I slipped out the door and went to work out at the gym across the street. My wife was on a business call and I didn't want to disturb her, although normally I wouldn't leave the house without telling her. I planned on doing 30 minutes of treadmill intervals and then hitting the weights. In the warm weather I split my workouts between swimming and the gym. The gym was quiet and there was only one other woman using the back treadmills. It started out to be a normal workout. I much prefer weights to the treadmill, but at least the intervals would break it up. Shortly after beginning my intervals, I was unable to move my right foot, like chewing gum stuck to my shoe. Heavy. Very heavy. Until I couldn't move it at all.
I wasn't panicked but I knew something was not right. I really couldn't imagine what was happening. I had the presence of mind to stop the treadmill. The woman on the treadmill three down from mine was getting off and picking up her things. I yelled to get her attention. I told her I was having a medical emergency and to please get help. Those would be the last words I would speak for about 20 days.
Although I don't know who, a gym manager I presumed, came. I could not see anyone because I was literally frozen to the treadmill and my back was to him. I heard him say they should help me lie down. I didn't think I could stand much longer. I wondered how they could help me lie down if my foot was stuck on the treadmill.
I was semi-aware that an ambulance had come for me. As they wheeled me out, I remember thinking that the gym wasn't very busy. I saw no one in the lobby. I remember being loaded into the ambulance. I was vaguely aware of the trip to Northwestern, which was only about three blocks away. The ambulance ride was bumpy. I had no memory of leaving the ambulance.
I would have no memory at all of the Stroke Team that was assembled the minute I arrived. I had no memory of repeatedly vomiting while the doctors worked as I vomited. Cardene. Mannitol. Intermittent awareness. Something about an MRI and CT scan. The clanking of a gurney, memory of the doctors telling me I had a brain bleed. They must have. I was told I cried a bit. Someone asked me a question, I put my hands between the rails of the bed and answered the only way I could. My tightly clasped hand made into a fist was my "no." Open fingers meant "yes." My hand seemed childlike and even this childlike communication was difficult. I used only my left side. I was unaware that my right side existed.
I was sleepy. Very sleepy. I felt like I was an infant. I felt small. Very small. Just a baby lying in my crib. I wished someone would pick me up and care for me. I had the thoughts of an adult even when I pictured myself as a child.
My favorite nurse was Mary Margaret. To be honest, she was the only staff I remembered after recovery. She was to be the only name I would remember although my stay was filled with nurses, doctors, and neurologists. Mary Margaret. I couldn't say it, but I will never forget her. Mary Margaret would guess until rewarded with my outstretched fingers for "yes" or clenched fist for "no."
One day I was concerned because I was being given injections of Heparin. I was concerned as to why I was being given Heparin and I had no way of asking. She must have superhuman patience in order to figure out what I was trying to convey. I pointed at her laptop and she read every entry until she got to the drug Heparin. I was elated. I was able to make her understand my concerns. Never mind that it must have taken an hour for her to figure out what I needed to know! I had such gratitude for her patience, caring touch, and kind voice. She was all I knew. I knew that somehow, sometime (if I survived this bleed), I would come back to thank her.
Mary Margaret made a sheet of simple questions and answers. I must have pointed to "I have a question" hundreds of times. My card was filled with handwritten notes that made my rudimentary communication somewhat easier. "Call my wife," "bathroom" and "thank you" whenever someone helped me. Sometimes I poured over the list over and over trying to find that particular questions. I took that sheet of questions to RIC. I am proud to say that I worked enormously hard and although I still have word searching difficulty, I can speak freely. I still keep that card that Mary Margaret made and toted it around until I no longer needed it. One day we were looking through our papers to keep or throw away. The chart from Mary Margaret was a definite keep. I don't need it anymore, but I think we as human beings will always need a Mary Margaret and the humanness and empathy she conveys.
On the one year anniversary of my stroke, I planned to walk over (yes) walk to Northwestern to give Mary Margaret a thank you card and a gift card. My wife said, "Do you think she is still there?" I asked my neurologist and her reply was "of course, and she is one of my best nurses." New questions, my wife said, "do you think she will remember you?" I wasn't worried about that. I wrote a card, tucked a gift card inside, and headed to the hospital. Mary Margaret was coming out of a patient's room. She responded with delight and we hugged and hugged. A warm, caring, genuine Mary Margaret hug. And then she exclaimed "you're walking, and talking, and you've dyed your hair pink." I had recently dyed my hair pink to have fun. Never mind that the patient whose outcome was considered iffy was walking without any device whatsoever, was talking with very little word searching, and walked into the hospital alone. We hugged again at the off the cuff comment.
Mary Margaret has a healing touch.