When Language Fails

My mother, Rosalie Hall, summer 2013

My mother had a stroke on May 20, 2013. I cannot recall anything else that sent me into such a tearful, frenzied panic. My Uncle Daniel messaged me on Facebook, telling me he just got off the phone with her and she did not sound right. Puzzled, I tried to call her. No answer. I went back to work but I was scared. I kept going off the floor at work to call her. She never answered.

After a couple of hours of trying to contact her and trying to keep calm, I finally called the Hillsboro, Oregon Police Department to do a wellness check on her. Well, I did not call; I was too panicked by then. A co-worker called for me. By the time the police officer reached her house, my brother had already taken her to the emergency room at the VA Hospital in Portland, Oregon.

Relief and terror came when we learned she had a stroke. Just hearing the word “stroke” is enough to scare anyone. She had limited use of her right side and she really could not speak. We were relieved that her prognosis was excellent but we knew she had a hard road to recovery ahead of her.

At first, she could only get the first two or three words out of any sentence she was trying to say. Gradually, she has gotten better. But I can tell it is difficult for her to say what she really wants to say. My mother is a vocal, opinionated woman. There is nothing she enjoys more than telling someone exactly how she feels.

Talking to Mom requires patience and time. If she gets really excited or frustrated, she cuts the conversation short: “Well. I better. Get going. Now.” I always let her go, because I understand. I was her 30 years ago, a bewildered, stuttering little girl in that sad, lonely space where the only place language does not fail you is in your head.

When my mother used to talk about my stuttering problem, she said I came home from preschool one day and started mimicking a stuttering boy at school. I am fairly certainly that is not accurate, but, ultimately, it does not matter how it began. Some of my earliest memories include tripping badly over words and feeling shame when people laughed. My mother would get so frustrated with me, she would say, “Spit it out!” I would have if I could.

I became my own Wrap-It-Up Box. Anytime I saw or thought of a word that began with a sound my mouth refused to make, I clammed up and said nothing, sometimes mid-sentence. I began speech therapy in second grade. Once a week, I would quietly get pulled from class to practice consonant sounds and breathing techniques. It was hard for me not to feel like a freak. All my friends could speak beautifully; all my words sounded broken. I felt like I sounded stupid and other people thought I was stupid. I began defending myself by writing everything perfectly and making good grades. I practiced writing so much it became easy. The only way I could make my words sound pretty was on a sheet of paper. And that was okay.

After a cross-country move to Seattle, Washington, I continued speech therapy until the end of seventh grade. My speech therapist was impressed with my progress. I could read out loud well in front of her; now, it was time to test it out in front of others. She asked me to invite three friends to my last session to listen to me read a passage from my social studies book.

I invited Katrina, Korrina and Debbie and they met me in my social studies class. I read four paragraphs flawlessly — no trips, no pauses. I cried after I was done. A lot. I had never done that before. Ever. Debbie gave me a hug and said she was proud of me.

When I tell people I have this problem, not had, have, because it will never leave me, they are always astonished. I do so much public speaking and training that I think it is hard for people to believe I once struggled with this issue. They just cannot imagine me not running my mouth the way I do now.

Speech is less of a struggle now, but it is still a test. I still trip from time-to-time over a consonant sound. The difference is now, I do not stop. I breathe, say the word over again and keep things moving along.

So, when my mother grunts in frustration, I tell her to breathe. I tell her it is okay and I understand, because I really do. When her words fall all over the place, I patiently wait for her to pick them up in her own time.