Tag: brain stroke recovery

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From Yardwork to Yogurt: A Sunday Sprint Through Schedules and Seasons

Written August 3, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This Sunday had only one out-of-the-ordinary mission: a run to the local Asian grocery store to restock the essentials. I woke at my usual time to find my wife had already slipped outside, stealthily waging war on the yard.

Now, she wasn’t always this way. In her youth, she was a night owl through and through—someone who thought “morning” began somewhere around brunch. Then, somewhere in her twenties, she flipped her internal clock. The transition was not without bumps; force your body into a new sleep schedule, and it might just retaliate with a cold, a migraine, or a general sense of betrayal. But she discovered that her energy wasn’t lacking—it just needed a kickstart. A brisk morning workout turned her brain into a hyper-focused, productivity machine. From then on, she’s been an unapologetic early bird.

Her day-off schedule is a masterclass in efficiency. Yardwork, shoe shopping, and Asian grocery runs are all plotted in her Google Calendar weeks in advance, color-coded like a military campaign. Workdays get the same treatment—her Outlook calendar is so tightly packed that she can shift tasks within a five-minute window like a chess grandmaster rearranging pieces before the clock runs out.

This actually works in my favor. After my brain stroke—yes, the kind that leaves you relearning basic skills—I needed structure like plants need sunlight. Two holes were drilled in my head to drain fluid, damaging the part of my brain responsible for executive function. Sequencing tasks, building routines, forming new habits—these weren’t just “life tips” anymore; they were survival strategies. Walking could leave me as drained as if I’d played an entire chess tournament in one day.

Living with someone whose days run like clockwork helps me anticipate what’s next. She gives me plenty of notice when her plans might bump mine, especially with my Saturday long runs. In Nashville’s summer heat, you learn quickly that running 10K in the late afternoon is an act of madness. If an Asian grocery trip falls on a Saturday, I shuffle my entire week accordingly.

This morning, I took my time getting ready, fully aware the store wouldn’t open for another hour. My wife wrapped up her outdoor project, came in, and prepped for departure. We shopped, came home, and she went straight into her next marathon: making yogurt, cooling an eggplant dish for herself, and tidying the kitchen. She’s been moving since dawn, and I can already tell tomorrow’s going to be a sore one for her. Hopefully, she lets herself slow down—though knowing her, recovery time will probably end up on the calendar too.

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Surviving Summer Without AC: How We Outsmarted the Heat (and Trained Our Nervous Systems Like Ninjas)

Written 06/28/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Well folks, we did it. We made it through the year’s first major heatwave without melting into couch puddles—or cranking the AC like panicked lizards in a sauna.

We made a small but mighty change in how we deal with heat: instead of blasting cold air like it’s 1999, we’ve gone old-school. Ceiling fans in every room? Check. Airflow strategies that would make NASA proud? You bet. Our secret weapon? High ceilings and a fan system that practically whispers, “Let there be breeze.”

As soon as the sun starts to dip, it’s go-time. Windows open. Window fans on. It’s like a tactical air exchange operation, minus the camouflage. Even if the heat during the day feels like we accidentally moved to Mercury, things shift once the sun clocks out. Sure, some humidity sticks around like an awkward guest at a dinner party—but most nights, our system works like a charm.

My wife’s always been a warm-weather purist. AC? Not her thing. She spent years in Japan and Germany, where people don’t treat their homes like meat lockers. I used to find this a little intense—especially pre-stroke. But now? I’m a convert.

After my brain stroke, I lost the ability to handle sudden temperature changes. Stepping inside an overcooled house after a run felt like entering a glacier with my nerve endings screaming in confusion. My autonomic nervous system—bless its confused little circuits—just couldn’t keep up. But this natural approach? It’s literally therapeutic.

We’re replacing our central AC next year—it still runs, but it’s like a gas-guzzling dinosaur trying to keep up with a Prius. And we’re not planning to keep the house at “penguin habitat” levels. Our summer indoor temps hover around 82°F to 84°F (that’s 28–29°C for our metric friends), and honestly, we’re handling it surprisingly well.

Bonus points: our house is basically a mullet—business in the front (above ground), cool party in the back (underground). The downstairs stays naturally cooler in summer and warmer in winter, which makes temperature control a bit more forgiving, even in Nashville’s moody climate.

Do we expect more heatwaves? Oh yes. At least two more, if we’re betting. But something wild is happening—we’ve adapted. A few weeks ago, today’s temperatures would’ve sent us scrambling for the AC remote. Now? We’re both commenting on how “pleasant” it feels.

I think this heat-dodging lifestyle is helping reboot my sympathetic and parasympathetic systems—the dynamic duo of the autonomic nervous system. I’m noticing better seasonal adaptation, more stability, and fewer temperature-triggered meltdowns (literal and figurative).

So bring it on, summer. We’re not scared of you anymore. Well, maybe just a little. But we’ll face you fan-first, cool-headed, and slightly smug.

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Running on Cool Air and Accidental Kilometers

Written June 9, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday was a scorcher—the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, your wardrobe, and maybe your decision to live on Earth. We sweated through it with as much dignity as possible (read: none), but thankfully the heat retreated overnight. This morning, my wife emerged from her walk announcing it was “chilly.” I was still burrowed under blankets like a hibernating bear, and I had to agree—comfortably so.

We’ve developed a quirky philosophy around indoor climate control. Our goal? Keep the indoor temperature close enough to the outdoor one that our bodies don’t go into seasonal whiplash. Yes, we have central AC. Yes, it technically still works. But it’s old enough to remember dial-up internet, so we try not to lean on it unless the weather turns dramatic—which, living in Nashville, it frequently does.

And here’s the twist: after my brain stroke, my internal thermostat retired early. I can no longer regulate body temperature like a normal human radiator. Fortunately, we’ve always preferred a “seasonally appropriate” indoor vibe. No saunas in winter or ice caves in July. But when Nashville cranks the weather dial to “chaos,” even our stoic system has to bend. That’s when the AC gets its rare moment of glory.

Now, about today’s run—by the time I laced up and hit the pavement, it wasn’t chilly anymore, but it was that perfect middle ground: warm enough to get the blood flowing, cool enough to pretend I was in a Nike ad. I felt good. Too good, maybe. So good, in fact, I forgot to check my distance and accidentally ran an extra kilometer.

The wild part? I still hit my target pace. I know. Who is this person?

Back when I first started running, one kilometer felt like trekking across the Sahara. In 2017, I managed just over a mile, and it nearly took my soul with it. Then came the real game changer: proper shoes. My wife gifted me a glorious pair of Nikes—shoes that whispered, “You got this,” with every step.

Consistency, not magic, built my endurance. Last year, I got curious about pace. Sometimes I plateau, sure. There are weeks where progress is flatter than a pancake in Kansas. But in the long haul, I’ve improved.

And today? I ran farther than I planned, faster than I expected, and finished with enough breath left to write this blog.

Not bad for a guy with a malfunctioning thermostat.

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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.