Who am I?

It’s one of those days when I am depressed and, yes, restless. Who am I? That is a question that haunts me. I know since my stroke two years ago that now I am well, as well as I will ever be. My stroke was in my right brain and perhaps it was mild. I remember only that in the beginning I slept much and stared into space a lot thinking about nothing, just literally staring into space. One of my cousins said I seemed depressed. Some of my old friends said I seemed normal. I know I was not normal. What is normal anyway? Being the way you have always been? What was that?

I have a male friend who scolds me every time I write about my stroke. He thinks I am using it as an excuse, just to get attention, maybe even his attention. No matter how often I tell him, no, it is not to get your or anyone’s attention, he does not believe me. Only I know it is to figure out the changes the stroke left behind. I know there are changes, serious ones, but I cannot seem to figure them out. My brain, which used to be so swift, is slower now.

Who am I? I have the same name, but what does that mean? I used to be president of an ad agency. So what does that mean? I am no longer and I don’t miss it. That’s just one of my smaller pieces. I am a columnist in the Philippine STAR on Saturdays. Okay, that still means something. In the olden times, before my stroke, it meant hardly anything. Being a columnist was just one of the things I did. Now, it’s one of the main things I do. What kind of a columnist am I? I don’t know. Lifestyle. I write about the lives of the baby boomers when I’m in a good mood, and of aging when I am depressed. I don’t know how well I do that.

Do I have old friends? Oh yes, I do and they’re all still there, just a phone call away. But I don’t reach for the telephone to call everyone. I just call a few – Emily, Linda, Digna. We talk, laugh, giggle, sometimes we go out together. I am in touch with my writing students by e-mail. That’s one of my major changes. Once upon a time you might have thought me an extrovert. Now I am very clearly an introvert. I hate big parties, large public events. I hate going anywhere I don’t know too many people and I get up and discreetly walk away to go back home and knit.

I love knitting now. I am always knitting something – cotton sweaters for me or for my grandchildren, a woolen poncho for my daughter who lives abroad. I have in my closet 20 sweaters I have knitted myself. Plus three I knitted for my mother, plus maybe another three for my daughters. Hey, that’s what I am. I am an expert knitter.

I recovered from my stroke through knitting. I know it. I did it because I could. After the stroke I tried to read, thought I was successful, found out I was a total failure. I could not keep the facts straight. I could understand books while I was reading but the minute I stopped I forgot the facts. Not so with knitting. I think it has to do with the left and the right brains acting while you’re knitting. Anyway, I am an expert knitter. Now if I could only learn how to earn money from being an expert knitter. I would really be happy.

My mother, who has Alzheimer, thinks I am her mother. That depresses me so I come home and sit in front of the TV set and knit. Soon I get sleepy and go to bed. I wake up in the morning alone, turn on the TV set again and watch and knit very early in the morning, before I take my breakfast. I wonder: who am I? Am I just an expert knitter? What can one do with this single skill? I tried teaching it but made more money teaching writing. If I lived in the USA, I could earn some money. I could work at one of the yarn shops and teach people how to knit. But I cannot leave for the USA. I need to stay here. So I knit and watch TV.

Sometimes I think I would like to find a partner, someone to live with, someone to talk to, argue with, laugh with, cry with, someone who will occupy space and set me straight in my life. One of my writing students gave me a word to work with. She said "love." Suddenly, like a miracle, I missed love. I had not thought about love in a while. But since then I have longed for it, longed for someone to love, someone who will love me back, someone I can have conversations with. Yes, I think I want to meet a person who, when I ask "Who am I?" will smile and embrace me and say, "You are the person I love." Then what would I care about who I am?

I guess it’s one of those miserable days. By the way, I’m selling my miserable books today and tomorrow at the Reposo street fair. Hope to see you there.

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Please send your comments to lilypad@skyinet.net or secondwind.barbara@gmail.com, or text 0917-8155570.