I'm an Artist

I’m an Artist

The end of rehab was drawing near. I was walking short distances, and I was off oxygen So now most of my therapies were focused on skills I would need to make things easier at home. I had to practice getting in and out of a car, climbing short flights of steps, taking a shower all by myself and of course other bathroom skills. I had to prove I could put on my own clothes and take them off by myself, as well as fold them. That created a moment where Zach had to sternly speak my name, “DAD.” Well, she had me put on then take off and fold my shirt four dam times. “COME ON”.

 Michelle had me trying pushups to get stronger, so if fell I could get back up on my own. That also created a funny moment, Michelle had me get up on a large, padded table and said, “Can you do a pushup?” “Well, I used to do 100 a night, so I should be able to,” I said. So, she had me show her; I planted my toes and pushed hard against the table. I slowly and very shakily started to go up. When I got to the top I grunted “One”. Michelle quickly fired back, “That’s not a push up.” “Yes, it is, I’m locked out,” I grunted. “That’s not a push up, that’s a girl pushup, and you’re not a girl. Doing it off your knees don’t count.” I looked down and sure enough I had been resting on my knees and didn’t even realize it. I straightened my legs and tried again, this time focusing on keeping my knees off the table. I finished with 2 and a half pushups.

One funny thing about after the stroke was when people asked me what a did, I would answer, “I’m an artist.” I was very focused on that. Now I’ve been very fortunate to wear many hats in my life. I was raised as a cowboy, an athlete, a logger, I have an Art degree, I’ve been a teacher of multiple subjects, a coach of multiple sports, a carpenter, really the list could go on, but the most recent hobby I had been doing was chainsaw carving. I was really having fun carving my bears. They were getting pretty good. I even sold one. For me my art has never been my money maker, it was about creating something that comes from me. I’ve sold my art, but mostly it stays with me or is given away as gifts. The truth is I’ve never really seen myself as an artist; before the stroke, if you would have asked me what I did I would have answered I am a dad, teacher, husband and recently retired coach.  Artist, hunter, outdoorsman have always been part of my life but not the focus. Like I said, I’m a dad, teacher and coach. I love my kids and my students. I have always wanted to help people get better and be productive members of their group. I tell this to step up to my next frustration.

You guessed it, it deals with speech therapy. I had a different, very young speech therapist come in to take me to speech this time. She took me to a different area of the building for our session. She must have been warned about my not-so-positive attitude towards speech therapy because she came off as not-so-happy, like she had drawn the short straw. As she was rolling me to a table, she asked, “What do you do?”

I responded, “I’m an artist.”

She answered in a puzzled voice, “Oh, are you famous?”

I said, “No.” 

She continued, “Well, have you sold anything?” 

“Some,” I answered.

“Are you any good?” she asked.  

“I’m ok,” I said.

“Hum, well I’ve never heard of you.”  Yeah, I knew this was going to be fun.

Worksheets, at least, it wasn’t math. These worksheets felt like they were made for third graders. The directions were written in very simple language. “Look at the drawing, study the pretty picture for 30 seconds. That’s half a minute. When the time is up, flip the page over and circle any differences on the other almost identical picture. You have 30 seconds; that’s half a minute.”  Sounds fun. Not so much, first off, the pictures weren’t that big and for an old guy trying to study a small drawing it wasn’t that fun. I had cheap dollar store cheater glasses that kept sliding off my face when I looked down.  I would smudge them every time I tried to shove them back on with my big clumsy hands.  “Time” boy she was good on keeping track of the time. By the second one my glassed were so dirty I could hardly see through them, I tried to clean them but that took too much “Time”. When I asked to wait a second to let me clean off my glasses, she said something like “I thought this would be easy for an artist.”   Those who know me, I think, would have been proud of how well I kept my composure. I looked at her and said, “I’m done I’m going back to my room.” I grabbed the wheels on my wheelchair and rolled as fast as I could out of there, she said, “Well, do you want me to take you back?”

“Don’t bother I said I know the way.”  I rolled as hard as I could without taking a break just in case she was behind me, I didn’t want her to think I was struggling, but boy I started questioning my action about halfway through the next room. It was a long way back to my room. When I got to the nurse’s station, I was almost there, so when one of the nice nurses asked me if I would like some help, I said, “No, I’m good.” When I got back to my room, I looked at Debbie and between deep breaths I said, “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, I WANT TO GO HOME.” I was hot, I just needed to go home. I needed to be able to sleep in my own bed, pet my dogs and rest in my lazy-boy.