Diary of A Stroke

DIARY OF A STROKE


I remember vividly the day that my life, as I knew it, ceased to exist. It was the morning of May 8, 1992. A strange shuffling noise awakened me. As I lay there, half-asleep, I tried to determine what the noise was. I realized it was my husband. He was walking into the bedroom but was dragging one leg. As he sat down on the side of the bed, I went over to him and asked if he was okay. He tried to tell me that his leg had fallen asleep, but his speech was so slurred that he could not get the words out. It hit me like a ton of bricks---STROKE. I worked with seniors and knew all the signs and was well aware that time was of the essence. I got dressed, made two phone calls, one to the hospital and one to my daughter. She said she would meet me at the hospital. Returning to the bedroom, I somehow got my husband dressed. I do not know how I got this man of 200 pounds, who could not walk, out the door, down the steps and into the car.

We lived in the country and I knew it would take less time for me to take him to the hospital myself than to wait for an ambulance. Concentrating on the road while trying to keep my eye on him at the same time was difficult. The drive into town took about twenty minutes but it was the longest twenty minutes of my life. It felt more like an hour. I was imagining all the things that could go wrong: flat tire, accident or God forbid, another stroke. My daughter was waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital. She was a welcome sight but her face expressed the same fear she could see in my eyes. My husband and I were immediately taken into an examination room

As I sat beside his bed, the nurse examined him and I finally allowed myself the luxury of tears. I could see this was upsetting him so I left the room and sat with my daughter in the waiting room. We tried to comfort each other by telling ourselves that he would be fine. The doctor called me into the examination room because there were questions that needed to be answered and my husband could not speak. After several minutes, the doctor gave me the diagnosis. There was that word again–STROKE. He told me to wait outside and he would be with me in a minute. The increments of time were meaningless to me. Minutes, hours, they had no definition, no reality. After what seemed like forever, a nurse informed that my husband was being admitted.

My daughter had to leave for work, but said she would be back that evening. I was led to a waiting area where my husband lay on a stretcher. The most difficult thing I ever had to was stand there and try to comfort him when all I wanted to was scream, “This isn’t fair!” There I stood watching my spouse of thirty years lying on a stretcher crying. His tears only made mine seem inconsequential. He tried to place his hand in mine, but it would not move. Trying to turn toward me was an impossible task. There was no control over body movement. Each time movement was attempted and failed, a new look would come into his eyes. It was not fear but more “What’s happening to me?” He was asking questions with his eyes that he could not put into words. I bent over him and for a moment our tears mingled together. I could not let him see the worry and fear in my eyes. Thoughts raced through my mind like a kaleidoscope. Would he recover? How much damage had been done? How do I tell the other children?



Finally, the nurse came to take him to his room. The long walk down the hall was like the drive to town, never-ending. My mind raced with thoughts of eventually having to go home to an empty house, not knowing if or when he would be there with me. How could I leave knowing the anxiety and fear he must be going through. Some thoughts made sense; others did not. As well as looking ahead, my mind was flashing back. I had just lost my mother three years earlier and this fuelled my fear and anxiety.

Finally he was settled in his room. I saw that look in his eyes again, a mixture of shock, disbelief and anxiousness. He seemed to be asking me, Why am I here?”. The more I looked at him, the less I wanted to. I knew if he saw my uneasiness it would not be easy for him to ignore. The fear I felt would only serve to convince him that he was in serious trouble. Agitation was not something he needed right now. I sat with him for a while, but could see he needed rest. As long as I was there, he would not. Leaning over the bed, I kissed him and told him I had to go home and get his things but would be back later. He accepted this by nodding.

As I drove home, I began to take everything in. The silence in the car was deafening and my thoughts had a clear field. Then began the “What Ifs”. What if I had awoken sooner? What if I had seen this coming? What if I had called an ambulance? What if I had not stopped to phone? At this point, the what ifs seemed more important than the what was.

When I arrived home, I sat down at the table with my face in my hands and tried to take in the events of the last few hours. Just then, my dog came over and began nuzzling me in welcome. That was all it took. The floodgates opened and I cried till there were no tears left. However, I knew that I had to pull myself together. After all, I had to go back to the hospital.