In which Dad has a mini-stroke, and we go to the hospital.

We had a bit of Emergency Room excitement in the family last Saturday.

My brother Rick was up for a visit, and we were with friends at a comedy night to benefit the terrific After Prom event that the high school PTA puts on here in Sandwich. The comedian had just wrapped up his set of relatable, parent-friendly jokes and I was just about to enjoy a rare second drink when my phone buzzed: Mom and Dad. I missed the call but hustled out to catch the voicemail, by which time Robin, my 12 year-old, was rapid-fire texting from home:

u need 2 call grandma

she thinks grandad had stroke

he can’t talk and can’t get up

i don’t know what to do

i told her call ambulance

I called Mom and we got the ambulance on its way. Headed back into the building and signaled Rick we had to leave immediately – some quick words to friends, and we were off. Called Robin to say we’d be home late, and that she was so, so right and smart for telling Grandma to call 911. (My god, I’m proud of that kid. She took a frightening call, but she’s as level-headed as any grownup and significantly more so than her poor Grandma.)

When we caught up with Dad at the hospital, his symptoms had somewhat abated. He had tests, and we waited around, unable to keep our eyes open, unable to sleep. Saturday night in the emergency room is eventful. I couldn’t help wondering what was up with the terrified young couple clinging to each other in the space next to Dad’s. Then there was an urgent call for Narcan.

At some point, my mother, fed up of waiting for news and getting ready to start snapping at nurses and aides, turned to Rick and said “this is the worst part.” “No, Mom,” he said. “The worst part is that Dad is suffering.” I wish I could say it is dementia that makes her lose perspective, but her own status has always been front and center for her.

Eventually Dad was admitted for observation and further testing. We returned Mom home and got to bed about 4:00 Sunday morning.

Dad spent a couple days being examined. It is especially frustrating for him to be in hospital, because he is almost totally blind, and his hearing isn’t great. I’ve observed over the years that there are some people who intuitively do well interacting with a blind person, and many more that don’t seem to have a sense of how to be helpful (or an inclination to be). The proportion appears to be about the same among nurses as in the general population. I’m always very grateful when someone is assigned to him who really understands that activities need to be narrated, and clearly, because it’s so frustrating for him to know something’s happening around him and not be told what it is. That said, everyone was pretty great this time around.

Discharge day was sort of a comedy of errors. The hospital had lost his pants, which had somehow never made it up from the ER. I called Mom, who by noon had bothered neither to dress nor have breakfast, so couldn’t leave to come get him for at least an hour later than we’d hoped. His pants turned up and we waited for her. Then she drained her car battery to zero by sitting at the wrong hospital entrance for another hour with everything running but the engine (where was her cell phone? at home, on the counter).

Anyway, he’s home again. It turns out that neither the CT scan nor the MRI showed evidence of stroke; yet, classic stroke symptoms did occur. Doctors conclude that he likely had a “mini-stroke,” but that even so, there’s nothing different that would be recommended medically to address it. I wish I could say he’s himself again, but whatever this episode was has taken a toll. He seems disoriented and foggy and confused.

On the other hand, he has resumed his obsession with light bulbs, so maybe all is not lost.

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