Not too long ago Miss Brown went to see a doctor at the Clinic.
Her caregivers don't know whether she remembers what clinic it is.
Presumably, she remembers the place, and she remembers the seats. Presumably, she remembers walking in and waiting at the seats whilst they registered her at the counter. Presumably, she also remembers her therapy sessions... and her therapists.
With any patient who goes for therapy, it is the therapist that one feels the deepest connection to. She might not have ever realized that her therapy sessions were held at a place officially known as CART, or Centre for Advanced Rehabilitation, but she would have known that this Clinic 5B was the place where Mr. Lee taught her how to walk, a Mr. Can't-Pronounce-His-Surname played with her a game and a Mr. Ke trained her how to grip things properly and be conscious whether her palm was facing up or down.
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| TTSH |
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| Some Fountain in TTSH |
There is a theory about rehabilitation, and it is that the longer one delays after the event, the harder and longer it takes for one to resume regular, normal, balanced functionality, which is that it is harder and longer for one to resume normalcy, as per pre-stroke.
And this is what her caregivers believed too.
So they brought her to CART not too long after being discharged from another hospital. On the first day, she was wheeled in. A week or so later, she was slowly walking in.
They didn't go through prolonged assessments here. She saw the doctor, and by afternoon, her first session was scheduled. The physiotherapist had her assessed and right away, she was plunged straight into walking lesson.
Very practical lessons too. He focused on her walking. He focused on what she ought to observe and how she could prevent falls. He focused on stair-climbing, step by step, up and down on the practice step. Not a friggin' brick placed here and there on the floor, but a very mini single-step staircase complete with handle so it was a full dress rehearsal more than technique practice. And Singapore being a place of malls and more malls, escalator training was essential, and once the therapist figured out that she had figured out how to move her strong and weak leg in sync, out she went to the escalator.
The same practicality extended to the occupational therapy. They had her on an arm robotic computer game. Very closed door, very data centric, very analytical- as all games are meant to be- but to Miss Brown, she was merely lowering her arm, opening her fingers to pick up apples with her weak hand, moving her arm across and then lowering her arm to place them in the basket. She found it quite delightful, and distracting enough such that she actually felt like she was doing something with her weak arm.
There were other activities too in her occupational therapy sessions. She didn't want to buy new clothes, neither did she want the recommended velcro sort, so within the first month or so, the occupational therapist taught her how to wear her T-shirts and her blouses. She learnt new ways to wear her T-shirt, slipping it first around her weak arm, then pulling it over her head. She learnt new ways of wearing blouses and jackets and she learnt how to button it one-handed. She learnt how to wear her trousers, which she decided that elastic was easier and faster, and she learnt how to wear her shoes.
She learnt how to carry a backpack, and though the first few days she wanted to resume the normalcy as she used to and carry an unstructured tote bag and bring many, many things along with her each time she went out, her therapists advised her that she might feel lighter and more comfortable with a better bag, and carrying only the essentials.
Miss Brown paid heed to their words.
And so, twice a week, morning and afternoon, for a couple of months, she switched to a light blue sport backpack specially bought for her. Inside she stuffed her water bottle, her purse, her comb, a biscuit, lots and lots of tissue paper, her hat, her mobile phone and other little essentials.
Ater a month, she started taking the bus. All on her own. At first she walked a longer distance to the bus stop for the direct bus. Later she found out that she could actually change buses, which was more convenient, so on days that she had therapy, she woke up, ate her breakfast of three egg whites, olive oil and a couple of biscuits with coffee, took her backpack and walked out to the nearby bus stop.
By then her caregivers didn't need to hang around full time at CART- she was independent enough- and so, after her therapy finished, if she didn't have an afternoon session, she took more buses to wherever she wished to go before heading back home in the evening.
Circumstances have changed a little now... after all, it has been three years, and a lot can happen in three years, but there's a part of Miss Brown that knows- for sure- that CART helped her a great deal. It was like going to school, or a tuition class. And whilst she didn't make any friends there, nor did she like to talk about her problems very much to the therapists, they just being there, and she just being there, helped.
She knows that they were her friends when she felt upset and worried and went there one morning so stressed out she started crying. She knows that they called her doctor- who was making her morning rounds- to come and calm her down and speak to her. She knows that they were her regularity during the early, confusing days, and they were the place that was at least there, even when other matters in her life started to unravel. She knows that they remember her, and that she knows that she remembers them.
Somewhere in her memory about those messy times, she still recognizes their faces, she feels their presence. She recognizes the chairs in the waiting area. She remembers the counter, and the counter staff. She remembers the noise in the gym area. She remembers the toilet. She remembers the therapists coming out and talking to her and accompanying her as she walked in, bag, hat, tissue paper and all.
And she knows that this Clinic 5B has become part of her life journey, that they're still doing what they do.
And this is what her caregivers believed too.
So they brought her to CART not too long after being discharged from another hospital. On the first day, she was wheeled in. A week or so later, she was slowly walking in.
They didn't go through prolonged assessments here. She saw the doctor, and by afternoon, her first session was scheduled. The physiotherapist had her assessed and right away, she was plunged straight into walking lesson.
Very practical lessons too. He focused on her walking. He focused on what she ought to observe and how she could prevent falls. He focused on stair-climbing, step by step, up and down on the practice step. Not a friggin' brick placed here and there on the floor, but a very mini single-step staircase complete with handle so it was a full dress rehearsal more than technique practice. And Singapore being a place of malls and more malls, escalator training was essential, and once the therapist figured out that she had figured out how to move her strong and weak leg in sync, out she went to the escalator.
The same practicality extended to the occupational therapy. They had her on an arm robotic computer game. Very closed door, very data centric, very analytical- as all games are meant to be- but to Miss Brown, she was merely lowering her arm, opening her fingers to pick up apples with her weak hand, moving her arm across and then lowering her arm to place them in the basket. She found it quite delightful, and distracting enough such that she actually felt like she was doing something with her weak arm.
There were other activities too in her occupational therapy sessions. She didn't want to buy new clothes, neither did she want the recommended velcro sort, so within the first month or so, the occupational therapist taught her how to wear her T-shirts and her blouses. She learnt new ways to wear her T-shirt, slipping it first around her weak arm, then pulling it over her head. She learnt new ways of wearing blouses and jackets and she learnt how to button it one-handed. She learnt how to wear her trousers, which she decided that elastic was easier and faster, and she learnt how to wear her shoes.
She learnt how to carry a backpack, and though the first few days she wanted to resume the normalcy as she used to and carry an unstructured tote bag and bring many, many things along with her each time she went out, her therapists advised her that she might feel lighter and more comfortable with a better bag, and carrying only the essentials.
Miss Brown paid heed to their words.
And so, twice a week, morning and afternoon, for a couple of months, she switched to a light blue sport backpack specially bought for her. Inside she stuffed her water bottle, her purse, her comb, a biscuit, lots and lots of tissue paper, her hat, her mobile phone and other little essentials.
Ater a month, she started taking the bus. All on her own. At first she walked a longer distance to the bus stop for the direct bus. Later she found out that she could actually change buses, which was more convenient, so on days that she had therapy, she woke up, ate her breakfast of three egg whites, olive oil and a couple of biscuits with coffee, took her backpack and walked out to the nearby bus stop.
By then her caregivers didn't need to hang around full time at CART- she was independent enough- and so, after her therapy finished, if she didn't have an afternoon session, she took more buses to wherever she wished to go before heading back home in the evening.
Circumstances have changed a little now... after all, it has been three years, and a lot can happen in three years, but there's a part of Miss Brown that knows- for sure- that CART helped her a great deal. It was like going to school, or a tuition class. And whilst she didn't make any friends there, nor did she like to talk about her problems very much to the therapists, they just being there, and she just being there, helped.
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| View from CART, TTSH |
She knows that they were her friends when she felt upset and worried and went there one morning so stressed out she started crying. She knows that they called her doctor- who was making her morning rounds- to come and calm her down and speak to her. She knows that they were her regularity during the early, confusing days, and they were the place that was at least there, even when other matters in her life started to unravel. She knows that they remember her, and that she knows that she remembers them.
Somewhere in her memory about those messy times, she still recognizes their faces, she feels their presence. She recognizes the chairs in the waiting area. She remembers the counter, and the counter staff. She remembers the noise in the gym area. She remembers the toilet. She remembers the therapists coming out and talking to her and accompanying her as she walked in, bag, hat, tissue paper and all.
And she knows that this Clinic 5B has become part of her life journey, that they're still doing what they do.