Tag: brain stroke recovery

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Sweat, Sun, and Sore Muscles: A Summer Morning Mow-tivation Tale

Written June 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, unlike the tropical Tuesday saga, I seized the rare opportunity to mow the lawn before the sun turned my backyard into a convection oven. Thanks to a relatively cool night (by Nashville standards), the air was downright tolerable — you know, in that “I only mildly regret existing outdoors” kind of way.

Armed with determination and a mower that has seen more summers than our old air conditioner, I conquered the yard in just under three hours. By the end, the temperature had climbed high enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk — sunny side up, no less. I bolted inside and promptly shut all windows and vents, preserving that glorious sliver of night-chill like it was the last popsicle on Earth.

We try not to blast the AC unless absolutely necessary — not just because it wheezes like an asthmatic raccoon (bless its vintage soul), but because we’re reserving its final act for a true heatwave encore, à la 2023. Spoiler alert: It’s getting replaced next year, assuming it doesn’t melt into a puddle of R-22 first.

Now, let’s pause for a moment of historical curiosity: how on earth did people survive 100 years ago in this kind of heat? Imagine doing farm work in the blazing sun with zero air conditioning. Just sweat, grit, and maybe a straw hat if you were lucky. No thank you.

My wife, the seasoned world traveler and resident thermostat of our home, lived in Canada and Germany before settling in the sauna we call Tennessee. She rarely touches the AC. In fact, she says your body should know it’s summer — not be tricked into thinking it’s mid-October. Logical? Sure. Comfortable? Debatable.

Truthfully, I’ve found her temperature policy rather merciful post-brain-stroke. My body doesn’t respond well to sudden climate shifts, so a house that mimics the gentle rise of outdoor heat is oddly comforting. Still, I come prepared — always with long sleeves in tow when visiting overzealously chilled places like malls or friends’ homes, aka human freezers.

Once I cooled off (the natural way), I shifted into phase two: exercise. This week has been a redemption arc — I actually stuck to my workout plan, unlike previous weeks when I mostly specialized in the art of Procrastinative Stretching™.

That said, my chest is still protesting Tuesday’s push-ups. It feels like I bench-pressed a rhinoceros in my sleep. One ongoing issue is keeping my weight steady — a challenge when your appetite ghosts you and your muscles are crying out for protein. But too much protein can be a bad thing too. Ah, the paradox of wellness: even good things need moderation. Like ice cream… or leg day.

I’ve been tinkering with my routine: adjusting sleep, sneaking in extra snacks, and playing Goldilocks with my workout load — not too much, not too little. Just right. Maybe. Hopefully. We’ll see.

All in all, it’s been a productive, sweaty, slightly achy but oddly satisfying day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to ration what’s left of that precious indoor cool before the AC makes its final dramatic gasp.

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When Laundry Plans Go Sideways (and Your Wife Outruns You Anyway)

Written June 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

You know that sinking feeling you get when something’s just not right—and then it hits you like a sock to the face? That was me, late last night, when I realized I had completely forgotten to do the laundry. Not just any laundry, mind you—the sacred post-yardwork laundry I committed to on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You see, I cleverly tied this task to mowing the lawn, mainly because our yard seems to be hosting an exclusive flea convention these days. Despite treatment, they’re still lurking like tiny vampires with a vendetta. So, off come the clothes right after yard work and straight into the washer—in theory.

Last night, the theory failed. Spectacularly.

By the time I remembered, it was far too late to rescue the load. Cue mild domestic chaos this morning.

As fate would have it, I was supposed to wash my wife’s exercise clothes—including her favorite running pants. And of course, she discovered this right before her early morning run. Now, if you’re picturing a dramatic meltdown involving yoga mats and laundry baskets, rest assured: no such thing occurred. My wife is made of sturdier stuff. She simply used her backup pants. Crisis averted, no tears shed, treadmill unbothered.

Honestly, I suspected she wouldn’t skip her run. Ever since the sun decided to stop ghosting us, she’s been energized like a solar panel on espresso. She’s rediscovered her love for the morning light as summer approaches, and let’s just say her energy now lasts all day. Like, from sunrise to are-you-still-talking-at-10. Kind of energy. I love it for her. Truly.

Anyway, the only real casualty here was the schedule. So today began with me tossing laundry into the machine before my run, then sprinting back to shift it to the dryer after my run—domestic multitasking at its finest.

Now, in our household, laundry isn’t just a weekly chore. It’s practically a sport. We’re both pretty active—my wife exercises every day, and I’m not far behind with my runs, yardwork, and weekend DIY projects. We also go through towels at a suspiciously high rate. Are we drying off or reenacting water ballet? Unclear.

Still, our 12-year-old washing machine soldiers on. Like a trusty old knight with a spinning lance.

And as for forgetting? Well, it happens. Even to people like me, who have built survival systems out of schedules ever since a brain stroke rewired my memory circuits. My occupational therapist taught me to tie tasks together (mow = wash clothes = prevent tick attack). For the most part, it works. And luckily, my memory stayed sharp after the stroke—so sharp that I finished speech therapy in three weeks. With a bit of help from my wife, some card games with my mom, and the noble therapeutic power of video games (yes, for real).

My wife likes to remind me that even people without a stroke forget things—especially if they don’t write them down. Maybe that’s why she lives by her to-do lists like a general preparing for battle. So, I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up over one rogue laundry day.

The important thing? I got the laundry done. Eventually.

And hey—clean pants, happy wife, no ticks. That’s a win in my book.

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From Dentist to Lawn Duty: A Stroke Survivor’s Summer Morning Routine

Written June 3, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today didn’t go as planned—but then again, when do plans actually stick?

Usually, I begin my mornings with a showdown against our lawn, racing the rising sun to finish before the heat starts hissing like a kettle left too long on the stove. But not today. Today, the dentist called, and my grass lost the battle for my time slot.

My appointment was right in that awkward window—not early enough to mow before, not late enough to ignore. So I fell back on my winter schedule, which basically means breakfast first and hoping the weather gods stay merciful until I get back.

Our dental office is close enough to walk, which is handy since I haven’t driven since my brain decided to throw a surprise party for itself ten years ago—otherwise known as a stroke. My reflexes slowed, and according to my wife, the hospital had to “poke a hole in your skull to let the chaos out.” Charming, right?

Ever since driving has been a no-go, even after a decade, my wife insists it’s too risky. “It’s not just about you,” she reminds me. “It’s about the mailboxes, pedestrians, and squirrels with dreams.”

She’s right. I grumble less than I used to.

Thankfully, I have options. If she’s free, she drives me. If not, I Uber like a suburban celebrity. It’s not bad, actually. She keeps saying that self-driving cars are coming soon anyway—cars that don’t need me at the wheel. Given how tricky life was for her back in her Montreal days without a license—metro, bus, walk, repeat—I know she gets how frustrating it can be.

Still, every so often, I miss driving. Just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But until we’ve got a robot car parked in the driveway, I’m sticking to walking distance and lawn duty.

Which brings me back to this afternoon.

After surviving the dentist’s poking and polishing, I returned home, squinted at the sun like it owed me money, and decided to go for it. The heat was there, sure, but it wasn’t as vicious as last year’s “bake-your-socks” level heatwave.

I powered up the mower and got to work. I managed to tame the wild half of the yard I skipped last week. Progress! The lawn looks… slightly less like it’s auditioning for a jungle documentary.

It’s the little victories that count.

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Chilly Mornings, Running Shoes, and a Piano Sonata

Written May 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The temperature in Nashville has taken a nosedive—and no, it didn’t pack a parachute. After last year’s fiery summer that had us questioning our life choices (and our air conditioning bills), this sudden chill feels like Mother Nature hit the rewind button. Yes, it’s still May, but she seems to be flirting with November.

This morning was especially nippy. When I peeked out the window and saw my breath waving back at me, I knew it was time to suit up: long running pants, my trusty jacket, and—wait for it—gloves. In May. Gloves. It’s like my wardrobe thinks I’m training for a winter marathon in the Alps.

Now, you might think it’s odd to go full snowman mode when summer’s supposed to be knocking. But here’s the thing: my internal thermostat took early retirement after my brain stroke. Temperature control? Not my strong suit. Sudden swings in weather throw my body into a melodramatic performance that would win awards in the “What Is Happening?” category.

Air conditioning? Pure nemesis. Walking into an airport or my sister’s house in summer is like being tossed into a meat locker. I’ve learned to show up in long sleeves—even when it’s 90 degrees outside—because otherwise I’ll be shivering like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. The cold can be layered against. The heat? That’s a whole different beast. I guzzle water like a desert camel on payday, hoping to keep my body cool and my kidneys happy. Two birds, one hydration strategy.

Once I get going, though—especially on my morning runs—my body usually catches on. “Ah, right, we’re moving now,” it says, and cranks up the internal furnace. I ran early today, when most sane people were still snuggled under blankets. Despite my janky autonomic nervous system, running helps me feel a bit more human. Hot and cold sensations still get confused in my body, like a thermostat designed by committee, but I’ve learned to manage.

At home, we keep things pretty natural—by which I mean we try not to live in a wind tunnel or a sauna. We only use the heater or AC when the weather gets truly unruly. My wife likes to keep our indoor climate close to what’s going on outside, which I suspect is part philosophy and part compassion. She knows if we blast the AC, I’ll feel like I’ve been slapped by a snowball every time I step outside and come back to the house.

Our house helps with this too. It’s cleverly built into a hill—like a Hobbit home, but with better Wi-Fi. From the front, it looks like a charming one-story cottage, but the backside reveals a full two-story surprise. One side of the lower floor is completely underground, which keeps the house naturally cool in the summer and cozy in winter. The front storage room has no windows, making it a perfect hideaway if a hurricane decides to visit. On the flip side—literally—the back has big windows and faces a forest with a stream trickling behind it. You can’t see the stream from the house, but just knowing it’s there is oddly comforting, like a secret whisper from nature.

After my run and a gloriously hot shower (ah yes, the sweet revenge on the morning chill), I sit down to play the piano. This is my favorite time of day—body warm, mind clear, fingers alive. There’s something beautifully simple about it.

As for tomorrow, the plan is to tackle a 10k after our trip to the hardware store. Normally, I’d run first, but with another crisp morning ahead, I figure I’ll wait until later. Timing is everything—even in running shoes.

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How I Outsmarted Protein Restrictions and Found My Balance (Mostly)

Written May 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After mowing the lawn this morning—a chore I now count as both cardio and meditation—I had a small but glorious victory: the bathroom scale whispered the sweet news that I’ve almost reclaimed all my lost weight. Just one stubborn pound remains. One! At this rate, I may throw that pound a welcome-back party… with non-alcoholic, low-phosphorus sparkling water, of course.

For months, I’ve been running four times a week. It all began innocently enough: my wife, in her infinite wisdom (and persistence), suggested I start walking to help my brain recover post-stroke. One foot in front of the other eventually snowballed into full-blown 10K runs. I guess my brain took that as “heal or hustle.”

But here’s the kicker: the stroke didn’t just damage my brain—it also decided to throw my kidneys under the bus. That lovely discovery landed me on dialysis and slapped me with a grocery list of dietary restrictions that reads like a “no-fun” menu. Protein? Strictly rationed at 36 grams per day. That’s less than what your average housecat gets. Chicken breasts? Off the table. Protein shakes? Forbidden potions. Cheese, chocolate, bananas? Banned by the Potassium & Phosphorus Police.

And yet, summer rolls in, bringing not just sunshine but a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt. Yard work, outdoor chores, sweating like I’m trying to grow muscles through evaporation—it’s a full-body experience. But here’s the problem: I can’t refuel the usual way. No chomping down extra calories from your friendly neighborhood protein bar.

So I get creative. Snacks become strategic. I’ve mastered the fine art of the homemade jam pastry—yes, it’s as indulgent and carefully calculated as it sounds. Ice cream also makes an occasional cameo, carefully vetted like it’s applying for a visa to enter my digestive system.

Recently, I’ve had to scale back (pun intended) my other workouts due to a rebellious shoulder. Planking? Down to once a day. The result? Surprise! Less exercise = weight gain. Turns out, my body is a finicky machine that runs on paradoxes and spite.

The shoulder is still not back to full power, but it’s slowly on the mend. So, for now, I’m sticking with the gentle path—less exercise, more patience, fewer unreasonable expectations.

One issue at a time. No need to be greedy with progress. My body isn’t a vending machine—I don’t get to press A5 and receive instant healing. But if I treat it kindly, listen to its cues, and bribe it with jam, we might just keep moving forward.

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Rain, Hills, and High Hopes: A (Postponed) Summer Running Kickoff

Written April 21, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, I was ready. I laid out my running clothes like a ritual sacrifice to the gods of summer fitness. My pre-run pastry bites were perfectly staged (because who runs on an empty stomach unless they’re being chased?). Today was supposed to be the glorious start of my summer running schedule.

Then morning happened.

I woke to the melodic sound of rain hammering the roof like it had a personal vendetta, and a temperature drop that made me question if we’d time-traveled back to March. So much for best-laid plans—and best-laid leggings.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Today is my designated running day. But Mother Nature seems to be doing interval training with thunderclouds. Ever since moving to a place where summer mornings feel like a furnace on “broil” by 9 a.m., I’ve learned to schedule anything that requires outdoor movement to happen at sunrise—just like my wife does with her daily cardio. It’s Nashville. Sometimes it hits 100°F (38°C), and that’s not a typo—that’s a sauna with streetlights.

But let’s pivot to my other nemesis: lawn mowing. Yes, it’s still chilly, and yes, the grass doesn’t care. It just keeps growing like it’s in a competition with the weeds. Now, mowing may sound simple, but when your lawn resembles a ski slope and your mower is a plug-in sidekick, it becomes a workout worthy of its own medal. Add in my lovely post-stroke body’s struggle to regulate temperature, and let’s just say timing is everything. I try to mow when it’s neither “frozen fingers” cold nor “eggs-cook-on-the-sidewalk” hot.

My wife, by the way, used to tackle that steep hill with a manual push mower. No electricity. No mercy. She’d split the task across the week like it was a strategic battle plan. Eventually, logic (and probably her arms) persuaded her to upgrade to an electric push mower. Still, even with that upgrade, the hill doesn’t quit. I now spend around 6–7 hours per week mowing, but don’t worry—I break it into shifts. I’m not that much of a lawn martyr.

Back to today: it’s mid-April, and yet the air still has that “early March in denial” vibe. Just a few weeks ago we were flirting with 85°F, and now I’m wrapped in fleece debating cardio logistics. The rain’s left the yard squishy, the kind of squishy that makes mowing feel like dragging a sled through pudding.

So here I am, toggling between my weather app and the breakfast table, waiting for a possible break in the rain. Will I run today? Maybe. The app promises a one-hour window, but I don’t trust it. It’s like a flaky friend who always shows up late… if at all. So yes—chilly rain, mushy grass, and my stubborn thermoregulation convinced me to do the only reasonable thing: I had breakfast, postponed everything, and officially declared tomorrow the new start of my summer schedule. Because sometimes, the best cardio move is a strategic retreat.

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Spring is Here… and So is Temperature Whiplash

Written March 3, 2025

reviewed 3/17

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, spring in Nashville—the season where the weather behaves like a toddler throwing a tantrum. One moment, it’s flirting with summer warmth; the next, it’s diving headfirst back into winter. A 10-degree (or more) temperature swing within a single day? Completely normal. Convenient? Not in the slightest.

For most people, this just means layering up or peeling off a jacket when needed. But for me, post-brain stroke, my body has lost the ability to adjust to temperature shifts efficiently. Basically, my internal thermostat is broken. You know how your body shivers when it’s cold, constricting blood vessels to keep the heat in? Or how it ramps up metabolism to warm you up? Yeah, mine missed the memo. Instead, I just sit there, fully exposed to whatever the weather decides to throw at me, feeling every degree of change like some kind of human barometer.

After years of trial and (unfortunate) error, I’ve developed a system. Step one: check the weather forecast obsessively. Step two: have an outfit formula for each temperature range. If it’s 65°F or higher? Boom—shorts for running. Below that? Long sleeves, no exceptions. Since my body refuses to regulate heat properly, my only defense is meticulous planning.

Public buildings in summer? A whole different battle. Most people walk in from the heat and sigh in relief at the air conditioning. Me? I’m bracing for the deep freeze. The temperature difference between the scorching outdoors and the arctic indoor settings is brutal. Luckily, our house is the one place where I’m safe from the extremes. My wife always preferred keeping our indoor temperature closer to the natural climate, and after my stroke, she fine-tuned it even more to make things manageable for me.

This morning was another classic example of springtime mood swings. Woke up to temperatures just shy of freezing, and now it’s warmed up to a more tolerable range. But alas, still not 65°F, which means I’m reluctantly sticking to long sleeves for my run.

Honestly, this season keeps me on my toes. Some days start at a crisp 32°F and end pushing 60°F, which means I have to time my outdoor activities with military precision. Between my morning run and any outdoor chores, I’m constantly strategizing around the temperature spikes and drops.

On the bright side, my recovery routine worked wonders—yesterday’s sore legs feel refreshed, and I’m feeling pretty strong today. Now, if only spring could pick a temperature and stick with it, that would be great. But until then, I’ll be out there, battling the elements one run at a time.

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My Electrifying Comeback: A Tale of Fixing Things (and Not Getting Electrocuted)

Written February 10, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

I’ve always had a knack for tinkering with electronics. As a kid, if an appliance went on strike, my parents would sigh, shrug, and hand it over to me. More often than not, I’d manage to breathe life back into it—no manual required, just sheer determination and the reckless confidence of youth. Fixing things just came naturally.

Then came my brain stroke and, with it, my occupational therapist’s stern decree: No power tools. No risky business. No electrocuting yourself, thank you very much. Apparently, the combination of a recovering brain and high-voltage currents wasn’t a match made in heaven. My wife, ever the responsible one, took this warning very seriously and promptly confiscated anything with sharp edges, moving parts, or the potential to zap me into next week.

For a while, she became the household repair technician by default. To her credit, she did an admirable job, though I suspect she didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I once did. But the brain is a fascinating thing, and my wife, ever the believer in the power of neuroplasticity, gradually reintroduced me to minor electrical repairs—so long as they didn’t involve high-voltage shocks or the possibility of losing a finger. “You can fix things again,” she declared one day, “but only the ones that won’t land you in the ER.” Fair enough.

This week’s test case? Our central vacuum cleaner’s agitator head.

Saturday was a vacuuming day in our house, and I was making my usual rounds when I noticed something was off. The brush inside the vacuum head had stopped spinning, turning it from a useful cleaning device into a glorified floor-scraper. A quick inspection revealed the usual suspect: a broken drive belt.

Fixing it was well within my wheelhouse. I tracked down a replacement online, my wife ordered it, and by early morning, it had arrived, sitting on our porch like a tiny parcel of redemption. A screwdriver, a bit of patience, and voilà—the vacuum was back in business. Naturally, I had to take it for a test run, and I’m happy to report that my repair skills remain intact.

The whole experience sent me spiraling down memory lane. As a kid, my insatiable curiosity often led me to take things apart just to see how they worked. Sometimes, this resulted in brilliant discoveries. Other times… well, let’s just say my parents learned to hide anything they weren’t willing to sacrifice to my “scientific investigations.” More than once, I dismantled something with great enthusiasm, only to realize halfway through that I had no idea how to put it back together.

These days, I’ve acquired a bit more wisdom. I no longer dismantle things I can’t confidently reassemble. But it’s nice to know that, despite everything, my hands still remember the thrill of fixing things—and that my wife hasn’t completely revoked my repair privileges.

For now.

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Running, Weather, and the Fine Art of Not Wrecking My Kidneys

Written January 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s run? Surprisingly pleasant. The weather was in that sweet spot—chilly enough to make standing around feel like a questionable life choice but with just enough sun to turn things comfortable once I got moving. It’s that perfect running paradox: too cold to stand still, too warm to bundle up. And best of all? I managed to beat my target pace for the first 5K again, which means I’m still holding onto my ever-diminishing speed goals. A small but satisfying victory.

Now, let’s talk about my body’s complicated relationship with temperature. Ever since my brain stroke, my autonomic nervous system has been a bit of a diva—it no longer regulates heat or cold properly. If the weather swings too far in either direction, my endurance takes a nosedive. Some runners struggle with pacing, others with motivation. I struggle with the fundamental issue of my body, deciding it simply does not approve of temperature extremes. It’s like a toddler refusing to eat anything but macaroni and cheese.

Because of this, I’ve been forced to become a part runner and part-amateur meteorologist. I check the forecast religiously, sometimes more than I check my emails. My weather app claims it can predict the weather up to 10 days in advance, though let’s be honest—it’s basically fortune-telling after a week. Still, it gives me a decent heads-up on what’s coming. And when you have a body that treats temperature changes like a personal betrayal, planning ahead is crucial.

Take tomorrow, for example. Warmer weather is on the way, which means hydration is about to become my new best friend. That also means my pace might start to slow because staying hydrated and pushing for speed don’t always go hand in hand. And here’s where things get tricky. I love progress. I love seeing the numbers on my running app improve. But I also love having functioning kidneys, and unfortunately, one comes at the expense of the other.

Dehydration is bad for anyone, but for me, it’s particularly risky. My kidneys already function at less than full capacity, so letting them get parched isn’t just a bad idea—it’s a potentially dangerous one. Pushing my limits is one thing; actively sabotaging my health is another.

So, if I have to choose between breaking a personal record and keeping my body happy, I’ll choose my health every time. Okay, maybe not happily, but let’s call it a mature decision. It’s the kind of choice I’ll have to keep reminding myself of mid-run, especially when the competitive part of my brain whispers, just a little faster, you can still beat it.

But in the end, running is about longevity, not just speed. And if slowing down a little means I get to keep running for years to come? That’s a trade I’m willing to make even if my inner speed demon protests the entire way.

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A Funny Thing About Annual Check-Ups

Written January 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Every January, like clockwork, I get a little nudge from my doctor’s office: It’s time to schedule your annual physical! It’s a routine as predictable as New Year’s resolutions that don’t make it past February. Except this year, something was off. By mid-January, my inbox remained suspiciously silent. There was no automated reminder, no gentle push to book an appointment.

Curious (and a little paranoid), I logged into my patient portal, hoping to schedule it myself. Turns out, I was a bit premature. Last year’s appointment was on January 30th, so technically, I wasn’t due just yet. Patience, as they say, is a virtue—but when it comes to health, I’d rather be early than late.

Lessons From a Stroke: Why I No Longer Play Chicken With My Health

Before my brain stroke, I wasn’t exactly best friends with the medical world. Doctors were for emergencies, right? Annual check-ups were those things people did when they had extra time. And I, in my infinite wisdom, thought I had plenty of it.

Then came the stroke. And the swollen feet from gout. And the realization that, actually, time isn’t something to take for granted. Now, I’m a changed man—or at least a much more medically responsible one. I go for my annual physical without fail, and I see my nephrologist every few months like it’s a standing coffee date (minus the coffee because caffeine is another thing I have to watch).

The Irony of Post-Stroke Health

Here’s the kicker: I’m probably the healthiest I’ve ever been. Who knew a life-altering medical event could be the best personal trainer?

Since my stroke, I’ve taken up running and walking—activities I once considered optional but now see as non-negotiable. My endurance has skyrocketed. My diet? Let’s just say I’ve become intimately familiar with ingredient labels. Salt, protein, phosphate, and potassium are all on a tight leash. My wife, determined to make sure I don’t live a life of bland meals, has turned our kitchen into a spice lab, crafting homemade blends that put store-bought seasonings to shame.

Even my drinking habits have changed. I still enjoy a glass of something now and then, but just one. Gone are the days of carefree refills. And sleep? I treat it with the same discipline as a tax deadline—strict and non-negotiable. Bedtime at 9:30 PM, wake up at 7 AM, no exceptions.

Health: A Long Game, Not a Sprint

The truth is, I don’t feel sick. There’s nothing urgent making me rush to the doctor. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that health isn’t just about reacting to problems—it’s about preventing them. Regular check-ups while feeling good help establish a baseline. Without that, how do you even know what’s “normal” for you?

So, I fully expect that tomorrow, my doctor’s office will send that long-overdue reminder email as if on cue. And this time, I’ll be ready.