Month: March 2016

First of all, let me tell you how much I miss you. In fact, I can hardly function without you, but God knows I’m trying. I realize I have taken you for granted literally my whole life. If I had it to do all over again, I would, but this gives me (us) a chance to reminisce about the good times we shared together.

As children we were taught how to catch large mouth bass and crappie by Pappaw. We also learned the fine art of hitting a baseball and fielding one for that matter too. These skills brought countless hours of fun playing whiffle ball derby. When we would break the ball, we would stuff it with toilet paper and wrap it with electrical tape. Coulda put a man on Mars with our ingenuity, right? Oh wait, we did and they made a movie out of it. Thanks, Matt Damon and the Academy.

Speaking of our rocket science skills, what about the time we used 10 pounds of Mammaw’s flour to make a football field in her back yard? That didn’t go over so well, did it? Last time she ever made us bisquits. “You idiots don’t deserve any homemade biscuits after that dumb stunt. What were you thinking?” Well woman (said only in my head), we were thinking about playing on a real field for once… Now, if someone would just mow this pasture back here, it would work a lot better. Guess who had to mow? Yep, we did and it took an entire weekend, but still no biscuits, dumplings, or even a single pancake. Okay, okay… lesson learned. Don’t use grandmother’s flour to stripe a ball field and don’t use chalk to make dumplings or bisquits. This led in nicely to my career at Sysco, don’t you think? With food knowledge like this it’s hard to believe chefs here in Portland would scoff at my food suggestions.

Remember when we discovered what happens when you hit a firefly with a bat or tennis racket? It was like a tiny backyard fireworks display. Was great until we realized the racket strings were covered with bug entrails the next day. Rocket builders we were. The only thing that helped that situation was our move to Oregon. Mammaw realized she missed us more than she did the flour, and soon the cards, letters, and more importantly to a 12 year old, the cash started flowing through the US Postal Service. All was right in the Universe again.

Now 40 years later, the universe turned upside down again. Left arm, left leg, please come back to me. I need you too much to go on like this!  We’ve shared a lifetime together and I still need you now. I go to bed holding your hand every single night, even if you can’t feel it. I’m hoping you wake up in the morning and decide to stay. I promise to never take you for granted again.

Have you ever congratulated someone because they were released from the hospital? It seems like the polite and even natural thing to do, but since my stroke in September, I’ve realized that coming home was just the start of my challenges. Let me tell you what “going home” was like for me.

First, I must tell you about the luxury of being in the hospital. It started from the moment I opened my eyes in the ICU. All my needs were met at any moment of the day. If I was thirsty, someone got me water. If I needed my pills, they were hand delivered. My pillows were fluffed each night, as I was tucked into bed.

One thing I began to notice was that each aid and assistant would always ask the same question, “When do you get go home?’

“No idea” I would say while thinking, I’m still pretty fucked up. I hope not anytime soon. At this point, I couldn’t move my left arm or leg, or even wipe my own ass without major assistance. Yet it seemed as though everyone, even family and friends, were focused on the very day I could leave the hospital, which sounded great early on, but only because I didn’t know any better.

As September rolled into November, my therapy ramped up and the primary focus of my care team was getting me ready for home. On one hand, this was a relief because Lord knows, it was costing me a small fortune to be in the hospital, but the longer I stayed, the more afraid I was of returning home.

I was dependent on the nurses button on my bedside remote. Like a teenage girl addicted to smiley face emoticons, I was addicted to this little button that resembled Judy Jetson in her iconic triangle shirt. If only the dog Astro could have made an appearance too, that sure would have been a bonus.

About two weeks before my release, the therapy team wanted to do an in-home inspection to gauge how viable my apartment would be for recovery living. I hadn’t been there since the morning of my stroke, so the anxiety of having these strangers look at every nook and cranny of my place was horrific. If I could, I would have driven home to give it a “once-over” before company, but in this case, they would have to step over any skeletons they would find.

It was determined that I could live there in a wheelchair with a few adjustments, like hand rails and high-seated toilets. Not only did I not want any of these things, but I desperately needed them all. Accepting where I was (and still am) has been a huge part of my recovery.

It was also noted how lucky I was to be on the ground floor without any stairs. Had that not been the case, I would have had to hire someone from my hospital bed to find me a new apartment and move.

So the discharge date was set for November 17^th. It was determined that I needed 24/7 care. My dad volunteered to temporarily leave his friends and home in the mountains of South Central Oregon to deal with me, and face everything he despises about city life… heavy traffic, tiny parking spots, and not knowing where anything is at the grocery store. All of this, so I could eventually get my life back.

Since then, he’s cooked every meal, done my laundry, and got me into bed each night. Whenever I felt pissy or sorry for myself, I tried to remember the crap he endures for my sake. Imagine living with your 51 year old son in a 900 square foot apartment. That’s tough for anyone, let alone my vibrant, 73 year old Dad.

Perhaps the toughest thing on both of us was when it was time for me to use the restroom. I needed transferred from the wheelchair to the toilet, and when it was time to wipe, Dad had to put his hand on my shoulder so I wouldn’t tip over and fall off the commode. That’s taking one for the team!

One day, I tried to clean up alone on the pot when Dad was in the other room. After leaning too far to the left, I lost my balance and went crashing half naked into the bathtub. You would think my biggest concern would be getting out of the tub, but in this case, I was mortified by the poop that still might be schmeared on my crack! This incident weighed heavy on me in regards to my future independence.

On May 1^st, Dad will go back to his life for good and I’m on my own. We both need it. As scary as it may be, it has to happen. Since a full recovery won’t happen before then, a new life begins solo and not in 100% health. I will be leaning on friends and family for help with things like grocery shopping, cleaning, bathing, and other life necessities.

My new humble life awaits, as if this hasn’t been humbling enough. I won’t take anyone or anything for granted ever again. Above all, this stroke taught me appreciation for the selflessness of others.

That said, certain things still get to me, like seeing my guitar in the corner and wondering if I’ll ever make music with it again. I also watch the Golf channel and wonder if I’ll ever swing a club again.

So, yes… I guess congratulations were in order. I made it home and can sleep in my own bed, which is still the best thing about being out of the hospital. Who knows where my life goes from here, but I have a lot of lessons to take with me on this journey.