The first hint of trouble came as I got out of bed the day after Christmas at 6:30 a.m. I stumbled because I had gone all weenie-legged on the right side.
“Well, that’s strange,” I thought. “Must have slept funny.” I flippered off to the bathroom.
I reached for the toothbrush and knocked it over. Clumsy. I picked it up and started brushing my teeth, but almost bashed a tooth out. My gum throbbed where I had jabbed it — the only pain I felt at all.
But because I have lived with my wife’s stroke for six years now, I knew exactly what it meant when one whole side of your body decides not to play the game anymore.
I tried a few quick tests to see how bad it was — smiled to see if one side drooped, stuck out my tongue and waggled it side-to-side to see if it obeyed my commands, arched my eyebrows equally. No problems there.
I stood first on one foot, then the other. My right leg, I estimated, was hitting on about half of its cylinders. It would be important to keep track of its progress, I thought, amazed at how crisply analytical one part of a brain can be while some other part is turning to mush.
And then, within a few minutes, everything returned to normal.
A few other tests: Could I write a coherent sentence? Read a paragraph and understand it? No problem there—until a few minutes later, when the vision on my right side got sort of…I couldn’t think of a word for it. “Zazzled,” I would say.
I guess I should have been alarmed that “zazzled” was the best I could do, because the inability to find a familiar word is common in stroke victims. Still, if you’ve read this column for any length of time, you know that my vocabulary can be pretty flooby.
“Shimmery,” I said aloud, proud that I had a real word that others might recognize. Accuracy counts when it comes to explaining a condition. My vision wasn’t blurry, or flashing, or swimming. It was shimmery (although I still think “zazzled” is better.)
But that, too, lasted only a few minutes.
I had a good idea what it was: a “mini-stroke,” although the term isn’t quite accurate. It was a transient ischemic attack (TIA), a fancy way of saying that a clot had blocked off blood flow to part of my brain, sending those cells out to lunch, taking with them whatever functions those cells control. The only difference between TIA and stroke is that cell disruption with TIA is temporary because the clot dissolves before damage is done. With stroke, those cells are out of action permanently.
So, what to do next? With stroke, as with TIA, time is of the essence. A stubborn clot can be dissolved with a drug called tPA, but only if treated within a few hours.
I knew this, but after all, I felt fine now. All symptoms were gone, which meant the clot was gone. Besides, I couldn’t leave my wife alone. Her disabilities require a caregiver 24/7, and that’s my job.
Someday my headstone will read: “Here lies equal parts of devotion and denial.”
So, I made a decision:
I decided to make soup. I have always used the Christmas hambone to make split-pea soup, but I hadn’t done that yet. Unfinished business.
I went to work chopping carrots, onions, and celery while the bone was on the boil. I hummed an old blues song with the lyrics “You can boil my hambone,” but I don’t think it’s really about soup.
A bay leaf went into the pot with the veggies, along with a dollop of devotion and a dash of denial.
It may have been the savory scents that woke my wife, so I helped her get dressed and brought her to the table for breakfast. But because I can’t keep secrets from her, I told her about what was echoing around in my head-hole.
She flashed into action, pointing toward the north where the hospital sits only about a mile away. She can’t speak because of her stroke, but her gestures and facial expressions can still be eloquent at times like this: “Get your ass to the hospital, and take whatever’s left of your brain with you!”
“But I don’t have a caregiver for you,” I said, “and they’re probably gonna make a big deal over this.”
She motored her wheelchair out the door, dragging me in tow. She pointed to houses across the street, houses that held neighbors who might be willing to help. One neighbor, Erin, is a nurse, so I agreed at least to ask her opinion.
Erin confirmed that it sounded like TIA. She insisted that I go to the hospital.
I balked, but Erin reminded me that I would be of no use as my wife’s caregiver if my condition became as bad as hers—or if someone had to order that headstone from Amazon for me. She offered to stay with my wife all day and overnight, if that’s what it took.
Erin, it turns out, is not only a nurse but also an angel of mercy.
Twenty-four hours later — after doctors’ scoldings that ranged from delaying action to driving myself to the hospital — the hospital released me with a prescription to take aspirin and a statin every day for the rest of my life, the only daily medications I have ever taken (unless you count strong morning coffee and even stronger Irish whiskey in the evening. The hospital declined to give me either one. Reason enough to steer clear of hospitals.)
So, if you’ve read this far, you probably know that I’m going to offer you some lesson I’ve learned from all this. Well, here it is:
Go easy on the salt in your pea soup. It’s easy to over-zazzle if your attention gets flooby.
