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
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 arrives. 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 weir
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
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 in-patient 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 h
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 wonder 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
If I thought being in a hospital with Moby had been stressful, going back to work, dealing with the house issues, and Moby still being in rehab brought a whole new meaning to the word. I've only been doing this a few days but I'm so exhausted I've started talking to myself at night when I'm home alone. I hope my loss of sanity is temporary, and I try to celebrate the little accomplishments, but I'm nearing a point where I'm going to be unable to function. Rationally, I know it's transitory, but my ability to hold onto a positive outlook is waning along with my energy. The weekend will only bring more of what I'm already facing. I have weeks of work to catch up on for Healing Wings, I haven't cleaned the house or the condo in countless days, and both yards need attention before the neighbors start complaining. Jotting down my weekend to-do list, I begin to dread each new day starting. I fall further and further behind with each sun that sets. The medical bills were already star
I hate this place. I've only been here a week, but I can't deny what it's doing to me mentally. I see my personality changing, the darkness breaking my spirit, the long days of rehab doing nothing for my psyche but forcing me to acknowledge just how bleak my future is. Every day, I see a physical therapist for an hour, an occupational therapist for an hour, a speech therapist for an hour, a psychiatrist for an hour, and group sessions, that while they only last an hour seem endless. I'm the youngest person here, other than the staff, by at least thirty years. I have nothing in common with anyone surrounding me except they too have given up the fight.It's hard to stay positive, or even motivated when nothing in my body functions the way it did just a few weeks ago. If I hear one more time, your brain has to form new pathways to relearn the tasks you once did I may punch someone in the throat. I don't want to learn new pathways, I don't want to learn to walk again, I don't want someon
My palms are sweaty driving to the hospital. Moby asked me not to visit him last night. It hurt my feelings. I could tell he was in a dark place, and I should be by his side, but I respected his wishes and went home. I caught up on sorting through the bills, and made some calls to different doctor's offices working out payment arrangements. I had no idea they'd give us discounts for paying in cash and not breaking the payments up. Armed with this knowledge, I organized the bills into different stacks, the smallest first, calling each provider, asking for a discount and wrote checks to every one of them dropping them in the mailbox before I left. I promised myself I'd work on the second stack today.With those bills in my purse, I'm making the drive to the hospital to join Moby in a physical therapy session. I'm not sure why he wants me to come, but if it's important to him, I'm not going to question it. Cam waved me off when I asked about leaving for a couple hours. Somehow I've mana