Writing With Purpose

Only after being transferred from the ICU to a hospital room, did I become fully aware of my debilitated body. Don’t get me wrong, I knew about all of my symptoms, but until I tried to function independently did I begin to understand how the stroke had truly affected my being.

My vision had improved slightly–meaning that my eyes were no longer wild, each eye moving about like pin balls–but I still could not see. I could not see the words in a book, a computer, or even a television. My eyes only delivered a blurred landscape with shadowy figures. My waking hours were spent with an eye mask. The only time the eye mask was removed was for visiting doctors and trips to the restroom.

I say trips to the restroom, not because it was far away–the private bathroom was 6 feet away–but because I could not stand on my own two feet (not mention the IV dangling from my right arm, the oxygen monitor on my left arm, and the circulation pumps on both legs). I had such intense vertigo I did not which way was up or down. I needed a human crutch to assist me to, in, and from the restroom.

And even though I couldn’t see very well, this did not stop me from trying to journal. I tried to write in my journal, but it was large, incomprehensive markings. My mother, figuring the journal was too small, tried to remedy this by purchasing a large notebook. No luck, everything I wrote could be easily trumped by a kindergartener.

I also noticed that my right hand was wild and uncoordinated. Without deep concentration my flailing right hand would careen into a cup of juice, knocking it over. Or when I wanted to simply scratch an itch on my face, my hand would fly towards my face and hit my eye. I even had to cut all of my fingers nails off because the nurses were afraid that I would injure my face between the wild hand and the numbness on the right side of my face.

Half of my face was completely paralyzed. There was no movement on the right side, I couldn’t even close my eye. It was as if someone drew a line straight down my face and injected a permanent form of Novocain. I could feel one side of my nose, but not the other; I could move one side of my mouth, but could not open the other side. My speech was undoubtedly affected as well as my ability to keep food in my mouth; each meal was half in my belly and half on my belly. Needless to say, I changed hospital gowns frequently.

Also my hearing was completely gone in my right ear. I would instinctively put the phone to that ear, harshly reminded that I could hear nothing. I quickly began saying “Speak into my good ear.” I figured one day I would have to say these words, but at the age of 81 not 31.

There is one advantage to having all of these symptoms at 31, just within the four days in the hospital room, I was making vast improvements. So much so, even the doctors were surprised. I attribute this mainly to my “young” age–my body can fight harder, stronger, and longer than someone twice my age–combined with my will to get better.

The doctors’ prognosis is that I will be operating at 90 percent after six months to a year. But this timeframe would have to include a lot of physical therapy. More specifically, three weeks of inpatient therapy at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago and an indefinite amount of time in outpatient therapy.

After my big brain procedure, I was held in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital, which was an indication how off course the surgery had gone.

The original plan was that I would be in recovery for a few hours, then up to my private room where I would be monitored overnight and released the next day. Instead I was in the ICU for two days and the transferred to the brain/seizure unit of the hospital for the next four days.

The reason for this prolonged hospital visit was the sum of my symptoms: lack of vision, standing/walking disorientation, lack of coordination on the right side of my body, paralysis of the right side of my face, and loss of hearing in my right ear. All of this added up to a stroke.

So essentially, the most feared complication of my procedure occurred. And this, my friends, is how I ended up in the ICU. During the couple of days I was there, I must admit I don’t remember too much.

What I do remember is being as helpless as the day I was born, but far less cute. I had to be fed, bathed and dressed. I was sleeping every few hours. I even had a Foley catheter in place so I did have to get out of bed to use the restroom. I even spit up on myself.

I was in a very fragile position. I could tell by the facial expressions of my visitors that all was not well. Just the nurse’s hourly rounds let me know that I was not in good shape. The cherry on top of this mud pie was the fact that I was visited by over a dozen doctors, some I met along surgery way.

Most of these doctors performed tests that reflected their specialties: neurology tested my coordination, vascular tested my blood flow. They all shone similar flashlights in my eyes and offered me a vague, uncommitted promise that I would get better. I knew they also made similar promises to the other patients in ICU. They had to.

To be in the ICU, your life, to a certain degree, was in question or you wouldn’t be there. Nor would you hear the death buzz–a deep, rhythmic, honking alarm from a machine presumably monitoring a person’s most vital signs–that made all nurses run towards that sound; you knew someone’s life was hanging on a limp limb.

I knew there was no way that I came close to setting off this death buzz, but it is unsettling to know that your neighbors have moved from serious condition to no condition at all. Now I’m no doctor, but I would have listed my condition as critical, but stable.

Luckily, my condition improved enough I was transported to the next phase of a one-month hospital stay. (Yes, I’m still in the hospital.)

“Being sorry for myself is a luxury I can’t afford.” – Stephen King