Tag: life after stroke

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Stormy Skies, Jedi Robes, and a Surprisingly Cool 80 Degrees:

Written July 19, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After days of heat so intense it felt like we were living inside a convection oven, the skies finally cracked open—dramatically, as if someone upstairs decided enough was enough. About an hour before bedtime, the long-threatened storm rolled in with theatrical flair, dumping buckets of rain and dropping the temperature like a mic.

My wife had been watching the brooding sky all evening, eyeing those dark gray clouds like they owed her money. And when the rain came, it brought with it that earthy, nostalgic smell—part petrichor, part soggy forest floor. The little wooded patch behind our house soaked it all in, sending up the scent of wet leaves and wood.

The temperature drop was swift and sweet. By sunset, it had dipped to a breezy 80°F. That may not sound like sweater weather, but after multiple days of 90+ degree punishment, it felt practically alpine. What’s wild is how 80°F now feels cool to me—a reminder of how my body has changed since my stroke and kidney issues. I used to roast like a lizard under a heat lamp. Now I’m grateful to feel any kind of comfort at all.

Meanwhile, my wife was feeling chilly, which brought back a funny memory: last Independence Day at my mother’s place. She had the thermostat at 78°F, and we were both huddling like penguins in a wind tunnel. I ended up donning my emergency Jedi robe—the one my sister gifted me for my birthday, complete with big sleeves and dramatic flair. It’s followed me across states and seasons, now upgraded to a thicker version for maximum cozy defense.

Before my stroke, I was a walking contradiction—loved the cold but couldn’t regulate it well. I’d fling open windows in the dead of Canadian winter, much to my wife’s horror. She, ever the voice of reason, kept our homes in balance—never too warm, never too cold. Her temperature philosophy? Let nature do its thing, and open the windows at night. It’s worked well in Nashville’s climate, where summer nights still offer a break from the scorch.

So, yes, the weather was finally nicer. I still didn’t hit my personal best pace on my run, but I got it done. According to my app, it was my 11th fastest 10k. Not too shabby for a guy in a heatwave who once wore a Jedi robe to survive a 78°F living room.

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Negotiations with a Tired Body (and a Lawnmower)

Written June 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

As per tradition—and by “tradition,” I mean “necessity born from heat survival instincts”—I began my day mowing the lawn. Here in Nashville, the summer sun doesn’t just rise, it attacks. So if you’ve got a body like mine—one that treats both heatwaves and cold snaps like personal insults—you learn to outsmart the weather before it starts throwing punches.

Normally, I can mow half the yard and still have enough gas left in the tank to face the rest of the day. But today? Nope. After mowing, my body filed a formal complaint and went straight into shutdown mode. I skipped my pre-breakfast exercises, half-expecting that would be it for the day’s physical activity. My body said no. My willpower said maybe. Eventually, I rolled onto the mat for some planks and stretches—not exactly Olympic training, but hey, it counts.

Somehow, I rallied enough energy to squeeze in my planks and arm curls. I didn’t bounce back; I meandered back—like a weary turtle doing yoga. Still, I did it. Not exactly on schedule, but sometimes winning means just showing up… 30 minutes later than planned and slightly annoyed.

Now here’s the kicker. I can’t tell what’s making me tired: the weather, age, my kidneys, or some perfect storm of all three. Whatever it is, when I push too hard, I morph into something between a zombie and a disgruntled houseplant. Meanwhile, my wife bounces around like she’s got a backup battery installed. She claims she struggles in the morning, but by the time I’m up, she’s practically done with her workout and halfway through a motivational podcast. She says she’s slow in the morning. I say she’s just being polite to us mortals.

So I’ve had to learn the art of negotiation—not with clients or coworkers, but with my own body. Some days, I push things to tomorrow, knowing full well tomorrow might need to be negotiated too. Other days, I rest so I can function again in the afternoon. This is not laziness. This is energy management. The strategic pause. The recharge pit stop.

I’ve had a kidney condition for who knows how long—discovered only after a brain stroke crashed the party. Maybe I’ve always been running at 70% battery while others (like my wife) were born with solar panels. And yes, I know comparison is the thief of joy… but sometimes it also leaves a trail of gym clothes and lawn clippings.

I don’t have a high-energy body. But I do have a high-effort mindset. So I’ll keep negotiating with this unpredictable, occasionally rebellious body of mine. I may not be fast. I may not be consistent. But I am persistent—and that counts for something.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rest heroically so I can finish my to-do list… sometime before winter.

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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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Small Steps, Giant Wins (and a Few Flea Battles)

Written May 11, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news: my shoulder is feeling better today! Not back to its full glory, but at least it’s no longer threatening to sabotage my every deep breath. Rest seems to be doing its job, so I’ll stick with it—doctor’s orders by way of common sense (the best kind).

Yesterday was a lovely disruption. My wife and I visited my family, and though it threw our usual routine out the window (probably landed somewhere in my sister’s garden), it was worth every minute. On our way home, we stopped by a grocery store near her place—a new battlefield for the weekly shop. The store layout was familiar enough to avoid total confusion, but alas, I forgot to grab cereal and almond milk. A breakfast betrayal. I’ll probably survive until next weekend, but this small oversight inspired a groundbreaking revelation: maybe I should start making a shopping list.

Yes, a list. Revolutionary.

My wife has always been a proud advocate of baby steps. “Kaizen,” she reminds me. Continuous improvement. (And yes, she built this website.)

For me, baby steps weren’t a motivational slogan—they were survival. After my brain stroke and subsequent surgery, many basic bodily functions simply clocked out. Skin sensation? Gone. Moving my legs? Like trying to command two uncooperative noodles. For months, it felt like I was locked inside myself. But slowly—achingly, infuriatingly slowly—I started to recover.

“Never give up,” my wife repeated like a mantra. Some days I believed her. Some days I just nodded while silently screaming. But now? Now I run 10 kilometers. Let that sink in. From immobile to 10k—powered entirely by small steps and pure stubbornness.

Eventually, my wife handed me the reins to this site. She told me people like me—stroke survivors, fighters, turtle-paced improvers—should share their stories. And she’s right. If someone like me can claw their way back into mobility and routine, maybe someone else out there won’t give up either.

Lately, my “kaizen” has taken the form of tweaking our weekly routine. I’m oddly proud of these tiny changes. They’re my breadcrumb trail to a more efficient life—though I don’t believe in a perfect routine. That’s a unicorn I’ve stopped chasing. But improvements? I’ll take all I can get.

Take laundry, for instance. Last week, I added a second wash day to deal with the stealthy flea army I unwittingly invite in every time I mow the lawn. We used to only wash clothes after Thursday mowing. But that left a two-day window for Tuesday’s flea squad to stage an escape from the laundry basket. Now I wash on Tuesdays, too—cutting their freedom window down to an hour or two. I call that a flea lockdown. (Sorry, guys. No soft landing this year.)

Back when we had a cat, she did most of the flea-fighting for us—like a soft, purring sacrifice with flea poison. But now it’s just us, the washing machine, and a growing pile of yard clothes.

So yes, these are small things: a shoulder healing, a forgotten carton of almond milk, a laundry schedule shift. But they add up. And step by step, list by list, run by run—I’m moving forward.

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Lawn Wars: Episode I — The Procrastinator Awakens

Written April 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We had a few glorious days of summer teasing us in spring—sunny, toasty, practically begging us to throw a backyard BBQ. Naturally, that was followed by a dramatic thunderstorm that rolled in like nature’s way of saying, “Just kidding!” Now, the lawns (or let’s be honest—mostly weeds) are popping up faster than mushrooms after rain. Blink, and it’s a jungle out there.

So yes, I finally broke out the mower today for the season’s grand premiere. Was I on top of it? Not quite. Did I wait until the grass whispered “Feed me” like a scene from Little Shop of Horrors? Absolutely.

Here’s the twist: that thunderstorm didn’t just bring lightning—it dropped the temps and left the ground moist enough to make any worm feel at home. I told myself, “I’ll wait until it warms up a bit.” And, well… you know how that goes. Suddenly, it’s go-time, and I’m only halfway through the lawn before I have to switch gears to handle more urgent stuff. Classic case of chore interrupted.

Now, time management has never exactly been my superpower. My wife, on the other hand, is a time ninja. She’s been planning her days backward since elementary school—mapping out roadblocks before they even show up. She’s basically got a sixth sense for scheduling. Me? I was more of the “wing it and win it” type. Pre-stroke, I’d procrastinate and still get things done—maybe not gracefully, but hey, results matter, right?

Post-stroke, things are a bit different. I’ve gained endurance, sure, but the prep time? Oh boy, it’s like slow-cooking a brisket. And let’s not forget the weather curveballs. Outdoor tasks are more like navigating an obstacle course built by Mother Nature herself.

According to the weather app (which is only slightly more reliable than a coin toss), we’re in for more thunder, more storms, and possibly a few surprise tornado drills. There might be windows—tiny, rain-free ones—where I can sneak in a mowing session. Fingers crossed.

Nashville, this time of year, is a real mixed bag: warm one minute, thunderous the next. I think I’ve officially earned the consequences of my lawn care procrastination. Lesson learned (again): next week, I start early—even if it means bundling up and mowing in the morning chill.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, send dry weather.