Tales of the ‘Rona, Episode 3 - pt.1: The New Abnormal

Tales of the ‘Rona

Episode 3, pt.1: The New Abnormal

ICU, Franciscan Health

Olympia Fields, Illinois 

Doctor: “You’ve had a stroke”.

Me: “Are you kidding me?”

Doctor:  “Yeah, just messing with you! We were bored and wanted to make sure those incredibly expensive MRI and EKG machines were working properly...you’re fine!”

The first two lines of that exchange happened.

The last one about the joking? Not so much.

I was finally out of ICU and looking forward to coming home to watch the Super Bowl.

I didn’t care when, I just wanted to be on my couch for opening kick off.

It wasn’t so much that I cared about a football game, it was more about a goal, a destination of home and having this thing, this monster, this spectre behind me.

My doctors had promised me I’d be home in time for the big Event, in that way that only doctors can promise things, with all manner of caveats, if’s and we’ll see’s.

It’s a variation of the ultimate parenting loophole - your kids want ice cream? 

Sure, “we’ll see”.

By Friday morning it looked like it just might happen.

I had turned a pretty big corner, was out of ICU, and my oxygen levels were looking much better.

They said I might need an oxygen tank at home but, again, I didn’t care, give me a dozen oxygen tanks, I just wanted to be on my couch.

On.

My.

Couch.

But as the day wore on, something in my right hand seemed off.

It felt tight.

It felt tingly and stabby.
It wouldn’t open and close easily.

I couldn’t make much of a fist.

I couldn’t make Spock’s Vulcan hand greeting he made  famous on Star Trek that I’d mastered.

I kept it to myself until I couldn’t.

I showed Lauren and we both agreed that I must have slept wrong, maybe aggravated my back somehow, and that in turn was screwing with my hand.

Even though I hadn’t really slept in over a week, we went with that.

Until we couldn’t.

By late Friday afternoon I’d lost most of the feeling in my hand and my arm was pretty much useless.

Lauren was strongly “encouraging” Fount, the only male nurse I encountered throughout my hospital stay, to contact my doctor.

In spite of it being a Friday night, Fount pulled it off, got through to my doctor, and the tests started up, fast and furious.

MRI’s, EKG’s, something that went on for what seemed like hours having to do with my carotid artery, and tests I can’t even remember.

Tests and more tests.

The clock is ticking boys, test me all you want, but you need to get me out of here in time for kickoff, Sunday afternoon.

Early Sunday morning dawned.

Another doctor appeared, and started typing away on the computer that all my doctors checked on when they appeared.

My screen of life and death.

“You’ve had a stroke”, she said, still staring at my Matrix-like vitals floating on the screen.

I laid back and let out a sigh.

“Really? Are you kidding me?”

She turned and looked at me with a slight smile and said, “No, you’ve had a stroke, looks like 50-70% blockage. You’ll most likely need surgery.”

I just kept staring at the ceiling.

A stroke?

Surgery?

This isn’t right, this is bullshit, this isn’t, you know, FAIR...

I was starting to smolder, fighting back a flood of tears.

This thing, this monster, this spectre, was still wreaking havoc on me.

It wasn’t finished with me yet.

No Super Bowl at home on my couch.

Damn.