The Rehab Box

Hi, I’m Michael and I’m a stroke survivor.

Over the Christmas period, while cleaning up at home, I finally tackled a box I’d avoided for a long time - my original rehab kit from the early days after my stroke.

Inside were all the tools I used when I was relearning how to function. Most of it was plain, boring, and unimpressive. A small plastic container filled with pegs and pieces of macaroni. I used to pick them up one at a time and place them on the table. Then reverse the process and put them back.

Rehab is often mind-numbingly boring. But those boring tasks make all the difference.

Speech Therapy Homework

There were stacks of papers from my speech therapist.

Diaphragmatic breathing exercises designed to help me project my voice. Phonetic spellings of words for pronunciation drills - “Auto-matt-ick” for automatic. Pages and pages of poetry. The rhythm helped, and the unconventional word order meant my brain couldn’t skip ahead. I had to concentrate on each word, one at a time.

It was exhausting. And it worked.

Occupational Therapy and the Bloody Letter S

On top of the macaroni and pegs were worksheets from my occupational therapist.

Children’s writing sheets. Tracing capital O shapes clockwise, then anti-clockwise. Capital U - straight, curve, straight again. And that bloody S shape.

There were also adult-sized “training chopsticks” from Japan - two sticks joined by a hinge -  used to rebuild strength and control in my weak forefinger. Humbling tools, but effective ones.

The Paper Keyboard

At the bottom of the box was my paper keyboard.

An A4 sheet with a full QWERTY keyboard, numbers across the top, and common phrases down the sides: yes, no, it starts with…, new word, I’d like to ask you something, I’m not sure, I’ll start again, thanks.

I carried that thing everywhere. Around the house. To cafés. To meetings. To hospital appointments. Even on holidays.

It was my lifeline when I couldn’t speak.

Wheel of Fortune, Stroke Edition

I still remember people trying to decipher what I was typing - my own version of Wheel of Fortune. Me tapping letters. Them guessing words. Everyone confused.

Made even more interesting by apraxia, which makes forming coherent sentences hard in the first place.

Gold stars to anyone who stayed patient and actually understood what I was trying to say.

Packing It Away

Looking through that box, I realised it’s time to move those tools from the shelf to the memory bank.

You never forget where you’ve been - but you do need to look forward.

I don’t often stop to reflect on how far I’ve come. And while I hate the word inspiring, it’s impossible not to acknowledge the progress when you see it laid out in plastic containers, worksheets, and a battered piece of paper that once gave me a voice.

That box did its job.