My Prince Charming had to go to the hospital. He had a stroke. One of several, we found out to our surprise. And a heart attack that he does not remember.
A hole. The size of a dot made by touching an ink pen to paper, between two chambers of his heart. A blood clot. Formed by blood leaking out into the space around that hole. A clot small enough to pass through that dot of a hole fired out of his heart and landed in his brain.
Have you ever had something happen that felt like it wouldn't fit inside your head? To process what was being said to you was more than you could understand?
That was me. To look at my hero, his communication somewhat affected by that tiny blood clot, was more than my mind could understand. He is all about missiles, guided missile cruisers in the Pacific and helping to protect our country from incoming dangers. I did not know how to think anymore. I wanted to hide inside his shirt.
But nurses, doctors and florescent lights had a way of snapping me out of my self-perceived exile. Questions to answer. When it started, what were the steps that led to us coming to the hospital, what I thought of his speech, behavior and interaction with me.
We were sort of cocooned in a hospital room that became our reality. That space felt safe, in a way. I dreaded leaving it at the end of the day, but I dreaded getting up and going back the next day. It seemed that where ever I was, was where I wanted to stay.
But. Again. Time marches on and no matter how I folded up at this trauma that forced itself into our life, I still had to do things.
The good news is, he is home. He has driven his truck, interacted with his work mates, and communicated with his boss. He is marching toward normal again, and for that, I am thankful. But I don't think I will ever be the same.
