THE
STROKE
The morning of December 2, 1995 did
not appear to be eventful. My wife and I were to attend a Christmas luncheon
at the Atlanta Men's Garden Club. In retrospect, I possibly made my biggest
mistake at breakfast that morning. I felt fine, but I laughingly
told my wife that my left hand felt heavy. A heavy hand? How funny!
(How uninformed can you be?) Now I realize I should have immediately gone
to the hospital. But I had no pain and was completely mobile. And, besides,
I had been in the hospital four times in the past eighteen months -- and
I felt well except for that crazy heaviness in my left hand.
Four hours later I drove to the luncheon.
We were in a merry frame of mind. The meal was great -- until I picked
up my knife with my right hand (I am right-handed) to cut my meat, only
to find I could not pick up my fork with my left hand. This now became
serious. I quietly walked (unsteadily) to our car and asked my wife to
drive me to the hospital immediately. When we arrived twenty minutes later
I could not get out of the car without help. A wheelchair got me inside
the hospital.
When I was first brought into the
hospital emergency room with an advancing paralysis from my stroke, I
was flat on my back on a rolling table. My shirt and under top had been
removed. IV needles and tubes were attached to both arms. Wires of all
sorts were attached to my chest and skull. My pants were my only remaining
garment. My shoes had been removed. For the next few hours things happened
so rapidly that I can't accurately recall what did happen. I remember
the word stroke being said by many nurses, doctors, internists,
and strangers. It was the most complete, all-encompassing, totally absorbing
period of confusion I have ever experienced. At one point I realized I
was in a bed with pull-up sides to keep me from getting out of bed. Then
I realized I could not even turn over in bed. Then I found my whole left
arm did not work. And my hand and my fingers would not work. My whole
left side was paralyzed. I was afraid to check further. Nurses checked
me all over every two hours. I insisted my left leg was okay. I was told
it was paralyzed, but I could not tell it because I was flat on my back
in bed.
Was it getting worse? Yes, it was.
First my fingers on my left hand, then my forearm, upper arm, shoulder,
left leg -- all of my left side. When would it stop progressing? Nobody
knew. Would it affect my voice, throat, eyes, ears, face, right side?
Nobody knew. When would I get over it? Nobody knew. Was there anything
that could be done to improve my condition. Possibly, yes. What? Therapy.
Also, very rarely, these things just clear up quickly of their own accord.
Why might this happen? Only God knows. How long will it take for therapy
to show improvement? This is an individual thing and varies with the individual,
depending on the severity of the stroke and the general condition of the
patient. Some, rarely, do not improve at all. Most improve some with therapy.
Some improve faster than others. How fast is fast? The effort given in
therapy by the patient has a big bearing on the results. Can an estimate
be given as to how long therapy must be continued? No! It may be weeks,
months or years. The best answer seemed to be to continue it as long as
improvement continues.
For some unknown reason, I never thought
in those long horrible nights immediately following my stroke that I would
not survive the night, though others did. The first choking thoughts that
drove me to the edge of despair were those that painted pictures in my
mind that my stroke might advance to the point where I could not speak
nor see nor hear nor move, and still be alive. At times those thoughts
completely enveloped me and then became unbearable. Then I prayed.
My paralysis got worse for about three
days and then leveled off. All the while, x-rays, CAT scans, and MRIs
of my brain were made. On the fifth day I was told by the neurologist
there was nothing more that could be done for me. The MRIs had shown that
the blood vessel causing my trouble was deep in my brain and inoperable.
All that could be done for me was to give me medicines that would, hopefully,
keep me from having another stroke and to move me to the inpatient section
of the hospital where I would receive therapy and be taught how to live
with a left side paralysis if I did not improve. I was moved that day
to another floor for therapy and to be taught how to live a full life
with half a body.
***
There is a necessity for
finding out early how badly a stroke patient's brain has been affected
cognitively. There are many ways this can be done. But I do not believe
this information on the patient should be collected in group sessions.
At this early time after the onset of a brain attack, the patient is still
crying out for understanding and is grasping at straws and bits that can
be most misleading. To sit with a group of strangers who are brain-damaged
like you, every afternoon for two hours, and to be asked questions about
your name, address, who was the President of the U.S., your age, and how
much you could remember from a five-minute random reading from a newspaper
could only be fact-finding. I fail to see its therapeutic value, since
each session sent me crying to my room more depressed than the afternoon
before.
***
My fifth day in the hospital
was important. I had been told by my neurologist that there was nothing
medical science could do for me since the culprit blood vessel was too
deep in my brain -- not a very optimistic revelation. My stroke was beginning
to stabilize enough for me to look realistically at my situation. I was
paralyzed. My left side was gone. Only God knew if or when it might come
back. The day flew by in a blur. My wife and children went home to try
to get some well-deserved rest. The nurses gave me my last shots and medicine.
I wanted to sleep, but my room was just across the hall from the nurses'
station and the hustle and bustle of the comings and goings of shift changes
created understandable noise that would not let me sleep.
After the midnight shift change, I
asked that my door be closed tightly to keep out the noise, but sleep
still would not come. After an hour or so of this, I decided I wanted
some water. I reached for the glass of water with my right hand, only
to find that the rolling table by the side of my bed that held my three
essentials -- telephone, water, and urinal -- had been moved out of my
reach, and the sides of the bed blocked me in. I reached for the buzzer
to call a nurse and found that it had fallen on the floor. I called as
loud as I could, but then realized that tightly closed doors kept noise
out and also kept your voice in. I had to urinate. I needed water. I was
paralyzed. I could not turn over. I could not be heard.
In my 84 years I had never been so
helpless -- so all alone. My thoughts ran the gamut. My situation led
me away from sleep, not toward it. Instead of counting sheep to induce
sleep, I started humming old hymns I remembered from my childhood. Many
of them had the word alone in them. My alone-ness was about to
overwhelm me when suddenly I seemed to calm down with the feeling that
I was not alone. It was as though someone that I could not see was now
sitting in the darkness at the foot of my bed. Then a quiet voice reminded
me that God said he would always be with me. He would never leave me,
and I relaxed. And I prayed for relief from this stroke -- as He saw fit.
And I went to my first real sound sleep in five days -- at peace and ready
to go if He called.
***
A person who has suffered a stroke
that causes a paralysis of a complete arm, leg, and back on one side faces
some normal functions that simply cannot be performed in what was a normal
manner before the stroke. Necessity now must become the mother of invention.
And, almost always, a substitute method can be found -- but not always
immediately. Personal hygiene will wait just so long, and then action
must be taken. But, remember, you cannot turn over in bed or get out of
bed into a wheelchair without help. Hospital rules require a complete
shower bath at least every third day, and you really look forward to it
-- the first time.
All males who find themselves in this
situation must abandon all thoughts of pride or dignity. Most nurses in
hospitals who give baths are female. Today, nudity seems to be quite common
in one form or another among the younger generation, but this one slipped
up on me. I had been in hospitals before, but not when I was paralyzed.
I had been given "sponge baths" of a sort, but a complete "head to toe"
job took me by surprise. I was deeply grateful, but every ounce of dignity
I took into that shower room went down the drain before I got out. One
dear lady recognized my embarrassment and relieved my humiliation by telling
me she had raised three teenage boys who were extremely allergic to clothes
and that the exhibition of male anatomy appeared so often in her life
she could give lectures on the subject. Some people know just what to
say to relieve frustration.
A sign should be placed at the entrance
of the shower room that reads: "Ye men who enter here, abandon all thoughts
of vanity, pomposity, or vainglory."
***
As well as I was treated while an
inpatient in the hospital, I just couldn't wait to get out and go home.
I had been in the hospital almost a month and had been outside its walls
just once since I had been admitted. That once was a time to be remembered.
To prepare for going home, stroke victims have to get out of bed and walk
with a walker or cane out among "real folks in the real world," and control
and independence are the name of the game. A stout, wide fabric belt is
put around the waist of the patient to give the accompanying therapist
something to grab if the patient threatens to fall -- and off they go.
My destination was Northlake Mall. I didn't think I could even get out
of the bus that took us to the mall, but I did. I was on my own after
they got me inside, and I was told I had to find my own way. If I got
weak, I was to find a bench myself. We wandered around and I spied a Florshiem
Shoe Store. I knew I could sit down there. I went in, and to the amazement
of my therapist I got fitted and bought a pair of shoes. It was now time
for me to be amazed. I had forgotten that I was dressed in hospital garb.
I had no wallet, no money, not even any identification. And I had just
bought a hundred dollar pair of shoes. The clerk looked at my hospital
garb and thought I was from an insane asylum. The therapist refused to
get me out of the jam. I had to leave the shoes for my wife to pick up
the next day. We all laughed about this later. I saw the therapist nine
months later. She called me "Shoes" and laughed.
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