Often, when I'm in a new environment — a meeting, doctor's office, or sometimes on the street — the topic of my stroke comes up and the response is typically, "I didn't even know you'd had a stroke," or "I didn’t notice," or "You look well!"
Illustrations are by me.
These words are meant to be compliments, I know. For me, it presumes the speaker knows me as the Old Me before my stroke, and the line between the Old Me and the New Me has been erased.
My chronic pain is invisible, just as my stroke is. No one (not even me) can peer into my skull and see what's happened to me. My brain has been changed. There's no going back, no data bank in the left side of my head saying, "Wake up! Bring that stuff back to life! Let's bring the Old Eliza back!" The spots on my MRI are dead brain tissue. Brain tissue does not regenerate. That sounds awful, I know, but it's true. I've come to accept it. I have to.
Goodbye, Old Me.
There is no such thing as New Me.
Hello, Different Me. (We are still getting used to each other.)