Minha mãe teve um derrame há alguns anos e eu não lembro de reagir da mesma forma que reagi depois de ler o texto abaixo. Acredito que tenha sido por que minha mãe é mais velha que eu e acaba fazendo mais parte do grupo de risco de quem pode ter derrames. Mas, uma pessoa saudável de 30 anos tendo um derrame é bem aterrorizante para mim.
My right arm seemed no longer a part of my body. I couldn’t control it; it was limp at my side, like the worst dead arm you can imagine, but completely out of nowhere. My boyfriend was just coming to check on what time we are leaving and I exited the bathroom, slumped on the ground, and told him what was going on. Except I didn’t. I couldn’t.
What I was saying in my head came out as gibberish. I could not get words out of my mouth. I felt stupid, even laughing at myself, saying, “It’s ok, it’s ok” to him, thinking it might just go away. But then the reminder that something was wrong set in again. In a whisper, I finally got out the words “call my dad.” He did.
My parents happened to be right outside and my father, a physician, ran up the stairs to find us. When he saw me stuttering and holding my dead arm, he called for an ambulance. By now I was crying, perhaps in hysterics, as the numbness had seeped from my arm to my whole right side. I then calmed, stopped tying to speak, as it was frustrating and pointless, and looked into my boyfriend’s eyes saying to him with mine, I may not walk again.
I may die, somewhat acquiescing to whatever it was that was happening to me. I caught myself, though, and thought, No, that can’t happen, I gotta fight it, and kicked off my boots to try to move legs and focused my mind on, well, not dying.
Leia todo o texto aqui: Bad Year for Boars — Medium