I’m 38 years old and last week I had a stroke.

That’s right. I had a stroke. I can’t tell you what it feels like to have one. I can only tell you what it feels like  to feel different. To mumble a little; to slur a good tongue-twister. To have a strange sensation in your hands. And, worst of all for me, to fumble with text messages.

It’s fucking scary. Like “holy shit I dodged a bullet” scary.

It’s like this: I have high blood pressure. Scratch that. I have astronomically high blood pressure. I’ve been medicated for it for 8 years and I’m religious about it. I might occasionally forget to take the second pill at night, but rarely.

I also don’t have health insurance. And I’m stupid.

I think strokes are for 85-year-olds. We say things like “that’s unfortunate, but grandpa’s lived a good life.” I think medication will solve everything; I assume it does what it’s supposed to do. I assumed I wouldn’t get sick. I’m young, I’m not in the worst shape, I have the world ahead of me.

I was thinking in the hospital bed: “This doesn’t make sense. I’ve been working out. I’ve lost 10 to 15 lbs. (depends on which scale you believe) I’ve cut down on my drinking. I’ve been taking my prescriptions.”

Then it hit me.

Maybe I saved myself.

What if I was 15 pounds heavier (by any scale)? What if I waited for warm spring days to take long walks instead of sucking it up and getting on a boring treadmill? What if I drank 6 days a week? What if I didn’t swallow two chalky white pills a day? What if I had pizza every night instead of preparing my own meals (on the good days at least).

I tried to do some deep thinking in my hospital bed. But truthfully I was surrounded by family and friends most every minute. Others called, emailed and texted. And it made me tired.  And a little embarrassed.

Then I thought: None of that matters.  I survived.

My entire life has brought me to this hospital bed. At this moment. But I’m breathing, feeling, I smell bad. And I’m scared. I’m frightened.

Thirty-eight year olds don’t have strokes.

This one did. I did. And I can’t hide anymore.

What I do know is family and friends dropped their lives to spend an hour with me. They came from far away to tell me they loved me. They held my hand and told me not to worry. I stayed quiet. Expressing love is difficult for me. Especially when my tongue feels like it’s twice its normal size. I was embarrassed.

That was then. This is now. It’s Easter Sunday. A fitting time to get up, and start over.

I will figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life. Not for me, but for the world.

I will respect my body and be kind to it.

I will rest. But not to be lazy, but to be smart

I will move forward every day.

Thirty-eight year olds don’t have strokes. This one did. And he’s thankful. He’s got plenty of time to do some good, to give back the love he may have felt but didn’t always return. He knows now that life is simple.

There is a sign sitting in my closet I bought a few weeks ago. It’s message, literally, is “Simplicity.”

I’m going to hang that sign in a place I can see it from my bed, so it’s the last thought I have every day and the first one I wake to. Hopefully that small sign will frame my life. My new life.

I’m 38 years old and last week I had a stroke. Watch me now.

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