Survivor Louise Ingram - American Stroke Association

Life
at the
curb
Comedian and stroke
survivor John Kawie’s
unique perspective
on stroke survival
The décor at the “Dashing
Diva” is pink, and black
…very pink, and black. I felt
like I was standing in a box
of Good & Plenty candy.
Only the Lonely
“May I help you sir?” the receptionist asked. I’m sure she
sensed my apprehension. I was, you see, standing in the middle of a nail
salon called “Dashing Diva.” I wasn’t there meeting my wife. I was there as a
customer. “Dashing Diva” is in our neighborhood.
The décor is pink, and black … very pink, and black. Even the staff’s Tshirts
are pink and black. I felt like I was standing in a box of Good & Plenty
candy. I gazed down at the receptionist’s polished nails. They looked like a
bad acid trip I had in college. Now I began to search for an escape route.
In any case this was week three of Marilyn’s five-week business trip to
Auckland, New Zealand. According to the map I googled, New Zealand is on
the other side of the world in an area of the South Pacific called Oceania. It
sounded like a make-believe land where Aquaman comes from. It looked like
it would take three weeks just to get there.
Marilyn has been on business trips before, so being left alone after the
stroke to fend for myself was nothing new. What was new was the length of
time she’d be gone.
My meal preparation problem was solved with one word — “takeout.”
Two words also helped me get through the laundry — “clean underwear.”
Housekeeping? I even managed to change the Swiffer pad one-handed.
Everything was going fine, but of course there’s always that one thing that
drives you crazy. For me it was cutting my nails. I tried to ignore it, but I was
starting to look like a vampire with a couple of broken nails. I was a disgrace
even to the undead. I put the nail clipper between my knees like Susanne
Sommers and the Thighmaster. I didn’t cut my nails. But I did manage to
launch the nail clipper across the room. This called for drastic measures.
So, on my way to the drugstore, I passed the pink awning that said
“Dashing Diva.” To me men getting manicures was an urban myth. But I was
desperate. With a combination of determination and fear, I spontaneously
ducked in, and tried to act as nonchalant as possible. While I was planning my
escape a gaggle of manicurists surrounded me. I was like a pet. I explained
the stroke, New Zealand and that I didn’t want my nails to look like the
Bedazzler. I was hoping they’d shove me in some dark corner, and it would be
over quickly. Instead, one of them led me to where no
man has gone before — to a table right in front next to
the picture window overlooking 8th Street. Only a spot
on the evening news would have given me more
exposure. The table was laid out with more
tools than Home Depot. “What’s that for?”
I nervously asked, as she grabbed a pink
polka dot bottle. She told me to relax, it
was only lotion, and she wanted to
massage my affected hand before
she started. “Oooo, that feels good!” I moaned.
Suddenly, I was cast under some kind of voodoo
spell, because I immediately made another
appointment for more of this “Dashing Diva
Therapy.”
Editor’s Note: Read John’s personal stroke story, “Life is at the Curb,” from the September/
October 2003 issue of Stroke Connection at strokeassociation.org/strokeconnection,
or book his one-man show about stroke recovery, “Brain Freeze,” by contacting him at
jkawie@aol.com.
September/October 2006