How did this happen? On the beginning of the end of a life ...

To begin honestly, this story, my mother's story, really should be written by her.

Unfortunately, that is not possible any more.

Despite her love of language from her earliest childhood -- when she proudly carried home 7 books each week from the Carnegie-endowed St. John's Library in the North End of Winnipeg -- despite decades working in jobs as diverse as cashier, interviewer and college instructor -- where the central element was always her beloved ability to communicate--, despite years rejoicing in talking and writing to (and for: one cannot forget her poetic celebrations of) friends and family as much as she could, despite all this my mother has lost her 'voice'.

On August 26, 2008, as I was literally heading out the door for my second day of work in a new location, I heard my mother yell "Wait. Wait." By the time, I got to my parents' bedroom, she was already down on the floor and trying to raise herself up, with a look of fear and confusion on her face mirrored by my father, who did not understand that my mother was having a stroke.




The black holes with lightening bolts represent the major points of the triple infarction CVA my mother suffered:
 (L to R) substantial damage to Broca's area; complete (?) annihilation of the Speech Motor Cortex; and,
 minor damage to the cognitive array towards the back of the brain.

Although I realise in retrospect (to be fair to myself, I realised at the time, but I was otherwise occupied) I should have been blogging about our experience as a family from this point in the past as things happened. Weirdly enough, though, while one is living through a disaster, it is surprisingly difficult to find time to jot down one's thoughts and feelings. Keeping up with the daily demands and crises takes up most of one's energy -- especially if one is not well to begin with (and I will get to my own health problems and how this has factored in) -- and finding some quiet time just to sleep or to veg out and not angst, or cry, or panic seems all that one can do.

Nevertheless, it would have been valuable in so many different ways to have created and preserved a proper historical account of our experience. It might even have helped prevent the predicament my poor mother finds herself in now.

That predicament, however, is the real subject of this blog, so I will provide the necessary background in the future, but right now, I am going to jump several years forward in this story and explain, hopefully cogently if still passionately, what all this is about.