A Rude Awakening

There's an article in a 1959 Kiwanis magazine from an author by the name of H. Allen Smith, a well-known (at the time) curmudgeonly New York writer, called "Don't Tell Me Things are Looking Up" which was anthologized in the Reader's Digest "Fun & Laughter" book that was rather popular around the Meyer house back in the day. This particular article struck home with me because describes as aspect of the Author's character which perfectly aligns with my own.

After opening with a description of his youthful encounter with a sidewalk shell-game operator (in which he dourly predicted that "maybe it ain't under none ubbem!" and was denounced as a "terrible pessimist", he says:

I didn't know what a pessimist was, but eventually I looked the word up. That man was right. A pessimist, says the dictionary, is "one who expects misfortune or the worst outcome in any circumstances." That's me. I never sat down and decided to be a pessimist; I'm just pessimistic by nature. And I contend that I and my fellow pessimists lead a more sensible life than do our optimistic neighbors.

It does not surprise me when bad things happen. I rather expect them. In fact, much of my brainpower (what little remains) is devoted to inventing scenarios of possible disaster that might occur in the context of every day life.

Plumbing leaks. Electrical fires. Shelving collapses. Basement flooding. Car malfunctions. You name it, I've dreamt it.

This extends to my own physical well-being, of course. As you probably know, I've suffered from migraines for years. For the most part, I've always attributed them to stress or sinus issues, both of which are an integral part of my life. The doctors and allergists and therapists (and I've talked to more than I can count) all agree that it could be any one of a number of things, and all the tests have been inconclusive as to a singular cause. And I've tried a number of things to resolve the issue. I took allergy shots for a number of years; that reduced their intensity but not necessarily their frequency. I took (and still take) migraine meds nearly every day but only after it got to the point where I couldn't ignore the pain anymore; for those days where it stays at a manageable level, I just deal with it because I don't want to destroy my liver any more than is necessary. Exercise helps. After a good, long walk or run, when the oxygen is coursing through my veins and I'm near the runner's high, the pain disappears - for a while.

But I've always known that there is just something not quite right inside. As with most people, I deal with the random quirks of my body as best I can. Everyone has their own issues, everyone has their own workarounds. And everyone inevitably deals with the consequences of an imperfect body.

And I always knew something was going to happen.

Here is where I admit a bit of real stupidity. Or avoidance. Or whatever you want to call it.

I was having a wonderful Friday night phone chat with my folks down in Texas about various topics. I was excited about the upcoming trip in April to see the family and celebrate my dad's birthday. I was sitting upstairs in my office in my comfy office chair, laughing and smiling (yes, smiling! it does happen!) and wrapping things up so I could spend some time with Cheryl doing our nightly ritual of watching the 10 o'clock news. My laptop was waiting for me downstairs with a cool Linux project to work on. I said good-bye to my folks and stood up to head downstairs. And ... something didn't feel quite right. Things were a bit ... off.

But it was getting late. It had been a long day. And I am always very tired around this time of night. So I walked downstairs ... but felt kind of sluggish. My brain felt a little foggy. I'm just extra tired. I plopped down in my comfy living room chair (I have several 'comfy' chairs) and placed my laptop on my lap and started typing my password. Hmmm...my fingers feel odd. I'm having trouble pushing the keys down. Wow! I'm more tired than I thought. So I abandoned that idea and said to Cheryl, "I'm really tired. I'm just going on to bed." Which didn't surprise her. I'm often fading out by that time of night. Comes from being old and getting up early in the morning.

So I walked upstairs. Odd. My left leg is dragging a bit, toes tripping on the edge of the stairs. I'm seriously tired! And crawled into bed with no preliminaries. 

And woke up the next morning. A beautiful, lovely Saturday morning.

And something was still wrong. My left leg and left arm were surprisingly weak and I was stumbling as I went into the office. Stumbling enough to set off alarm bells. And they were apparently loud enough to wake up Cheryl, who immediately decided it was Time for Action.

So it was off to the Emergency Room!

Cheryl drove.

And within a short time, I was lying in a bed in an Observation room, all decked out in a fancy hospital gown and hooked up to all kinds of fancy monitors.

All Dressed Up & Ready for the Prom!

They did the usual cans (CT & MRI) and the usual tests ("Touch your nose with your finger...") and came up with the diagnosis that I had, indeed, suffered a minor ieschemic stroke in my right hemisphere. And then they went to town on getting me set up for an echocardiogram (ECG). Because for some reason unbeknownst (or unbecomprehendst) to me, they suspected something might be going on in my heart.

(Spoiler alert: There is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, and I watched the 'live' ECG to prove it!)

However, due to the delay in getting the ECG scheduled, I had to stay the night. And eat the cafeteria food. And get woken up every couple hours by people poking and prodding and asking me to touch my nose.

So when Cheryl and Mary finally came to pick me up and take me home on Sunday, I was very, very tired. And still a bit stumbly.

But the kids had bought me a beautiful deep-blue cane to use, so I had absolutely no trouble walking down the hall to the elevator, and then out the door to the car which would be taking me home!

And I got to bring home this fancy gadget here - 

Check it out! I'm Bionic!

- which is a heart recording device that has to stay attached to my chest for the next 14 days. And then I pop it into a little box and send it to a lab in California.

(And don't get it wet!)

So -- yes, I had a stroke.

But I'm not particularly sad about it. Because I'd imagined this scenario millions of times in my imagination. Worse, even.

So the fact that my recovery is slated for roughly 3 weeks is good news so far as I'm concerned. It could've been far worse.

And considering how my blood pressure has been these last few years, really not much of a surprise.

Not quite sure how I'm going to handle the consequent diet restrictions, though. Cutting down on salt, of all things! Do you know how many things depend on salt for flavor? Everything!

Oh, well. Carrots and celery and cherry tomatoes and spinach leaves are good, too, I suppose. But I usually dowse them in Ranch dressing, which has lots of (you guessed it!) salt. No more!