The Magic Shoes

SG's rainbow Crocs

Well, not long after I finished last week's post, SG went outside to talk on his cellphone to a friend, something he does once a month or so, and I thought nothing of it. He was wearing these shoes when he came back inside and said something to me. I couldn't understand him. It was unintelligible. Uh-oh, I thought: this isn't right. He grabbed our whiteboard and wrote, "Difficulty talking." I asked him to raise both arms, and he did, but his left one didn't come all the way up. "I'm taking you to the hospital to see what's wrong," I said. When he didn't object, I knew we were in trouble. I drove him carefully the ten minutes to the hospital while he sat in the seat next to me, using the whiteboard to "talk."

When I drove up to the emergency room door, I rushed out to tell someone that I thought my husband was having a stroke. Almost immediately, he was whisked away in a wheelchair and the attendant asked me to park my car and then come back, which I did. My temperature was taken and I was asked a few questions before finding out where he was. When I walked into the room, he was surrounded by five or six people who were doing various things, and a nurse told me he was being taken for a CT scan to see if they could identify a bleed. He was lying there with his head back, eyes closed, and the shoes sticking out from under the bed. I was afraid until the doctor reassured me. He was still unable to say anything understandable, but he could almost form words, and I was relieved that he didn't seem any worse.

I learned that they were working quickly to determine whether or not to give him a dose of Alteplase, a drug that dissolves an ischemic stroke blood clot. I was asked when this all began, and I told them it was only an hour ago, or less, and they got two doctors on video to help us decide whether or not to administer it. By this time, SG was able to form a few words, which relieved me somewhat, and after consultation, he and the doctors decided against the treatment. While I watched, they asked him some questions and performed a few cognitive tests to determine how bad the stroke was. I was now able to see now that the left side of his face was drooping, and that he had definitely had some sort of event. As he lay on the stretcher, the rainbow shoes continue to elicit plenty of comments.

It's no exaggeration to say that I was scared and frightened for him, but the amazing treatment he was receiving made me again grateful for the incredible care we receive at our local hospital. The head nurse also made sure I knew he was likely going to survive and had what appeared to be a mild stroke. "Mild" because he was conscious and able to communicate, even though he couldn't talk. She told me that he was going to be admitted, and since by this time it was after noon, I went home to get some lunch.

When I returned, he was not in the room, and I panicked for a minute, before I was told he was receiving an MRI and a few other tests and would be brought back soon. The feeling of helplessness I was having didn't get any better, but I knew he was in good hands. When they brought him back into the room, I could see he was aware and was able to talk even a little better. He sounded like he had just finished a bottle of vodka and was slurring his words, but they were almost understandable. "He's going to be moved into a room on another floor, so you might as well go home until then," the nurse said.

I didn't want to go, but there was really nothing to be accomplished by standing around, so I went home, where I paced around the living room, not sure how our lives were be altered by this event. I wanted to be with him, to have him back and whole again, and it was impossible to know anything for certain, except that he was alive and in good hands.

When I returned to find he had been given a room on the fourth floor and was being given yet another test, so I got to see his new room before he did. When he came in by wheelchair with a cute nurse attending him, I was so relieved to see him looking alert and smiling at her, even if it was a bit lopsided. I was told that his left side was compromised, but that he did have some sensation there, which was good news. He was still wearing the magic shoes, and by this time dozens of people had commented on them. "Nice Crocs!" "Wow, those are amazing shoes!"

A doctor came in to check on him, and I was told that he had suffered an insular ischemic stroke, on the right side of his brain, which affected his left side. The most common side effects of this type of stroke are dysarthria ( a condition in which problems occur with the muscles that help produce speech, often making it very difficult to pronounce words), and motor deficits. I watched his therapist get him out of bed to use the bathroom, and he seemed a little wobbly, but able to get there without too much help. That encouraged me a lot.

He ended up spending three days and two nights at the hospital, and when I brought him home on Tuesday afternoon, he was able to walk up the steps himself, while holding onto the railing. He was so exhausted after all the trauma that he even went to bed in the early evening, which is very unlike him. I kept checking on him, and he was resting very comfortably, and my spirits rose with the hope that he would soon be okay. Part of the effects of this kind of stroke is that he had no appetite and when he tried to eat, he could taste nothing. But he could eat!

Now that it's been almost a full week since it happened, I have watched his daily progress with simple amazement. He is nothing if not determined: his therapist told him to try to pick up a quarter off the counter and turn it in his left hand. At first, he couldn't do it at all, but he persevered and showed me his progress. Yesterday I saw him with his juggling balls (actually little weighted pillows), and he would throw one from his right hand into his left. It took some doing, but now he can throw it back and forth and almost always catch it with the left hand. And he can walk briskly around the apartment, telling me he's ready for a ten-mile run (he was joking of course). But his mental capacities are not dimmed in the least, and his sense of humor is intact. What else does a person need if you've got that, and a partner who loves you? And magic shoes, of course.

And love him I do: I am beginning to become proficient in Stroke Dialect and can almost always understand what he's saying to me the first time he says it. We will be seeing the doctor after three full weeks on aspirin and Plavix, as well as a statin, and he is determined to get over this as quickly as possible. He has begun to taste food a little, and although he says it's not the same, at least it's beginning to return somewhat.

My heart swells with love for him several times a day, and I am happy to see his progress as I try to keep my desire to help him in check. He has always been an independent and stubborn soul, while I crave to make it better, to help him however I can. The best way is to support him emotionally while letting him do the hard work, I'm learning. We both are during this time. And several people have wondered, as I have, whether the stroke occurred because of Covid, which he had in late March. There's no way to tell.

It doesn't really matter at this stage. He's been poked and prodded and tested extensively (he was tested for the virus while still in the emergency room), and he will get over this, even if his ability to talk might take awhile to return, he's made incredible progress in just a week. I'll let you know next Sunday how the week has gone, but we are counting our blessings and know we are in good hands, both here on Earth and also Up There. Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things, dear friends.