Now came recovery. I was wheeled out of OR, giggling like an ass because I could speak again, into the ICU. They take things very seriously in the ICU. They tether your butt to the bed and don’t let you move much, because it’s their Life Mission to Keep An Eye On You. See all the things stuck into me in the picture? There was an IV in each hand, and one in my right elbow. What in the world was getting intravenously pushed into me? I forget. Beneficial fluids, no doubt. Maybe some antibiotics since I had a hole in my groin. I also had monitoring leads stuck all over my chest. So I couldn’t sleep on my side as per usual, because when I turned over, the wires would crimp and set the monitors off. Guuuuuhhhh. I think I got 30 minutes of sleep the first night.
There was also no bathroom, so I became a quick expert at using a bedpan. I’m pleased to say I didn’t piss myself or the bed once. This got real old real fast, however. After one day of it, I was gagging to get onto a regular floor, where I could pee whenever I wanted, alone.
I spent two days in the ICU. My incredibly awesome nurses were Melanie, Ashley and Jenny. I wrote Mercy a letter telling them how fantastic they were, and that they should all get raises. I still got very little sleep, because someone was coming in every 15-30 minutes … taking temperature, taking blood, the automatic blood pressure cuff affixed to my right arm going off automatically (why do those things have to be SO TIGHT), giving information, asking questions. By the evening, my husband had been by my side for nearly 24 hours. I insisted he go home and get some sleep.
Alone in the ICU at 1:00 in the morning, you have a lot of time with just you and your thoughts. I was still stunned that this had happened. The movement in my right side had come back that day, so for all intents and purposes, I was already fine, one day later. I was hungry, I had no problems speaking or seeing, I could even stand up (yeah, I snuck out of bed; what the nurses didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them). It seemed like the trauma of the night before was only a blip on the otherwise straight and smooth path of lifelong good health.
But it couldn’t have been “just a blip.” It was a huge, huge thing. It was a stroke, for God’s sake. What would this mean for the rest of my life? Could I ever get up onstage again? Or would I flashback to that horrible, paralyzing moment of my last time onstage — where I suddenly couldn’t speak, and the essence of who I was had deserted me? Could I still get on a plane and go on vacations? What if this happened again?
At that moment, my nurse Jenny came in to do a check. After peeing with an audience yet again, I had a little breakdown. I started to cry. Ever since my mom had leukemia, I super hated hospitals, and I especially hated being in one while something so life-altering was happening to me. Jenny sat down and held my hand. I sobbed that I was scared.
“You don’t have anything to be scared about,” Jenny soothed. “You are doing SO GREAT. Seriously. Nobody here has ever seen anyone recover as fast as you, with no lasting deficiencies. You did everything right. You got here in time, and we got that clot out, and you’re young enough to bounce back.”
I choked and cried harder. I did not feel young. I felt very old and very tired. I had already been fighting depression my entire life … the fact that I had survived this far, and went on desperately fighting it every day, every minute of my life, was fight enough. Then I had to grieve my mother, which took years to return to some kind of normalcy, even if it was a subpar New Normal. I didn’t know if I had what it took to fight this, too.
“You can still do everything right,” Jenny continued. “You seem the type to me that’s going to take your medicines every day, right?”
“Yeah,” I sniffed. “I do everything by the book.”
She smiled and squeezed my hand. “Take your medicines, follow your new diet, get your exercise every week, and you will be just fine. I promise. And you really are doing amazing. We had a woman in her forties come in a few months ago with a stroke, and she didn’t recover as well as you. Then I had a guy in his eighties come in here, and he walked out of here on his own, with no cane and a smile. You can do it. I believe in you. You are a very amazing person. You are very, VERY strong.”
Being told I was strong and amazing by a 25-year-old kid who was already an ICU nurse gave me a wry smile, but I appreciated it. I wiped my eyes and sighed tiredly. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” Jenny said. I replied that I couldn’t sleep with all this crap hooked up to me, and basically hadn’t slept for two days. “How about I get you a melatonin?” she asked. Yeah, sure, whatever, that’s really gonna hel –
Zzzzzzzzzz. Well. That was a nice four hours of sleep!
In order to get sprung from the ICU, I had to pass speech, physical and occupational therapy. I had to pull my socks on, feed myself, write my name. After not being able to write on Stroke Night (see handwriting image, Part One), it was a gut-wrenching relief to print my name as I always had (followed by a “Yay!!!” and a smiley face). I don’t think I’d experienced that level of chirographic zeal since I’d learned to print my name in the first grade. There was also a fun test where I had to list as many words as I could think of in 60 seconds that started with the letter F. (Do you know how hard I had to restrain myself? Haha.) I think I got about 30.
They also took me on a walk around the halls. It was sobering glancing into the other ICU rooms. I saw people unconscious, their entire heads bandaged, with wires going into every orifice, loved ones sitting by their beds as they did not wake up. I had the weird feeling, again, that my situation couldn’t be as serious as these. I got better too fast. Had it really been so bad?
I got released from ICU and spent a final day on the Neurology floor. I slept for almost 10 hours and got discharged that afternoon. Only three days, and I was going home, where life was bizarrely normal.
I sat on the couch for days, trying to process things. This was too perfect. No one was going to believe I had a stroke, except the people who saw it. “Surrrrre, you just buggered off work for two weeks, didn’t ya?” Ummm, no, really, I have the discharge papers to prove it.
I thought back to Stroke Night and all the factors that went frighteningly right. I wasn’t alone, or driving a car, or sleeping. (Someone had told me about a friend or relative who had had a stroke while sleeping. By the time they woke up, it was too late to escape permanent, irrevocable damage. Holy shit.) I was surrounded by friends who cared about me. There was a nurse in the audience who realized we needed to call 911, because none of us were thinking of that. I was ten minutes away from one of the best hospitals in the city. I had health insurance. I had a next-of-kin to authorize surgery. I had Jesus holding me in the palm of His hand. Good God. How could everything go so stunningly right?
My best friend Lisa had come to visit me on the Neuro floor, and I had asked her to read me some Bible verses. Just anything nice. She was flowing through Isaiah 40 and suddenly I said, “Wait. Back up and read that again.” The chapter covers almost two pages; she said, which part? “The part about my way being hidden,” I answered.
“Why do you say, O Jacob, and complain, O Israel, My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God? Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
My way was not hidden from Him. He not only knew it would happen; He was with me the whole time. And did He renew my strength. In fact … my way has never been hidden from Him, even though I felt mostly alone, always.
I don’t know about you, but even though I’ve been a believer since I was eight years old — most of my life, I felt like my prayers kind of bounced off the ceiling. I never had the close, interpersonal kind of prayers where I felt any direction, or really heard anything. Whenever I asked for something, it was kind of tinged with doubt, like I was asking Santa Claus. Even though the Bible says we can boldly approach the throne of grace, and that we do not have because we do not ask, and that the Father loves to give good things to His children … for some reason, I felt alone. Just one more speck in a sea of seven billion people. Fond of, but ultimately rather insignificant. Maybe that was the depression talking. It does that. That bitch sits on your shoulder and loves to lie to you.
There was one time, just one, that God definitely did speak to me. It was a year ago, at 3:30 in the morning. I had been frustrated because I’ve worked my whole life without accomplishing much by the world’s terms, I was 43 … and I KNEW something bad was going to happen, and soon. My grandmother got bone cancer in her early 80’s. My mom got leukemia in her early 60’s. I was in my early 40’s. I realize now that’s a rather irrational way of thinking, making a pattern of your ages … but it seemed to make a twisted sense to me at the time. It hung over my head like a sword of doom.
I was pissed, and scared, and I was telling God about it. And I heard, as clearly as I ever heard my mother say she loved me:
“You think that you are running out of time. Why do you think that? I never said that you don’t have time. I never said that you don’t have time. That is something you concocted when your mother died in your arms, because you were afraid. You are seeing patterns where there are none. Truly, I tell you, the third act of your life is just beginning. [God knows I think my life has four acts: childhood, young adult, middle age, old age.] You have so much left to do. And you will be strong. Besides your husband and sisters and best friends, your heart is softening for another generation — your nephews, your niece, your grandchild. You have a heart for love as big as the sky. Instead of the easy chair you want, strive for the strength and vigor that Joshua and Caleb had when they were 85. My beloved daughter, I delight in you, I rejoice over you with singing. You have so much left to do. The third act of your life is just beginning.”
I got out of bed and knelt, put my forehead to the floor, covered my head with my hands. It was one of the few times I have wept with pure joy.
My way is not unknown to Him. Nor is yours. It is so planned, so cherished, your days and your times destined for God’s dance with you. He catches all our tears and burns our names on His heart. If there was ever an experience that drove home that I am furiously wanted, that my life has high purpose, how many hundreds of people love me, what an absolute pillar of joy I am in God’s heart … this was it. And it was terrifying, shocking, filled with fear and pleading for my life. It was the worst moment of my life, but its aftermath has brought me joy and clarity … and an unbelievable, hardly-dared-to-pray-for-it release of the black clouds of despair that have hung over me my entire life. How wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ!! (Ephesians 3:18) How new are His mercies every morning! How can He love us so much?? I am almost afraid to be loved that way. I almost want to push it away. It is so foreign to us. But that doesn’t make it any less real.
My way is not unknown to Him. Nor is yours.
Nor is yours.