Irish

A little over 13 years ago, my towel-head, pill-pushing general practitioner strode sadly into my room at Rochester General, eyed me warily, wrung his hands, tsked loudly, and said “Mrs. Hughes, your husband is done for. You’re gonna hafta cart him around like a vegetable.”
What came out was probably undecipherable gibberish, but what I was thinking was “BALONEY! We’ll see about that! I’m gonna prove you WRONG, Doc.”
I related this yesterday (Wednesday, December 6) at the PT-gym to the Physical-Therapist, and a gym-member who is 100% Irish and knows I’m part-Irish.
“That’s the Irish,” gym-member said.
A gym-member is no longer a patient of the Physical-Therapist, yet can come (for a monthly fee: $40) whenever they want to work out. I long ago was a patient, but am now a gym-member.
The PT-gym is less intimidating than a regular gym, plus I can crank 36 minutes on the treadmill without lining up people waiting.
A few weeks after Rochester General, I was in another hospital for in-patient rehab. My therapist laughed when I told her my goal was to get back riding motorbike. (“What are your goals?”)
“Your motorbike days are over,” she laughed cheerily. “You should put that thing up for sale.”
“Oh no,” I said. “You don’t tell that to The Keed.” In about two years I was riding motorbike again.
Later therapists were amazed. “You’re riding motorcycle?” they’d say incredulously. “You had a stroke. I’d think you’d have trouble balancing it. There also is the issue of judgment.”
Well, I don’t have a problem. It’s not the same as pre-stroke, but can be accommodated.
As far as I know, the Connors are 100% Irish. My paternal grandfather always told me he was Welsh. Grandmother I don’t know about. I guess she’s English — an Ingham — but never looked English. Too dark.
So I guess I am part-Irish; maybe half.
About two-plus years later, I had graduated rehab, but was still seeing a shrink.
I visited my old out-patient rehab facility, and discovered one of my old cabbies had had a stroke.
“You look okay,” he said. He had seen me ride in on the mighty Kow.
“What’s your secret?” he asked earnestly.
“Ornery,” I said; “If you think you can do it, you probably can.”
A few years ago I visited a Messenger employee who had a stroke.
“Every time you do anything at all,” I told him; “no matter what it is, you’re rewiring your brain.”
“Apparently enough is still there to have not put the lights out. I’m running on what’s left. And what’s left is doing what the killed part did.”
So that, for example, my speech may be slightly degraded; because the part of my brain driving it, isn’t the part that was intended.
“This stroke will turn your life upside-down, but you can recover. I did.”
Of my siblings I worry about Bill the most. He seems the least Irish — more of an Ingham.
But I’m not too worried. If he had a stroke I think he would be ornery enough to recover.
Jack I don’t worry about at all. Extremely ornery.
All my siblings have the Connor-genes: “Irish.”
How do I know this?
All I have to do is say anything at all on this site (MyFamblee.com) and they go catatonic.