In the age of scientific medicine we live long lives. But still most of us sooner or later face serious illnesses for which we seek cures. Nowadays we believe that curing comes about from a sharing of responsibilities by the medical specialist and the patient. Moreover we now realize that being sick is a social event.

The scientific aspects of curing have been well described by the specialists. By comparison descriptions of illnesses as social events happening to individuals are rare. However the patient’s contribution to the healing process may be crucial.

And so Stroke! A Memoir gives a description from the patient’s viewpoint of the healing process, written by the patient after he recovered.

Dr. Arthur Niehoff has been an anthropologist for 50 years. He got his B.A. at Indiana University and his Ph.D., at Columbia with some difficulty, both in cultural anthropology. He has done field work in most parts of the world and has published many articles and books. He has also made several documentary films. He was a Fulbright scholar in India and has been a consultant to many national and international agencies, including the American Agency for International Development and the United Nations. He worked as a village development advisor in Laos for the Agency for International Development in 1959-1961. He was a museum curator at the Milwaukee Public Museum for eight years. He has taught anthropology at the American University, George Washington University, the University of Wisconsin and California State University, Los Angeles for about 40 years. Since retirement he has been writing and publishing popular books in anthropology and history to explain in easy-to-read style how humankind got the way it is. Also he has written two books on health and fitness since becoming a senior himself. Overall, in order to put pleasure into learning his writing combines narrative with explanation and emphasizes clarity and simplicity.

I now got to the bottom of the final climb up to Topanga Crest, a series of steep hairpins for a couple of miles. I stopped to rest for a few minutes, then mounted and knuckled in. There were no other cyclists but plenty of cars. I broke into a steady sweat on the first turn but kept telling myself I would make it, by god. I stopped twice to get my breath and look out over the haze-covered valley. My sweat cooled me off each time, dropping my temperature briefly, only to have it climb again as soon as I got back in motion on the way up.

Then I was on the last incline, a long straight stretch, the final restorative achievement. I kept at it steadily. The road leveled out and I was at the top! Eureka, this old boy beat the odds once more! This old boy had come back!

I went to the edge, parked my bike, got out my beer, and sat down on a piece of broken concrete, the remnant of a building long torn down. A young man came from the other side. He had come up from the ocean side by bicycle. "Excuse me sir, do you have a match?"

A distinguished elderly gentleman even if he was travelling by bicycle, appropriately addressed as "sir" by the younger ones. "Not on me, but I might have one in my carrier."

I fished around in the zippered canvas bag and did find a matchbook. "Thanks," the young fellow said.

He seemed to vacillate at first, but then made up his mind and sat down next to me to light up. After all, I was drinking a beer and this was an unlikely place to run into a narc. The odor clearly identified his smoke as grass. He took a couple of drags, studied me, then offered, "You want a smoke?"

"Sure," I accepted the toke and sucked the smoke in, holding it long and deep to get some effect.

We talked. "You come up here often?" he asked.

"I used to, though I haven’t been here for a while," I said. "I’ve been sick."

The young fellows still accepted me. I still had some time left. We talked slow and relaxed while gazing out over the blue-green haze of the San Fernando Valley. Then it was time to go. I stowed the now-empty beer can in the carrier bag and rolled out toward the road. "Good luck. Thanks for the smoke," I said.

"No sweat. Hang in there. See you again."

I swung my leg over the crossbar and settled down. I had made it physically. I had really come back and it wasn’t even apparent. I squeezed the first digits of my right hand to remind myself that it was still tingly.

Things were not as they were before and never would be again. I had beaten the crisis and my active life had been extended. I still had a good ten, perhaps twenty years, and with a great deal of luck maybe even a little more. That wasn’t bad. But my marital life had deteriorated almost in direct proportion to my physical recuperation. It was hard to know if we would last together, much less resume where we left off. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect and yet if a choice had had to be made there was no doubt which it would have had to be. Without health there would be little, probably not even a worthwhile personal relationship. So, the problems of life were not settled. What else was new?

I was on the downhill run now, 8-10 miles of curving two-lane asphalt. I put it in high gear and began rolling at 20-25 miles per hour, the wind streaming by my exulting body. There was no vehicle to be seen ahead of me. I looked back to see an empty road also, then raised myself on the pedals and yelled, "I’m a fucking survivor! I made it! I’m rolling again!"

And I hunkered down.