Taiji for Life, Surviving Stroke

Ferne M. Horner

Tai Chi Magazine, Vol. 21, No. 4, August 1997

It's 6:00 a.m., I am dragging through some warm-up exercises before I start my daily Taiji practice. "Why am I doing this?" I ask myself. I could have slept another half hour, I need to wash my hair, those goons at the office will probably be on my case again today, this hurts. Why am I doing this?

Here's why I'm doing it and will keep on doing it no matter how much it hurts.

On March 30, 1995, I had a stroke. I subsequently spent ten days in the hospital (five of them in intensive care), and was away from work and Taiji for four months. I'm one of the lucky ones.

Once I was told that I had had a stroke and was going into the hospital, I knew I had to accept what had happened and work from there. I insisted on going home first. There were a few things I wanted to do to prepare--smoke some last cigarettes, pack some "sick person clothes," my CD player and music and most of all my copy of T'ai-chi Touchstones: Yang Family Secret Transmissions.

The first thing I said when I awoke in intensive care was that I wanted my book. Actually, I didn't say it, I wrote it. There was a large tube stuck down my throat to facilitate my breathing, which made talking impossible. I couldn't see to read it, so I held onto it for ten days--day and night--like a security blanket. I couldn't eat because I couldn't swallow, I couldn't watch television because of double vision. One of the nurses gave me an eye patch so I could squint through one eye and look at the pictures of our form.

Taiji stresses patience and perseverance. I was certainly patient as I listened to the entire score of Richard Wagner's "Flying Dutchman" on my trusty CD player while parked in the hallway awaiting the angiogram and other tests to determine the extend of the damage. George Washington Hospital had decided someone else's stroke was more important than mine, so I waited. "Just park me next to an outlet," I told the man who wheeled me upstairs--in my reduced state, I was unable to find the battery pack for my portable CD player.

Once out of intensive care, it was time to get down to the business of healing. There was a great deal of time to think, to breath, to meditate and to pray. I did them all. The classics say that Taiji is 90 percent mental--your ability to relax, to surrender to the moment as it is, to be aware. They say the physical moves we do are natural--like a child. As we age, we loose that relaxed, easy way and become tense and rigid. I needed all of my mind now that my body was down. Over the next four months, I grew to understand the mental discipline of Taiji Quan and knew it would take every ounce of mental strength I could summon to overcome my illness, to get well and to stay well.

Taiji teaches us to yield, find another way around the problem. That's what my brain was doing--finding different pathways to route the old needs. Finding a way to show my paralyzed throat to swallow, my left leg to hold me steady, my eyes to focus. Was I afraid? Not until two months later; before that I had been too busy reclaiming my humanity.

I was the last person anyone expected to crash. I weighed 105 lbs., looked, felt and acted as healthy as a race horse. The combination of a congenital condition, which weakened the blood vessels in my neck and a high-stress job did me in. Taiji saved my life.

Taiji Quan is a Chinese martial art based on Taoism. Its origin is vague, but the most common thought is that it was developed by Chang San-feng about 300 years ago. Taiji Quan translates as "grand ultimate fist" and has become popular in the West not only as a martial art but as a means of maintaining and improving health.

Taiji is not about big egos and pounding someone silly. It's about you--you are constantly dealing with you--your ability to deal with and handle yourself and to be sensitive to others. It doesn't matter whether you are in the office, at a party or in a fist fight, It teaches you to instinctively question your own actions and to understand the actions of others.

My doctor told me that if it were not for my Taiji practice, my stroke probably would have been much worse or I would have died.

Since the burst artery had been on the right side of my brain stem, the stroke affected my left side (here they were, those meridians we talk about in Taiji). I couldn't swallow, I lurched to the right, my balance was gone and I had double vision. Most of this went away over the four months of my recuperation. The only lingering sign of my stroke is the numbness and coldness I feel from time-to-time in my left leg and arm. Even this is disappearing as I return to my daily practice.

At the end of May, my Taoist patience was tested to the limit. I jumped out of bed, forgetting that I had a weak side, landed on my left foot and broke my ankle. An operation, six weeks in three different casts, and six more weeks in a leg brace followed. I did my standing meditation, to strengthen by legs and my mind, in the hall where two sturdy walls could stop me if I fell forward or backward. I learned to do my practice, albeit poorly, in a leg brace. Patience and perseverance is what Taiji teaches and I was experiencing it first hand.

Would I ever get back to life as I knew it? Did I want to was the real question? And if not, then what? I'm still not sure exactly what all the changes are that I will make--some come easily and some do not. The further I get from my illness, the more difficult it is to remember how bad things were and to discipline myself. I stopped doing Taiji for a while; life got busy, I felt depressed and overworked--that only made matters worse.

I tried practicing on my own but my form got sloppy and I got lazy. I tried yoga, but my identity with and belief in Taiji were so strong that I couldn't commit to it. I missed Taiji, I felt lost. Now, almost two years after my stroke, with the lesson learned the hard way, I'm back to classes and daily practice. I feel good again--about my Taiji, myself and my decision.

My teacher, Scott Rodell, has been a man of infinite patience, good advice and support. He slowed me down when I wanted to come back too soon, suggested that I participate in the formal get-togethers at our school to give me a sense of community and has been there with understanding and encouragement.

I'm told I've recovered completely though the condition remains and will always be there. On the rare occasion when I stop to think about it, I feel a bit like a walking time bomb. I'm too busy living to dwell on this too much. My recovery has been the Taiji way. I'm back to life now. My Taiji is okay, not great; my strength and balance are greatly improved. Some days it is still an uphill battle--one I am very willing to fight. Like I said, I'm lucky. One thing I do know, I will do Taiji every day.

Ferne Horner is a freelance writer who lives in Washington DC and practices Taiji at the Great River Taoist Center.