@ The ER

Doors opened and I’m whisked out the back.   There’s people – lot of people on all sides of me.  They’ve obviously been prepped of my situation and are both moving me and moving around me with a determined grace.  The Dr tells me his name, I forget it immediately.  Everyone is looking at me but not seeing ME.   Instead they are following a checklist – ticking them off line by line – yet no spreadsheet is required as they’ve done this unfortunately way too many times.  I’m at Regional Medical Center in San Jose.   I’d no idea at the time but I live only a few exits from the “stroke” hospital of Silicon Valley.

I bought my first home in November 2011.  Truly never thought I’d own a home in this state.  It was at the height of the housing slump and I went for it.  Landed a nice duplex which had been on the market for almost a year.  Was promoted as a duplex that lives like a single-family home and surprisingly it’s exactly that!  The house was dubbed “Meemaw’s Home” by the family; although I call it my Carmel Cottage.   The oldest grandson was about 15-months at purchase and I remember the anticipation of all our future memories to be made.

It was that same grandson who was to have his 8th birthday in 2 days time.

Every shred of my being submitted to anything and everything they needed to do.   I didn’t care whether I felt like a sack of grain hauled from the ER bed to the CAT Scan table and then back again.   My shoulders are broad and I’m a rather large woman so they were not able to get the neck pictures to rule out the carotid artery but they did clearly see the clot in the right-side of my brain.  At that time I didn’t even know there was a magic drug nor did I realize they were frantically trying to qualify me for it.    In the heart-health adds I’d vaguely remember them stressing to get to the hospital as quickly as possible but I didn’t understand it meant life as you know it or a whole new norm.

 

Nurse John began saying words like:  qualified, tPA, risks, hemorrhage, etc.   It was all a blur but the short of it, I qualified to have a drug called tPA.  He explained it was an aggressive thrombolytic agent, otherwise known as the “clot buster”.   To my ears he was saying “you have a chance, girl… DO IT!!”   While he was stating the risks, I was chanting, “GIVE IT TO ME NOW!!”… nicely, of course 🙂

My nurse was then subjected to my sense of humor.   I think he was a little thrown off by how engaged I was as he tried calling my family to notify them.  When he got my daughter on speaker, I started talking over him to her.  Needed Lauren, John and myself to know that I was going to be okay whether I knew it was reality or not.  I had to believe.  I had a 1 out of 3 chance that my left side would regain all or partial feeling and function.   At this point only choice was obvious…  tPA, here we go!

 

I’ll never forget seeing my neurologist for the first time.   You looked at him and felt ‘this is a wise man’.   He had definitely seen many of these rodeos and I trusted him immediately and implicitly.   Kind eyes.  Warm bed-side manner.  Exactly what I needed at that moment… and then he asked, “wiggle your fingers”.   Well, I knew he meant the left hand but for some reason I forgot how to talk to my hand.   So, I tried to refresh my memory by wiggling the other hand…. he kindly reminded me… no the left hand.    I smiled and asked him how I did it before?   He just smiled and said we’ll give it more time.

Another 10 minutes go by and I’m asked the same question but this time he congratulates me.  Ummmm…. I didn’t do anything.   “Oh but you did, you wiggled your fingers”, he reassures me.   I don’t believe him so he raises my arm and I see for myself these fingers twitching.   It wasn’t me doing the movement, it was the blood rushing back to the affected part of my brain allowing these fingers, I felt horribly disconnected from, to move.    He let go of my arm and it stayed raised.    His eyes brightened, “Great job!  That’s all you.”    All I could do was stare at this appendage that felt alien and pray for continued recovery.

For the next 24 hours, I’d be the resident of Regional Hospital’s ICU.   I didn’t realize I was the most fortunate person in the ward.