I really hate having to prove a point this way but . . . only one month after I posted about the hazards of being a pre-op transsexual on hormone therapy long term, I experienced my first TIA, (Transient Ischemic Attack) commonly known as a mini-stroke. It's one of those moments in life where you know without a doubt that "This Is Not A Drill"! While at the computer reading the morning newsgroups a small, out-of-focus circle appeared in my left eye and within minutes began to grow into a large enough circle to block out my entire vision. (think of looking through a portal into an alternate universe that operates on a different frequency) Along with this the left side of my face, from scalp to chin, went numb. Instincts kicked in with a blaring "You are having a stroke!" (I had been through the sequence of this with my Dad years ago who had several mini-strokes and later died of a massive one) There was also the realization that although I knew I had to act, I was no longer in the driver's seat. It wasn't panic but a sense that I had to re-route each thought through different channels to initiate motor functions. (I'm sure my past experiences with LSD came in handy here) Simple directives - put on clothes, call for help, any order . . . this took more than 30 minutes and my vision was reduced to the extreme corners of my eyes. I couldn't see the cell phone in my hand but I did know where the buttons where to auto-dial my son for a ride to the hospital. Having been on the other side of this scenario I can't say whether it's easier being the parent in crisis or the child, just an affirmation of the cycles of life.
During this time-warp I did have the internal conversation that went . . . "You do know that you could be dying here, right?" . . . "Yes, I do." . . . "So how do you feel about that?" . . . "It's ok, I'm not afraid." . .. "What about all the things you never finished?" . . . "Fuck 'em." . . .
Anyone reading this by now has already asked, "Why didn't you call an ambulance?" My answer, and I did think about this at the time and I suppose you'd have to know me to appreciate it, was . . . "That would be too dramatic." A more rational motive was probably that I knew I was losing brain function and I would need someone I trust to speak for me. By the time we got to the hospital the event had peaked and my vision was slowly returning but I was still having trouble being coherent.
Stay tuned for the next blog; "The Hospital Stay - or, How Many Times Do I Have To Tell This Story?"
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