Last year I was preparing myself for a planned solo ascent of our local Mt. Shasta, in celebration of my upcoming forty-fifth birthday in July. I had done my research; the climb was rated at a beginners level. Though a novice mountaineer myself, I could certainly handle that. I was stubborn as a mule and healthy as a horse, or so I thought. I was in the process of making my body strong through a rigorous exercise regimen. Despite the climbs ease, such a feat would impress many people; especially those who would never dare attempt such an undertaking themselves. I’ve always liked to impress people, a childish vice I have never outgrown. It was to be a celebration of my life, my strength, and my determination, an affirmation of who I am, so to speak. Unfortunately, fate has a way of playing funny tricks in our lives. Certainly after forty-four years on this planet, I should have known better. Unbeknownst to me, my body had other plans, or more correct and contradictable, “my brain was to have a mind of it’s own”.   Frustrated in Oregon.   On February 5, of 2001 I suffered a massive ischemic stroke to my cerebellum. I was taken by ambulance to the local emergency room in the late hours of that evening with nausea and an inability to walk without falling over. I was sent home with the diagnosis of a bad case of the flu or possibly food poisoning. With some rest I was told, I’d be back to my normal healthy self in no time. See Bruce, I thought to myself, its not all that bad. Wrong, wrong big time.   I became extremely sick over the next two days. On the second day of my illness, I called my wife who was at work and told her, “Kathy, I think I’ve had a stroke, try coming home early, like right now,” which she did. She also called our doctor to explain, and I was sent back to the hospital emergency room. I had a CT scan taken and it showed a large stroke in my cerebellum, bingo! I told you so. I had lost almost fifty percent of the my cerebellum, almost the entire left half was totally dead or “infarcted” as the doctors like to call it, and I also had a small infarct on the right side. The doctors were understandably impressed that I was still breathing. Remember I told you how I like to impress people; well this stroke certainly did the trick. I knew it was serious when our family doctor, a friend and fellow volunteer firefighter met us at the emergency room. After she left my treatment room to exam my CT scans, she came back with tears in her eyes. Now this lady is a very strong person, of whom I’ve seen face many a stressful situation in the course of our firefighting duties. For her to cry confirmed to me just how serious the situation really was.    Over the past eleven months I have been poked and prodded by countless experts and specialist. Most of the doctors started out by telling me what they thought had caused of my stroke, followed immediately by how they proposed to fix it. When these two pieces of medical advice eventually failed, which was universally the case, each doctor seemed to silently surrender to the inevitable. This, after giving me innumerable blood tests, MRIs, CT’s, and angiograms, all to no avail. Most of them eventually simply told me that I may never know what caused my stroke and that I should move on with my life. Of course this valuable and expensive medical advice was only dispersed after both my insurance cards had been photocopied, and all other pertinent information as to the method of payment was secured. I was always impressed by the tremendous time and effort expended by those medical administrative personnel trying to determine how they were to be paid. In a few cases, some doctor offices actually spent more time figuring out how they were to be reimbursed, than their doctor did trying to cure my illness.   Forgive me, I got a little off track there, but as I tell my friends, “I did have a stroke, you know.” Let me continue.   Now it may just be me, but honestly, I can’t believe that a forty-four year old man in what appeared to be excellent health and physical condition, could simply have a stroke for no apparent reason.   I have lost my faith in the medical profession, mostly because since day one of this illness, I was the one whom figured out that I was having a stroke and pointed this out to the doctors. I was the one whom found out the reason for my agonizing pain (CPS Central Pain Syndrome) on the affected left side of my body. I even told them what medication might help (it did). So, if someone like me, with my limited mental capacity education and resources, could provide medical answers, our medical system was in serious trouble. In one instance, I even had a neurologist tell me that I was probably depressed and perhaps that was cause of my pain. He recommended that I take an antidepressant drug. I somehow felt what it must have been like for a woman back in the fifties and sixties, being told that the pain she was experiencing was all in her head. I almost suggested to him where he could put those pills of his, but alas I did not. This past year has been nothing short of an exceptional and frightening experience. I am still confused and confounded by this stroke. Though I have sometimes experienced what Thoreau called “a life of quiet desperation.” I have come to chalk it all up to bad luck, and nothing more, and I can live with that. I think.