A fourth-generation Vermonter, Eliza Laffin grew up on a commune, a big farm, then a smaller one when she got into a fancy prep school on a full scholarship and graduated magna cum laude. She went to Brown University and earned two degrees simultaneously. In 2013, Eliza suffered a major stroke during a surgery in Vienna. She is a stroke survivor, writer, teacher, certified pizzaiola, and former software executive. The stroke ended her 20-year career in software, but she is still writing today. Her work has been published in The Mighty, The Mindful Word, and Minerva Rising Press.

Catching Fireflies: How I Learned to Play the Stroke Card

It’s the Fourth of July, we’re at the United ticket counter at SFO, and it is loud. The sound echoes way up into the rafters. I’m with Ernie, my son, holding hands heading to New Hampshire to visit my mom, Cricket. Mom had been living in a tiny 19th-century schoolhouse on Lang Road in small-town Cornish, where the doors are unlocked and you leave the key in the ignition. I’m looking forward to where it will be sunny and hot and humid, but that’s okay – I’ve been homesick forever. I just want to get there and be with my mom and let Ernie play.

There are long lines on either side of us, nine or ten groups ahead of us; I see two agents working behind the counter. And we are in a jam: I have to get a seat next to Ernie. I take a quick look around and start to fret. I see very little movement. If we don’t get seated together… Ernie is extra special: exceedingly bright, and very unpredictable. Big spaces – like the airport – and standing in long lines can overwhelm him. Who knows what might happen? He starts to fiddle with the chest strap of his backpack.

"Mama? When will we see the fireflies?”

"Umm… They usually start to show up around dusk."

I see Ernie’s brain working, excitement in his eyes. "How many jars do you think we will need?”

Ernie squeezes my hand, dips and twirls, still holding it.

“Hmm. I’m not sure.” I’ve had a bad back since college – my back is killing me right now. I’m counting how many people are in our line.

Ernie dips and twirls out of line, but right next to me.

And then I hear, right behind us, extremely loud:

"Bloody ho, todaiiiiiiy."

Then, louder:

"Too rwough i-is!" It sounds like a woman’s voice.

Maybe… Australian?

Everyone around us stares at the two of them, right behind us. I can’t help myself, so I turn around. I see the couple: classic touristy types, dressed in almost identical outfits, with those traveling pants that zip into shorts at a moment's notice. The woman’s short hair is carefully coiffed. I can see her sandals: her toenails are painted bright fuchsia. The man is tall and lean. His face is worn and bronzed by the sun.

I wonder how many trips to warm locations they've had, and if maybe they were on a world tour, on a layover, between locales where time is lost and it’s okay to drink at eight o’clock in the morning.

I turn back around and Ernie is doing this thing he does where he clenches his face and fists and his entire body for a few seconds, then lets go before doing it again, over and over. People stare; I try to wait, let it happen, then find the right moment to put my arm around his shoulder and pull him against me. Some of his pent-up energy – while I hold him – starts to dissipate. Keeping him in one place is a challenge.

Ernie puts his other arm around me, and we are connected.

“We” doesn’t include my ex. To adopt Ernie from the San Francisco County Fost-Adopt program, we became domestic partners. We met Ernie at three months, brought him home for good at four months, and adopted him formally a year later in 2010. Eleven years into our relationship, I thought we were okay.

“How long will we get to stay?” he asks.

“Seven days,” and he bursts into a smile, dips and twirls.

Now only six groups in front of us. We push our bags along the floor with our toes.

"Will we sleep with Cricky in the schoolhouse?" Ernie uses Cricky instead of Grandma.

"Of course!"

The schoolhouse is warm, inviting, compact and simple. Aside from a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, the schoolhouse is one big room. The interior is charming, but walking through my mom’s garden is like taking a journey, with twists and turns, until you stumble upon some oddly beautiful combination, and you go, Oh! I didn't expect that to be there. When she’d come to visit me after my partner and I bought our first house, she’d put a huge amount of energy into our backyard. The flowers would bloom into a gorgeous mixture of silver lavender, rich red and yellow, and the unforgettable spiky purple pom-pom an artichoke makes. Mom taught me the names of the things we planted, started as seeds and showed me how to care for them, just as she taught me to care for Ernie.

Ernie’s voice brings me back.

"You know what I want, Mama?"

"Why don’t you tell me?”

"I want to stay in the schoolhouse with Cricky forever!” His face beams, his eyes light up.

"Well, I guess we're going to have to ask Mom how many spare Mason jars she has lying around."

"This is so exciting!" Ernie starts to spin in circles, faster and faster. Other people look at him doing it, but I let it happen. It’s another way he regulates himself.

I peek at the agents at the ticket counter and both are still busy, now four groups ahead of us. I push our bags up, but Fuchsia Lady and Tall Guy are making noise behind us again. Their language is mysterious to me, but they seem to be joshing around with each other, their words sound sloshy and slurred, like my brain was when I tried to process the end of our relationship. 

Ernie is still spinning in his own world, and I see him start to cross the line between fun and overexcitement. He’ll say he’s not dizzy, but I worry about him, in case he goes SPLAT on the hard floor beneath our feet.

I wait for the right moment and tap his shoulder mid-spin. "Hey, Ernie?” Still spinning. “Ernie.” I touch him again. He hesitates, but keeps moving. “Could you please slow down?"

And then I hear, in this big, brassy tone of voice, Tall Guy calling out to no one in particular, "Whe’ can oy get a schoonah mate?! And chuck a snag, whoil yowah at it?" followed by an enormous snort from Fuchsia Lady, like a seagull squawking.

This startles Ernie; he gets off balance and I go to catch him and I pull him to me. I can feel his heartbeat through my hands on his chest. He leans into me. The Mama Bear in me comes out – I want to wrap him up in a protective shield.

I look around and pretty much everyone is staring at us and staring at the two of them, still sputtering in voices loosened by liquor. Alcoholism runs in my family on both sides. That’s why I don’t drink. Liquor begets anger; anger begets violence. My ex came close to hitting me in the face after too many beers one time. It was long ago, but still.

We keep pushing our bags along the floor as the line diminishes. Ernie keeps himself occupied and finally one of the agents frees up and we get to the counter. She’s the one who looked most promising, relatively fresh, and ready to help.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, Ma’am. How can I help you?”

I make an internal eye-roll. Who likes to be called Ma’am?

I start by pulling out my driver’s license from my wallet and explaining: We have the tickets, it’s just that Ernie and I have to sit together. The agent looks at my ID and her eyes are trained on the invisible screen on the other side of the counter. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. The flight is fully booked and it’s too late to change seats." She sounds matter-of-fact.

Behind us, I hear this: "What's the mattah^ hee-ah? Shunt this just be a piece of ^ piss?!"

I turn around and see Fuchsia Lady, disgruntled and angry, striding up to us like she’s on some sort of a critical mission. In a matter of seconds, she puts her elbow on the counter next to me, then pushes my arm off the counter.

I am instantly pissed and I want to say something in return, but instead I look to the agent for moral support.

"Excuse me, Ma'am,” the agent says to Fuchsia Lady in a very firm voice. “This young lady” - 44 at the time - “is being helped. You need to go back in line."

Fuchsia Lady comes back with, "Really ^ nee-ah?" then turns to me and says with a snarl, "Whaddah are ya, then? Noh the full quid?”

A switch flips inside me and my anger bursts, like a hot balloon, when all I’m trying to do is to deflect the same kind of anger my ex exhibits to me. My face burns like fire; my hands start to tremble. I don’t know what her words mean, but they instantly shrink me to nothing. I reach for Ernie and he melts into me. I’m grasping for words to hurl at her, to tell her to back off. My brain is moving in slow motion and my body fills with futility and frustration. All I can do is let go of Ernie and grab my wallet, which is sitting on the counter. I carry a card in my wallet, and as I pull it out, I show the card to Fuchsia Lady and watch her read it.

I HAVE HAD A STROKE.

I may have problems with speaking,

memory or understanding.

Your help and patience

 would be appreciated.

Ernie has put his arms around me again. As the woman reads those few words, I am transported back to the moment when I woke up from my stroke:

open my eyes I’m floating in a grey shroud see nothing, hear nothing what I don't see what I can't see what is it words how do I move what’s in my head to my mouth? this thick effort of scraping words together takes a long time out loud I say "what is real?" and "how can we handle this new problem?" my words hang in the air, then slowly evaporate I can’t speak my right side won’t move now I see blurry shapes, Mom and my brother something is wrong

The memories came with more clarity, bit by bit:

I remember being in the clinic in Vienna, just after my surgery. None of the doctors would say I’d had a stroke, but I woke up to severe aphasia and half of me immobile. I remember being awoken at 3 AM, Mom bundling me up as we went outside, bitter cold, exhaust fumes billowing from the taxi into the freezing night air as we headed to the Vienna airport. I remember the flight attendant on this long transatlantic trip taking care of me. Ginger Ales flowing, pudding, ice cream, anything I could eat, my right hand useless, struggling to use a spoon in my left.

I remember landing in San Francisco, looking so forward to seeing Ernie – 3½ years old – my partner in the driver's seat as she brought all three of us home from the airport. When she missed the turn, I poked her in the arm, wondering in my head, Why aren’t you driving us home?! when she left us in a rental, without our son. I remember lying in bed with my mom as she held me while I sobbed, my tears and snot soaking her shirt while I struggled to speak, like cold molasses coming up to room temperature in my head, trying to form the words, I want Ernie. I remember finally going home after three weeks at the rental, as the door opened: “Mama! Mama! Mama’s home!” while Ernie ran full tilt, almost knocking me over, his face bursting with pure joy.

I remember about a week later, the films back from radiology: I had an ischemic stroke because a blood clot broke off into my bloodstream, traveled up into my brain, and exploded. As a result, I had cognitive damage and severe aphasia. 

I remember the befuddlement about my ex's divorce filing, just two months into my stroke. Was that possible?! Otherwise, how could she be so incredibly cruel?

And of course, I remember my family showering me with love and support, how my brother helped me through countless homework assignments from all the therapies I had – speech, occupational, and physical therapies every week – as I re-learned how to move, speak, write, and read.

I was devastated to see my mom and brother go home – all four of us so intertwined – after two years of caring for me and Ernie. And how desperately I wanted to move back home to New Hampshire with Ernie forever, so I could keep him away from the craziness around us and Let. Him. Be.

But I’m stuck here. My ex would never allow it.

That reverie snapped me back to attention.

I see the woman reading the card. Her face is bright red, her eyes are softer now and she looks at me: "Um… I… I'm jus’ gobsmacked, Luv.”

 Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and her voice is warm and apologetic: "I was wrung to hurt ^ cha, Dahl. I’m sore-ah. I meh you no deesrespech."

“Thank you for acknowledging that.” I tuck my card back into my wallet, trying to stay neutral, because I am not ready to say, “That’s okay.” My hands are still shaking. Ernie takes my hand.

And then there is a beat – a pause – like everything around us has stopped, as Fuchsia Lady and I look at each other. We both begin to smile. Not a big smile or a little smile, just the kind that acknowledges something meaningful is happening at this moment. Vulnerability shed, my confidence grows. I can do this, on my own, with my son.

She moves her hand off my shoulder, gives Ernie a nod and a wink, takes one more look at me and goes back in line. Ernie tugs my hand.

“Are we going to get seats together?”

 “Ah, yes – let me check.” The fire in my face is starting to cool down. My hands aren’t trembling anymore.

I turn back toward the counter and the agent drops our bags onto the belt, comes back, and hands me two boarding passes. “Seats 3A and 3B, Ma’am.” God, I hate hearing that word. “Gate 82.”

I look at the boarding passes: First class?!

I look at Ernie. He looks back at me. Our faces are changing.

I mouth to the agent, Thank you!

As we head to our gate, Ernie and I hold hands. He pipes up next to me, his face alight, and asks: “Ooh! How many fireflies do you think we’re going to catch, Mama?”

“Hmm… Gosh, I really don’t know.”

A pause hangs in the air.

It doesn’t matter how many we catch; the joy is in the finding.

“I guess we’ll find out!”