There was a cascade of input — triangles and sky and gravel sound and music on the radio and wind and the feeling of rough cloth near my hands. I could not make sense of it all; I did not know the small triangles were trees, the larger ones mountains, the sound tires crunching snow and Snow Patrol, the jacket Gore-Tex, and that my wrists were the things attached to things called my hands. They were colors and shapes and sound and touch and sensation and my brain was no longer sorting these things out. But when I saw the red snowblowers in the parking lot turned 90 degrees and doubled, I finally had a complete thought. I comprehended what I was seeing. Red snowblowers. Sideways. Strange.

That was what my stroke felt like: like I was separating from myself.

It was Dec. 31, 2006. I was 33. I did not yet know this, but a clot had traveled from my aorta into my brain, and made its way to my left thalamus. As a result, my left brain, the expert at numbers and language and logic and reasoning, a part of it suffocated and died. My right brain, the specialist with regard to color, music, creativity, intuition, and emotions, therefore could not talk to my left brain. Numbers became squiggles, colors lost their names, food lost flavor, music had no melody.

This is not normal; this is beautiful, I thought. But I am dizzy like I am on a boat. And my head hurts.

"I need to sit down," I managed to say. I had not yet lost my words. I was in the middle of a parking lot.

"I'll go inside, and you sit here," my then-husband said, telling me to sit on the curb outside the store. That he would be right back.

He disappeared and came out empty-handed because even he knew there was a problem. "Let’s head back," he said. "There’s no way I can buy filters while you’re out here. Something’s wrong."

And eventually, my thoughts subsided. My brain went dark. Dark. I cannot remember that ride back to the house as much as I try, years later.

I was tired, so I napped. (Sleeping is not recommended immediately after or during a stroke.) I dreamed about getting lost in the snowy mountains. I dreamed about walking a frozen Alpine lake. I dreamed about losing my shoes. I dreamed about losing my voice.

When I woke up hours later, I really believed I had been in those mountains hiking — that it was not a dream. And I really had lost my voice. I had lost my words. I was unable to say, "I am trapped in my brain" or, "My memories are mixing with imagination."

Our friends had arrived to celebrate New Year's and all I could do was smile and say, "Hello." Just, "hello." They were excited to join us, and in the hubbub, I was silent. I am never silent. I also never nap.

"Hi, I’m having a brain drain," I said. I watched myself struggle. Underneath what felt like 100 down blankets, what was left of the pre-stroke self said, "That is not what I meant to say. Something is wrong." But no one, not even I, could hear or understand.

I tried to join my friends’ conversation, but the words were too fast, the subject matter switching all the time. I opened my mouth to add something, but I couldn't form the words. We went out for fondue. I don’t remember if I ate the fondue.

This was what I blogged that evening in an attempt to communicate what I was experiencing:

I am feeling strange. My brain is in a weird state right now — a combination of short brain games and lack of memory. While taking on the concept of a brain game earlier today, I suffered a memory overhaul. Now I can’t say what I want to say or remember what I want to remember. It’s just a weird situation.

Just 17 hours earlier, pre-stroke, I’d written the following in my journal:

So this is how it feels to hole up somewhere: the snow has come on and off this week, the chilly air outside has the snap of a crisp spring peapod, and all is peaceful. There is no external stimulation; my life has turned inward this week. Reading books.

When I checked my blog much later, there were comments from 12 of my friends urging me to go to the hospital. "Something is very wrong," they said. "We are worried."

People have asked if anyone around me could tell I was having a stroke. "Weren't you acting weird?" they'd ask, and my husband’s mouth would turn into a thin line, and my friends who joined us for New Year's would lower their eyes. I was acting weird, yes. But it was New Year’s Eve. My friends and husband were drunk and jolly. I was not talking. They thought that was odd, but not cause for huge concern. They thought that perhaps I too was drunk.

Besides, I did not have the classic symptoms of a stroke. The Stroke Association uses the mnemonic device FAST:

Face: Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the face droop? Mine did not.

Arms: Ask the person to raise both arms. Does one arm drift downward? Mine did not.

Speech: Ask the person to repeat a simple phrase. Is their speech slurred or strange? My speech was not slurred.

Time: If you observe any of these signs, call 911 immediately. I did not.