We already have soup warming in the crockpot. There's a plethora of baked goods I made from assorted pumpkins and such. The trees look crazy outside. I would normally be at work, seeing one of my favorite patients. But I'm not. I'm home on the couch, waiting for the hurricane.
Which hurricane? Sandy. We have been warned that this is no Irene. They have evacuated a great deal of people in NYC and in NJ. Locally, the folks living near the river in Piermont and Stony Point have also been advised to go to higher ground. It's kind of scary. As my friend Deborah says, I'm a "weather weenie". So here I sit, hoping the large tree in our front yard stays right where it belongs.
I was thinking about how our dog, Bella Shmatta and our rabbit, Latke Lapin have no idea what's about to go down. I guess ignorance is bliss but it also makes me think about how much we don't see coming--and how little control we have over the future.
I am thinking of my patients now. Several have a diagnosis of aphasia, which is a terrible neurological condition (often the result of a stroke) that affects communication. Some of my patients can only speak a few words. Some cannot speak at all. Aphasia often stops people from sharing their ideas, their hopes, dreams--even asking for what they need.
I try everything in the book with my patients--and then some. One of my patients, who I'll call Bea, has asked me to write a book about some of the techniques that we've come up with together. Sometimes Bea and I break words up visually with color and she is then able to read and pronounce them. Sometimes we do mass repetitions of unstressed syllables in words and tiny little words like "a", "the" "it", etc. After 12 years, Bea can use them again with a fair amount of fluency. At times, when I find a patient can string words together, I create "scripts" that are relevant to their everyday lives and they can then take part in conversations. One of my patients is a priest and we came up with a way he can continue to respond to people during confession. Finally, for my patients who have progressive aphasia (which only gets worse with time) I program speech machines or apps on iPads so that they can retrieve family names and biographical information.
These people are all intelligent--some are positively brilliant. But a hurricane came and took away their most precious means of conveying that brilliance--their ability to communicate.
We never know what may come our way. I hope to maintain an "attitude of gratitude" for each day I have my family, my health and the ability to communicate with friends like you.
In the meanwhile, there is hope. One of my patients who was only able to say her dear husband's name after a year and a half of trying, spoke to me on the phone about the hurricane yesterday. We had a delightful conversation, much of it without my help--and she ended it by saying the most beautiful words I've ever heard: "I love you".
So, come on Sandy. I'll be glad to see the back of you. There's life after you--and hope--everywhere.
