Six Feet Tall, Three Feet Short

A TEAR BECAUSE

I shed a tear this morning,
And I’m really not sure why.
It might have been sleep
Or dust in my eye.
I just wasn’t able to cry.

I asked myself “What’s up old Man?”
Though I didn’t expect a reply.
But wondered if life in a wheelchair,
Was just a slow way to die?
It couldn’t be that I was ready –
With a perfect Wife, and 3 grown kids.
I’d just have to make up my mind to the fact,
That a self-serving act, is on track, to get back.

When you least expect the unexpected - WOW, it happens. In good health, shaving in the bathroom, getting ready to take my wife out to dinner, I felt a tremor in my right knee. Then it spread, first my foot, – my leg tightened – my thigh felt numb. I couldn't hold myself up. I grabbed the sink. I started to slide backwards. My wife being near by, hearing my call, (really a scream) came running. "Call 911" - I was barely audible. Within 10 minutes, our apartment was buzzing.

When strike one is called on the Cubs – they still have two more attempts at survival. My strike one kept me out of the conscious game for the following eight days.

So – realization of facts finally have to be faced. Great as I thought I was – invincible, daredevil, I've had a stroke. Right side paralysis – toes to ear, limb upon limb, muscle connected to muscle nothing worked. Couldn’t even turn from back to side.

How is this possible? Biceps - Quads – Didn’t even know what they were. Overextended use – no way. Strictly, muscles used for piano, dancing, cocktails, and wife holding – now nothing coordinated with my thinking.

Posted on the door of my room was tomorrow’s schedule - O.T. - 9:00 a.m. seems very early to me. But if someone gets me started for the day, I’ll see what O.T. stands for. A moment of thought and I realized its occupational therapy. At 9:00 a.m. I don’t know if my breakfast will be settled – If I can get into my shorts, shoes, shirt – but I must try.

O.T. is group participation, that's an immediate turn off. But I have to be there if I am to be considered an R.I. patient. I needed them more than they need me. Wheeling down to the large gathering room, I joined a table of unpleasantness. Eight is not just a number, but also a collection of illness far greater than mine – I thought. But the therapist was most kind. He directed me to an open spot around the table. I was not comfortable.

So, we all had to do and choose something. Not me, I'm a pianist extraordinaire. I'll just watch.

"Moe, so as not to embarrass the group, please join us for a few exercises”, “Tomorrow, we will bring a keyboard and you can play.”

Great, I began to brag about my entertainment abilities, asking each member of the group "What would you like to hear?" I know that - I can play that" – This get together won’t be so bad after all. Skipping through the rest of the day I was anxious to show off to all the next morning.

Around the table – there we were – each doing tasks of their choosing and laboring to do so. And then someone put a two-octave keyboard in front of me. Great – I again asked each patient if they remembered their request. The mind is a bit quirky after a stroke. "Moe – time to show off” they turned the keyboard on and I positioned my wheel chair. And then it happened. My right hand, sitting on my right thigh, wouldn’t come up to the table – let alone touch the keyboard. Completely unnerved I immediately broke down and cried uncontrollably.

Through my tears, and hearing voices saying, "don’t worry", and "It’s OK" my mind wandered back 60 years. And I remembered as a tank driver in WWII, I would be called upon by the Chaplin or Rabbi to drive to a certain location where emergency prayers were being said. And I would provide background music in the field on a small foot pump organ. I always played Amazing Grace.

And with this vision in mind my left hand picked up my right arm and placed it in position to the keyboard. With one finger, I correctly hit the beginning note of Amazing Grace, and followed through with the correct melody – in perfect time.

I was so proud. I stopped crying – looked at each of my fellow patients, who’s eyes had now teared, and I knew for sure, I was playing the greatest concert in my life – to the most appreciative and listening audience I had ever had.

LOST FEELING

I’m lost in a wash of worry
And can’t seem to settle my mind.
With commitment made to surgery -
God only knows what they’ll find.

I beg them don’t play diagnoses
With lantern to light the way.
Don’t dilly and dally, and poke and prod
Just get in and get out
And leave no doubt
I’m not going under the sod.

Enough about me –
Let’s talk about you
And the constant struggle to survive
How brave you are, and the strong must be.
Each moment of thought –
To staying alive.

I understand that weakened smile
And a constant tear in the eye.
Been there, done that, and holding my breath to pray
In hopes that all might be –
A chance, A hope, for another day.


AN OLD POKE

It’s okee doke,
When you’re an old poke,
To push the wheels with your feet.
But if in a race –
With another old poke,
It’s not fair when you cheat.

When one in a chair
Pass others who care
They smile with a look of pain
‘Cause they know too well
They’re come back from Hell
And they used to walk with a cane.