She starts talking as she reaches into a new pocketbook, apparently purchased today. “Brooks took me to this cute little restaurant just outside the mall. The whole place is out on a deck, and it’s gorgeous outside. They have all kinds of yummy dishes. I had a seafood omelet. Here it is.” She produces a white envelope meant for me.
“What’s this?” I ask taking it from her.
“Renee from the gym happened to be in town this weekend and brought this from the guys. It’s just a get well card, but I thought it would cheer you up.”
Sticking my finger under the flap, I tear open the envelope and pull out the card. As soon as it’s free from the constraints of the paper surrounding it, something falls from inside to my lap and on the floor. Brooks steps up to gather the loose paper while I open the card. Each of the guys and many of my clients have written little notes inside, covering every free inch of space. Brooks hands me the notebook paper that had fallen on the floor. Opening it, I read more of the same who weren’t able to fit their sentiments on the card. I wasn’t expecting to find a check folded in with their additions. Attached to it is a sticky note, We know it’s not much but want to make sure you and Piper can buy what you need while you’re there. Get home soon, buddy!
My eyes fill with tears as I wave the paper around to get Piper’s attention, not wanting to speak for fear of breaking down. When she reaches my bedside, I hand her the note first. She smiles, but when I hand her the check, her hand rushes to her mouth as she gasps. My co-workers and clients collected twenty-five hundred dollars to aid my wife and me. My parents couldn’t remember to get Piper a hotel room, or make sure she had food, but my friends sent enough money to make sure our needs were met while we’re here.
Piper’s beside herself, unable to express her gratitude but I see it on her face.
“Did you know that’s what was in here?”
“No. She called and asked me to meet her down there because she didn’t have time to come up to visit. She just said she had a card. I thought it was sweet but had no clue it was anything else.”
“How the hell do we thank people for this?”
“With thank you cards.”
“Seriously, Piper? You can’t send a thank you card for everything under the sun.”
“Why not? They aren’t expecting anything from you, Moby. They did it because they wanted to and because they love you. None of them are asking to be repaid or likely even acknowledged, so why not give them thank you cards? You’d be surprised how much it means to people to get a hand written note.”
I grab the back of her neck with my good hand, pulling her mouth to mine. Kissing her deeply, too deeply for a hospital room but my brother’s seen worse. Brooks clears his throat, loudly. When Piper pulls away with an enormous tell-all grin on her face, and swollen lips, I see a room full of doctors and their protégés.
Before the doctors even start to speak, I get the feeling this is the day of reckoning, as if today, we find out what the rest of our lives will hold. Every free minute I’ve had I’ve been on my phone reading what I can about strokes—what to expect after, the intense therapy, the long-term effects. It’s a lot. I’m preparing myself for it, but I don’t think Moby has any idea. I haven’t had the heart to tell him he isn’t just going to wake up next week and be able to walk and have use of his arm and hand again. His speech is getting better each day, but it all takes time and work.
Dr. Ryan speaks for the group. “You’ve had a stroke, we already knew that, but we didn’t know why, and I still can’t say with one hundred percent certainty, but we have a pretty good idea.” She erases the whiteboard in the room, taking a marker in hand, she starts drawing what appears to be a neck and brain. The squeaking of the dry erase marker is eerie in the quiet of the room.
“There are two major blood vessels that feed the brain called vertebral arteries. In normal people, those arteries are essentially the same size, one feeding each side of the brain. In your brain, the right side is significantly larger than the left, so much so it’s been making up for the lack of flow from its partner.”
She looks at Piper and me to make sure we’re following her before continuing. “The strain on the larger artery caused a dissection—”
“What’s that?” Moby wants to understand what’s going on in his body. He takes good care of it and is still struggling to understand how this could have happened.
“A tear. Unfortunately, every MRI you’ve had done has shown the same spot being an issue but with the angle it faces the equipment, we can’t tell if there’s actually a tear, was a tear, or if there was a clot that has shut that segment of the artery off. It’s almost like a camera took a picture of metal on a sunny day. The glare reflects back making it impossible to tell. What we can determine is that’s where the stroke took place. There’s no blood leaking from the artery. Had you gone to the hospital any earlier, tPA likely would’ve killed you.”
She watches both of us as we take in everything she says. “tPA thins the blood to allow it to continue to flow to prevent damage to the brain. In your case, had it been administered, you would’ve bled into the brain, and there’s no way you would’ve survived.”
Moby and I sit in total silence; I’m unable to process what she just told us. I understand the words, but the meaning is unimaginable. Twelve hours was the difference between life and death for him. Twelve hours. And for once, procrastination saved the day.
“So what happens now?” I ask hesitantly.
Dr. Tau takes a seat in one of the chairs in the room, leaving the students standing in the doorway. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think Moby was ever a candidate for a stent. Dr. Sandhar and Dr. Ryan consult on a lot of cases and my personal opinion, although Dr. Ryan vehemently denies it is, Dr. Ryan was better equipped to handle your case. A brain stent is unnecessary; it’s a risk we don’t need to take. There’s no evidence of continued bleeding in the brain, the balloon in the vessel where the stroke took place has subsided.
“Moby, my professional opinion is we need to get your blood pressure stabilized. It’s better but not where we need it. We also need to get you in physical, occupational, and speech therapy. We’re going to keep you here until we figure out what drugs work with your body to control the BP. You’ll start therapy today, and we’ll see how things go on a daily basis. When we get your BP down to 135/90 and keep it there for twenty-four hours, then we’ll look at where you go next.”
“Will we get to go home then?” I ask.
“Unlikely Moby will. He will probably go to an inpatient physical therapy hospital, but we’ll talk about it when we get to that point.” She pats Moby’s foot under the blankets on the bed. “Do you have any other questions?”
“When can I get this catheter out?” Leave it to Moby to ask about something stuck in his dick in front of ten people instead of the nurse.
“We can take it out, but the option is peeing in a jug. Totally up to you at this point.” Dr. Tau is sympathetic, but I don’t think Moby has taken into account the reason he has a catheter is because he can’t walk to the bathroom.
“Take it out.” No discussion, a decision made. Moby wants it out.
I can’t help but giggle at his impulsive response. The girls in the group of students blush just slightly as Moby pulls the covers back ready to expose his dick to an unsuspecting crowd.
“I’ll send Alyssa back in to remove it.” Dr. Ryan is trying to contain her laughter but not succeeding all that well. She shakes her head at him and tells us she’ll be back later to see how we’re doing.
When Moby’s parents return from some fancy lunch in Mt. Pleasant, he fills them in on the events of the day. His mom seems disappointed they won’t be doing the stent but instead of questioning it, I ignore her. She pulls me aside to apologize for her oversight the night before and had I not known Moby coerced her it might have felt genuine. Nate on the other hand, his apology feels heartfelt.
As the atonement is wrapping up, the cavalry arrive
s. This room seemed large when we first arrived but slowly adding the Wrights, the Coopers, and my Fish dwarfs it. My parents won’t be far behind, but they had to wait until the business closed to make the drive.
“What’s the word, Mo?” Joey pushes his way to the front of the group. I’m surprised we haven’t heard more from him while we’ve been gone but should count my blessings he’s been all right. I was worried he’d never leave Moby’s side.
I listen from the corner of the room as Moby offers what there is to tell which isn’t much. It’s weird, we’ve been here for a day and a half and really have learned nothing other than Moby doesn’t need the brain stent, and he will start physical therapy at some point.
The gathering quickly becomes what all of our gatherings are, loud. The great thing about having a large group of friends is when something happens, you’re never really alone. There’s always someone to stand by your side. No matter how hard this ride becomes, our friends will always be there to help us keep our tanks full so we can keep driving. Everyone’s talking like we’re sitting in Cam and Dax’s living room watching a football game instead of a hospital room with his little brother lying in the bed.
The rest of the week feels like Groundhog Day. Over and over. The movie, not the actual day. Each day is more of the same. People poke and prod Moby; we hang out in his room watching TV, the therapists come around and do their thing with him, then we’re alone again. Our friends were here for a couple days, but they all had to go back to work, as did my parents, and Moby’s.
Alyssa pops in the room, “Hey, guys! Want some news?” She’s beaming. I hope that’s an indication she has something positive to share.
“Absolutely.” I don’t care if Moby wants news or not. At this point, I’d take any form of entertainment. I’m going stir crazy sitting in the confines of this sterile torture chamber. The only time I leave is to go get Moby or myself something to eat or drink. It’s against the rules for him, but I don’t care. If he can eat soup, he can eat ice cream. And yes, that’s my professional medical opinion.
“You guys may be getting out of here in the morning. Moby crosses over the twenty-four-hour mark in about thirty minutes. There’s a case worker coming to talk to you about where he’ll be going from here and how he’ll get there.”
She leaves as quickly as she came.
“That’s awesome, baby, tomorrow may be the big day.” The look on his face scares me. He’s not happy but I can’t quite put my finger on the emotion lurking behind his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Just more of the same in a different place. You’re not going to keep hanging out with me all day. You have to go back to work. We need the income. I don’t know…it’s just not as exciting as I thought it would be. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I kept hoping I would wake up, and this would all be over. That it’d all miraculously disappear. I’d be able to walk and use my left arm, but it’s not going to happen, is it?”
“No. It’s not. I’ve talked to the doctors and nurses when you’ve been out of the room doing therapy or having a test run. It’s likely a long road.”
“Like weeks?” he asks. I shake my head. “Months?”
“Maybe.” My voice is weak with little to no encouragement behind it.
“Longer?”
“You will get the most function back in your first year. The first twelve months are critical recovery time. Both Ryan and Tau said based on your physical condition prior to the stroke and your age you can make a full recovery if you want it…but you’re going to have to bust ass to get it.”
“Piper, my recovery is all I have to do. If I can’t work, I’ll work out. I’ll do whatever it takes to reach a hundred percent.”
I don’t know how to respond to him. I want to believe him but I’m not sure he fully understands what he’s up against. His muscles all have to learn to work with his brain again. All of those pathways his brain learned when he was little, training him to walk, write—all of his motor skills, have been disrupted. It’s like a roadblock and his brain has to figure out the detours with no GPS.
With the caseworker’s help, we make the decision to try to get insurance approval for Peace close to where we live. It’s an inpatient rehabilitation facility near Healing Wings. Piper can come after work or maybe at lunch without having to drive to another county. It ranks the best facility in the state for the care I need.
The caseworker is trying to get approval from the insurance carrier today. If all goes as planned, we will leave tomorrow—Piper in her car and me in another ambulance. I argued to ride with her but the caseworker, who’s name I can’t remember, pointed out if I’m able to ride with my wife and don’t need the medical attention provided by an ambulance, it’s unlikely the insurance company will agree I need full-time physical therapy.
It irks the shit out of me we have to play fucking games to get an insurance company to say it is or isn’t okay for me to do this or not. To think it’s in some clerk’s hands whether I receive the therapy I need even though the doctor has said I do is irrational.
My frustration is mounting day by day. Nothing in my body works the way it should. My entire left side is unusable from my shoulder to my toes, nothing moves, no matter how hard I try. I go to physical therapy every day and drag my body putting ungodly pressure on my right side to compensate for the left. I can’t remember shit, and I don’t mean the typical guy, I can’t remember anything like before. I mean, Piper tells me something, and two minutes later I don’t even remember having the conversation, much less anything said in it. My moods are all over the place, one minute I’m happy, the next minute I want to rip someone’s face off. Piper notices but doesn’t say anything. I see the pity on her face; she knows there’s something wrong but just keeps loving me through it. She’s as lost as I am but she’ll keep faking it until we make it.
Around eight o’clock, we finally get confirmation the insurance company approved the move. The hospital sets up an ambulance transfer for tomorrow morning, and we will go home. Well, Piper will go home. I’ll be going to yet another facility.
At some point, she has to get back to a semblance of a normal life. She has to go back to work; she can’t hang out with me in the hospital all the time, although I love having her. I can’t imagine what the house looks like. I act like we’ve been gone months, maybe because it feels like an eternity since we left our house when in reality it’s only been nine days. Nine mind-numbing days of sitting in hospital rooms doing virtually nothing but spending money— and not on anything good. I dread seeing the bills on the hospital rendezvous.
I’m sure Piper thinks of it too, but I keep worrying about having two mortgages, our household bills, and only Piper’s income to pay them all and add to that, an ungodly amount of medical debt. My wife didn’t deserve this fate. She waited for thirty-six years to marry, hell to even accept an engagement ring. She deserves someone who takes care of her, in all aspects. I can’t even do something as fundamental as bring home a paycheck right now.
Right now.
I chant those words in my head. Trying to force myself to believe this is a temporary situation. Nothing about this is permanent. The doctors have said I can make a full recovery if I put my mind to it and put the work in.
Right now.
That’s a temporary place in time.
Right now.
That’s not my destiny. Right now only accounts for this very second, this one little blip in time, a microcosm of life. I want to believe it. I want to hold on to the present and not worry about the future, but for the first time in my life, my life isn’t about me. It’s about her.
Everything is about her.
Us.
Our future.
Walking down the halls of the third hospital in our tour around the state, I have to say this is, thus far, my least favorite. The lights seem dim; the walls need a fresh coat of paint, there are no people in the halls, it’s unnervingly quiet. Nothing about this place screams life, and I inaudibly w
onder how many people simply come here to die. It doesn’t even have the typical sanitized smell—it’s musty, like old people.
I peek in the open doors as we follow the attendant pushing Moby’s wheelchair to his room. Maybe it’s simply because people who have strokes are typically elderly, or considerably older than Moby, but everyone I see looks like a wax statue. There’s no color in their skin; no movement in their bodies; no one is visiting with them. They’re just all old. Decrepit. Waiting to perish.
I can’t leave Moby here. There’s no way I can leave my bright, vibrant husband to die inside these walls. His spirit will never make it here, not for any length of time much less the four to six weeks the doctors are speculating. As soon as we reach his room, I immediately open the blinds to let in as much light as possible. The sunlight floods through the slats offering a slight different view.
I realize it’s not so much the room itself. Sure, it’s plain, with a standard hospital bed, stark white walls, a closet with a sliding door and a bathroom. The unique handrail all around the room allows the patient access to move some and get to the bathroom. The rooms and the halls look like death warmed over because no one is allowing any natural light to penetrate their fortress walls. Maybe someone should tell them darkness promotes depression.
“Baby, make sure you keep these open all the time. Well, not all the time but anytime there’s even a speck of daylight in the sky.”
He doesn’t ask why. “Okay.”
He doesn’t question me when I push the bed up against the right wall, forcing him to engage his left side. He watches me intently but says nothing. It’s amazing what little things you can learn on the Internet about patient care. There are so many ways to rearrange their house, their rooms, and anything else they use regularly to keep them from neglecting their weakness.
Men specifically are very good at training their good side to do all of the work to make up for the deficit of their less agile side. Not going to happen. Moby’s going to walk again. He’s going to lift weights again. He’s going to hug me with both arms and pick me up in a bear hug. It will happen even if I have to see to it myself.
Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) Page 12
