Starting Over

Steve Travarca

I’ll never forget the date: Sept. 11, 2007. I had just started my last semester at Cleveland State. I was asleep in the basement of my parents’ house, and they were upstairs. At about 3:00 in the morning I woke up, and my vision was going in and out. Somehow I ran up two flights of stairs to my parents’ room. I don’t remember, but I guess I said, “I’m going to die,” and then collapsed. They rushed me to Hillcrest Hospital, and then, within hours, to Cleveland Clinic’s main campus.

When I woke up, it was October. Later, I learned I had an AVM — arteriovenous malformation — that ruptured. An AVM occurs when the arteries and veins don’t have any capillaries connecting them. It caused a blood clot in my brain that was the size of a softball.

I remember very little from those first days of consciousness. Every three hours, the doctors and nurses asked me questions. After a shift change, they would come in and say, “Mannie, who’s the president? What’s today’s date?” I couldn’t answer them. It didn’t make any sense to me.

By the end of October, I still couldn’t walk, but I was more aware of my surroundings. My first day of therapy left me exhausted. I took a nap. When I woke up, there was no one in my room — which was rare. Someone from my family was always there. I remember sitting in my bed, thinking, “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? I’m 27 years old. I have a vocabulary of maybe eight words. There is nothing good about this.” People were telling me about wheelchairs. I said, “I’m going to fight this.”

After three days of therapy, I was walking with some assistance. I can’t compare it to anybody else, because I’m the only person I know who’s learned how to walk again. But to me, three days seems pretty impressive. My doctor said it was a remarkable recovery. It helped that I was young and that the surgeons got to me quickly after the rupture occurred.

Speech didn’t come as easily. To this day, speech skills are by far the hardest part for me. Cognitively, I’m not at the same level I was before the hemorrhage. But I’m much better than I was six months ago.

I became obsessed with improving my reading and speaking so I could get on with my life. I couldn’t read until well into the spring of 2008. At first, I had to carry a piece of paper with me that had every letter of the alphabet — capital and lowercase — written on it. I still have it. Even now, when I’m writing, I’ll think, “I know the next letter is an ‘e,’ but what does an ‘e’ look like?”

I wanted to go back to school immediately, but I wasn’t ready. It would have crushed me, going and seeing I couldn’t do it. Thanks to good guidance from my doctors and my family, I started a year ago. I had one class left, Latin American History. That class was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. All I did was read and write. It was an extension of my therapy.

When I was admitted to the hospital, I weighed 417 pounds. I’m 6 feet 2 inches. Everyone at Cleveland Clinic was harping on me, “You’ve got to lose weight.” When you get a second chance at life, you don’t take it lightly. So I said, “Let me see what I can do. I’m going to try to lose 5 pounds, and after that I’ll reevaluate. If I’m 350, I just want to get to 345.” I played that game all the way down to 200 pounds. While that was going on, I was also exercising progressively, as much as I could take. A quarter of a mile at first, and then it turned into 3 to 5 miles a day, five days a week. I did not remove any food from my diet, except for one thing: To this day, I have not had any fast food.

I just got a new job, for a consulting firm. I process contracts for government programs. I’m in training, and the learning curve is great. But it’s tough to say things are real hard. If I can learn to walk, talk and read again as a grown man, I’m pretty sure I can handle this.

— Interview by Laura Putre