No shit, I had a stroke.
As near as we can figure, it was 26 October, mainly because I could still speak English that day. On 27 October I largely lost that ability. I had a wound care appointment that afternoon, and I had trouble communicating with the doctor. The only problem was I had been on antibiotics that week for the same wound I was visiting the doctor for, so I just chalked it up to being tired and an Exciting New Side-Effect To Discuss With My Infectious Disease Doctor. Fun.
Over the weekend I finished my antibiotics (I am not losing my leg, regardless of the suspected side-effects unless I’m bleeding out my eyes), and took it easy. I wasn’t talking much better, and my head still felt fuzzy, but I figured I’d just have to discuss that with the Infectious Disease doc, and the fuzziness could have been just because I was tired. Or if it kept getting worse I’d go to Urgent Care. It’s only 15 minutes away.
Stacie ran me through the standard tests for a stroke, too. Stick out your tongue and make sure it’s pointing straight out, smile, raise my arms, etc. Nothing. Of course, we hadn’t checked Google for symptoms of a stroke, we didn’t realize “difficulty finding words or speaking in clear sentences,” “sudden memory loss or confusion, and dizziness or a sudden fall.” I hadn’t fallen, but I was having trouble talking and my memory was going to Hell.
Then Monday, 30 October, I went to work. I was still feeling a little fuzzy, but I wake up at 4AM. Went to work, and I noticed a New And Exciting Symptom – I could not write English without a lot of errors. And when I stied to talk to a coworker, I could not find the words. Like I would try to talk about Voltron, and I couldn’t figure out the word “Voltron.” Yeah, we talk about old cartoons quite a bit. Anyway, he seemed concerned with my inability to talk. Like he was giving off serious “are you OK?” vibes.
Part of my job involves labeling wires. Almost every panel I build has one or more bundles of wires coming off it to be connected to other panels. Since it’s a bundle of largely identical wires, they need to have a clear, concise destination legible written on it. No big deal, get some masking tape, stick a bunch of strips on a self-healing cutting mat, and proceed. It’s something we could outsource to untrained high school students. It’s also easy and time-consuming but absolutely necessary, so I was doing it that day to take it easy until I could figure out just what the Hell was going on.
Usually I can churn out these labels pretty quickly. It isn’t exactly a difficult process. Sure, I have the occasional typo, but that’s just life. That day I was having 3-5 typos or “what the Hell is that letter?!” per pair of labels. I would literally try to write a “4” and get something that looked like a deformed “Y.” And my head was getting foggy beyond words. After 3½ hours or so I decided to track down my boss and tell her I was going home and then to the hostibule.
Problem: all of the bosses in my department are in a weekly meeting at 9:15AM on Mondays. And it can last anywhere from half an hour to at least an hour. And it was pushing 9:30. OK, fine. I’ll start cleaning up for the day and wait for the bosses to finish their meeting. No big deal. By 10:00 I was getting really foggy and couldn’t write for all practical purposes. And my speech difficulties were making communication almost impossible.
So at 10:15 I sent my wife a text to let her know I was on my way home. “How<s home of wogis_” Whatever the Hell that means. Then I tracked down a coworker and told him I was going home and to tell the boss as soon as she got out of the meeting. He asked if I was OK, and all I could say was “no.” Ten minutes later I was flying down 610 at about 80mph. Blissfully unaware that the brain damage had already taken place, and that most of the time strokes have sever physical side effects. In short, I should not have driven to work, much less back home in that condition.
Walked in the door and Stacie asked something about going to the hospital and I said “yes.” And even single-word answers were becoming difficult at this point. Any attempts at conversation were incredibly fatiguing. I later learned that was completely normal for someone recovering from a stroke because the brain has to work that much harder as it reroutes things.
Stacie told her boss she was taking me to the hostibule, and we decided to go to the ER rather than Urgent Care. They’re on opposite ends of the building, I suspected Urgent Care would just transfer me to the ER, and by this time I have frequent flyer miles there.
Packed a bag, threw it in the car, and headed out. Our conversation was largely one-sided. I was rapidly losing the ability to speak coherently by the minute. It had been 5½ hours since I started my shift at work, and my Englich was becoming difficult beyond words.
And I had no clue what was wrong.
Stacie and I approached to intake desk, and Stacie did most of the talking. Apparently the ER staff was very familiar with strokes, so even before I was done describing what was wrong with me they have a wheelchair and were discussing the room I was bound for. Turned out it was the stroke trauma room (I don’t remember exactly what it was called, but it was close).
To say that was terrifying would be an understatement. You think “stroke” and you think one side of your body simply doesn’t work anymore. Or any number of other nightmare scenarios. I don’t scare easily, but this did it.
Next thing I know they have me stripping and gowning up. They wouldn’t let me drink anything, but I could have ice chips – they were afraid the stroke had done something to my throat and I could choke. And forget food. But that didn’t matter, because I was too worried to have an appetite. Had a CAT scan, hooked up to an EKG (a nifty portable unit about the size of a pack of cigarettes), and they confirmed it was a stroke.
They eventually determined I wasn’t going to have any issues drinking, so I could have water again. Woot! Go me!
Between the tests and other festivities, there were phone calls to be made. Stacie called my boss to let her know what was going on. Then she had to talk to HR to explain where I was, to start the short-term disability claim, etc.
The next step was to transfer me to another hostibule. It turns out the Maple Grove hostibule isn’t set up for strokes. That’s Robbinsdale’s gig – they have a straight-up stroke center. So they did the necessary steps to get me in there.
And then it was a bunch of Hurry Up And Wait. Stacie went home eventually simply because there was nothing else she could do. And the critters needed feeding. So there was that.
Around 10:00 that night I got to ride in an ambulance for the second time in my life. The EMT that rode in the back with me was a nice guy, and he kept me talking, probably to distract me from the fact that I was tied to a bed in the back of an ambulance that seemed to hit every bump on the road from Maple Grove to Robbinsdale. Bedside manner 10/10. And it was snowing. I got there and they wheeled me through the hostibule and up to my room. Where I would spend the next few days.
For the seventh time since 2020, I was in the hostibule.
Well, at least they weren’t hooking up any IVs (I had the port for it installed at Maple Grove, but they only used that for some IV fluids and contrast for the CAT scans) and nobody was cutting anything off. So there’s that.
Until you’ve spent several days hooked up to an IV, you have no idea how much of a pain in the ass they are. Especially trying to sleep with that god-damned pump throwing a screaming shitfit about nonexistent blockages. Or when you move your arm wrong and it bends inside of you and starts to bleed. Or when you have to pee and the tubes all tangle up because they were spawned by Satan Himself.
I could wander around my room at will without that IV pole tagging along. It wasn’t a huge room, only a little bigger than my home office and most of that was taken up by the bed, but it was truly wonderful to just be able to go to the bathroom without the IV.
Nobody was going the double-gown and face shield route either. That was kind of refreshing – the last four visits to the hostibule were in the ICU because I have hella diseases festering in and on me. I am kind of surprised I haven’t been labeled Patient Zero yet.
For once I didn’t have to go through all that, and I wasn’t complaining.
But I digress.
As soon as I got to my room there were a few basic intake questions, and then I could go to sleep. I’d been up since 4AM and it was damn near midnight.
That was Day One.