“I need more cups. Yeah, the little ones you hold in palm of your hand.” Burt’s right hand was on the spigot of the five gallon thermos jug. But his other hand, extended, was empty. Evelyn, his wife, was arranging the filled plastic glasses on the table. Barbara, Carl’s wife, was retrieving birthday napkins from the supplies they had at the ready behind their drink table. Carl was under the table, trying to find the boxes with more cups.
“Coming right up,” Carl called as he tried clumsily to get to his feet from under the table. His hand reached up to grab the table edge put slipped off as he fell backward onto the ground.
“Whoa! Watch it, big fella.” Burt side-stepped, then turned to see what happened. “You okay? Carl?” Carl was sitting on the ground, staring into space, his back against the table legs. His right arm was waving helplessly in smaller and smaller circles.
Barbara turned to see what happened. “Carl!” She ran to him, knelt in front of him, and grabbed his face. “Carl, talk to me!” Carl moved his jaw but no words came out.
Evelyn, an ER nurse, took one look and said to her husband, “Call 911, now!”
Burt turned to her. “Why? What . . .?
“Can’t you see his face is sagging on the left side? His right arm is not moving now. And he can’t talk. He’s having a stroke. Call 911!”
Next Day –
Evelyn brought two cups of coffee and offered one to Barbara, who was sitting in the waiting room of the ICU at the medical center..
Barbara nodded her thanks as she took the cup but just held it in her two hands. “Thank you . . . again. I don’t know where we would be if you hadn’t reacted so quickly.”
Evelyn sat next to her. “My training. It just kicked in like it was supposed to” Evelyn took a small sip from her cup. “I’m sorry they couldn’t do more here at the hospital. When Carl got here, they did the CT scan and found he didn’t have a clot. He had a bleed. Sorry, he had a ruptured blood vessel which was bleeding into his brain. That’s why they didn’t use clot busters. He didn’t have a clot in the blood vessel.”
Barbara set her coffee cup down. “I don’t understand. They said they wanted the blood to clot. Why?”
“Carl had an aneurysm, a small weakness in the arterial wall that ballooned out like a bubble. His high blood pressure probably served to weaken that bubble wall even more. And it burst. They wanted the blood to clot in that area to stop up the hole in the bubble.”
“I told him he needed to be more careful about taking his blood pressure medicines.” Barabara shook her head while holding her forehead in her right hand. “And what are they doing now?”
“It’s been 36 hours since the bleed. They are placing a stent over the clotted area to stabilize the artery and keep it from bleeding again. They would have put a clip on the bubble area, but the bubble is in a difficult area to place the clip. This is a touchy situation. It could bleed again in the next two or three days. So, they will keep his blood pressure under control here in the ICU and watch for spasms in the areas around the bleed that might decrease blood flow in the stroke areas . . . and we wait.” Barbara shook her head again as the tears began to flow while Evelyn gathered her into her arms.
Seven Years Later –
“I tell you what, ole’ buddy, I never thought I would hear you talk again.” Burt shook his head, sitting in a chair in Carl’s make-shift artist’s studio, watching Carl add colors to his pencil drawing.
“Well . . . I’m not talking so good . . . even . . .yet. But, it’s coming . . . slowly.” Carl paused, holding his paint brush carefully in his right hand with some support from his left hand. “I have to stop and . . . think of the . . . words . . . I want. I am still doing speech . . . therapy twice . . . a week. And I . . . I par-ti . . ci-pate in a Zoom . . . call with others . . . who lost their . . . voice to a . . . stroke. Therapist says repe . . ti-tion makes it work. Over and over. Practice. Practice.”
Burt shook his head. “And the right hand is doing so well. Wow.”
Carl’s smile was a bit crooked but it was genuine. “The art work was . . . some . . thing the thera-pist saw in a jour . . nal. Called neur . .” Carl paused and swallowed. “Neur-al plas-ti-city. The nerve pathways in the . . . brain can re-wire itself . . . when the origi-nal pathways are . . . blocked.”
Burt laughed. “That’s rich, bro’. The electrician gets his head re-wired.”
Carl nodded slowly and laughed with him. “I’m thankful . . . for every . . . blessing. I thought I would . . . never talk again. But, here I am.”
