut up. 

Right before his birthday, in 2005 I ended up on an operating room table having my heart "fixed." Coincidence? Now, I'm not metaphysical enough to believe that I actually talked myself into needing heart surgery. However, I do know that the voice that kept screaming "broken heart" knew nothing of the sort, and all it did was make sure my energy was focused on being depressed. After all I was supposed to feel depressed, wasn't I? That's how the story goes right? That's what my voice believes. 

Like that word "suffering" That word is the bane of my existence! I'm a "patient" who has dealt with and fought off most of my medical conditions. But don't ever say that I "suffer" from anything. To suffer implies that you are a victim of. I've never been a victim of anything! 

Sure I have "Brittle bone disease" but I didn't "suffer" over 90 fractures. I broke 90 bones and/or recovered from 90 fractures. 

I don't "suffer" from epilepsy. I have epilepsy and my seizures are annoying, inconvenient, and right now they are interrupting my life. However, I'm still not suffering.

I can't let that voice start talking to me like that. Because the minute I buy into the theory that I'm some "victim" is the minute that I give up control. (Anyone who knows me knows I'm a control freak!) I control my body, I control my health care, and I control that voice in my head! 

It's impossible to turn off that voice, so I say hear it and then ignore it. When you hear something that you don't like you can always turn it down or off. The problem is when you don't actually hear it, you don't realize that it's always on as background noise.   

 

Taniya, when you had the stroke __________?

If I never have to answer a question that starts with "When you had your stoke" that would be too soon.

It was April of 2003. It was my junior year of college, and it was probably the hardest thing that I ever lived through. It was weeks of a psychological minefield. I was dealing with weeks of headaches ... debilitating headaches, which doctors scoffed at. Light was my vicious enemy so I lived in darkness. Just as frequent as my trips to the ER, were the recommendations to see a psychologist. Prescriptions for Prozac were placed in my hands as they patted me on the back and sent me home with "nothing we could find." They made me feel crazy. Until the night of the stroke, and 11 hours of sucking blood off my Brain no doctor believed me.  

As I sit here, ten years later all I can think is "Told ya so!" But of all the things I could be right about. I thought the initial recovery would be the hard part. I didn't know I'd still be answering questions about it. Nor did I know how much of my life would later be impacted. Once all was said and done I thought I was in the clear. I didn't know that two years later I'd crash my car into a tree, and be found unconscious, starting a new flurry of misdiagnosis and insanity accusations. I couldn't have known that, that single event was laying the ground for a path that I would have to continue to walk. I would never have believed that I'd let someone open my head 5 more times, and be considering a sixth.

So to answer the question: "Taniya, when you had the stroke ________?"  I knew it was something, but didn't know it would be all this.