“I feel lost rimble now. I’ve in the hostel after hat a stroke.”

 For seven years, I’ve been a professional writer, most recently a health and medicine reporter, translating complex issues into stories for the Chicago Sun-Times. But those nonsense words were all I could manage for a journal entry on July 12, 2011.

That was four days after I became one of those people I’d written about.

I was getting dressed for work when it hit.

Even after a full night’s sleep, I felt a wave of fatigue suddenly wash over me.

A couple of minutes later, my right arm and right leg went limp, and I collapsed.

I kept trying to get up and kept ending up on the floor.

Finally, the realization: I can’t move my right side. I’m paralyzed.

I’d been writing about health and medicine — a lifelong interest. But, right then, none of that helped. I couldn’t think, couldn’t fathom what was going on. I could only lie on the floor, helpless, unable to get to the phone to call 911.

I passed out, and my world disappeared.