THE NIGHT OF
April 2, 2011 I went to bed not feeling well, but thought
it was just because I was tired from a busy week. It was a Saturday night; I had dinner with a
friend, returned home, watched some TV, and went to bed. I woke up around 11 and realized I was having
difficulty moving my right leg and arm.
I struggled to get out of bed, called a friend, and waited for her to
arrive.
As I waited I attempted to write with a pen and paper and
realized I could not coordinate the hand movements to do this. My friend arrived, helped me down the stairs,
into her car, and drove me to the emergency room. This began my journey through the looking
glass and down the rabbit hole.
I was having a stroke.
A stroke is a brain injury. Mine
was from a blood clot in my left front brain which affected my right side. The ER was a surreal experience for me. The security guard at the entrance had to
help me stand and move to a wheelchair.
Once inside I answered questions an admission person asked me then I was
taken to a small exam room. My vitals
were taken, an IV was started, a catheter inserted, and I was asked to smile,
make faces, what was my birth date, where I was, the day’s date, and other
mental assessment questions.
My blood pressure was very high so a drug was added to my
IV to quickly bring it down. In the
matter of seconds it dropped so low that I couldn’t move. I panicked and the
nurse immediately stopped the drug and I began to regain feeling and movement
in my body. With that crisis adverted we
still had to deal with the reality of my stroke.
I lay in the ER waiting for a CAT scan. I slipped in and out of fitful sleep. I talked with Tad and Jason. I tried to reassure them, which was hard to
do because I could not reassure me. I
told them to not make any plans until we had a better idea of what was going
on. I worried about my cats that I left
abruptly in the middle of the night and hoped my house would be okay.
And then I remembered to breathe, and to draw my breath
in and out in long, slow, deep breaths, and to silently repeat my mantra; a mind
calming practice that would let me relax between the medical staffs’ charging
into my ER room.
So I moved from fitful
sleep into my meditation practice and the arrival of more medical
personnel. Although I was grateful for the care and
attention I received I wanted at times to just be allowed to rest. I was so tired. Worry and fear stressed me further.
The CAT scan finally happened and I was eventually told I
was being admitted to the intermediate neurological floor. I was moved to a hospital bed which was far
more comfortable than the ER bed I had been lying on, and taken to my room. It was a long night that wasn’t over yet....
The next six days -
A tech rolled me in my hospital bed to the intermediate
neurological unit. It would be my bed
for my hospital stay. It was now the
next day, April 3, in the wee hours of the morning. The route we took to the floor seemed
long. We changed elevators at least
once, passed through areas of the hospital that were being remolded, and up and
down halls and corridors that were an endless maze. Then we were there and I was being put in my
hospital room.
It was late. I was
exhausted, but anxious, and could not sleep. I can’t recall much of that first
night other than I was afraid. I was in
the rabbit hole and everything was very strange and made little sense to me. I lay in my bed afraid to fall asleep in this
strange place, but the exhaustion won and I drifted into periods of short,
troubled sleep.
I remember buzzing for the nurse several times as I would
wake up being frightened because my hand and foot were less responsive to my
trying to move them. The nurse calmly
and patiently tried to reassure me but fear overrode her words. I tried to focus on my breath, to repeat my
mantra with each breath, but a huge fear sat directly on top of me and I
couldn’t get free of it.
I replayed the previous night’s events in my mind. I chastised myself for not going to the
hospital earlier. I jumped square into
self blame, blaming myself for having a stroke.
I felt I had let Tad and Jason down.
I did not want to disrupt their lives or be a burden for them.
How long would these stroke symptoms last? How could I function without use of my right
side? How could I drive? How would I work? How could I manage on my own? These questions and many more bounced around in
my head.
Sitting here, now, three plus years after that night I
can feel the anxiety start to enter again.
The anxiety was so powerful that night that it is no wonder that if I
could fall asleep my sleep was fitful and filled with fear. I realized that my self talk vacillated between criticisms and
attempting to comfort me. That first
night I found the self incrimination was far stronger than other thoughts.
I’m not sure if I processed this then or later in my stay
on the neuro floor, but I began to think about how this process was a test of
my beliefs in what I said I followed.
Earlier in the week, on Tuesday morning, I had taken my friend and
teacher, Dharmakeerti, to the airport.
She had been here from India and for the previous week she presented
seminars, workshops, and talks on our spiritual path through life. Deep inside me, behind my fears and anxieties,
I recalled her teachings.
Dharmakeerti has been my friend, mentor, and spiritual
teacher for years. Roger and I met her in
the late 90’s after a friend had traveled to India, met Dharmakeerti, and
invited her to travel to Peoria on her next trip to the USA. I first met her at a sweat lodge a group of
women held to honor her. Roger met her
the next day on a day trip to Dixon Mounds.
Both he and I realized that she was a true spiritual teacher. She held the title of a swami and was revered
by those in her country. Beyond the
title she was a warm, caring, genuine spiritual person who we felt would teach
us on the next part of our journey.
She visited Peoria twice before Roger’s death in 2001,
and our respect and admiration for her only grew. On her third trip here in the summer of 2002,
about seven months after he died, she began staying at my house and my work
with her truly began. Having taken her
to the airport only four days before my stroke seemed important, and as I lay
in my hospital room the morning after the stroke I found myself remembering her
words, presence, and energy.
The thought, “what am I to learn from this” drifted in
and out of my mind as I tried to sleep.
When I moved past my fear I realized that this was a major change taking
place in my life, and I needed to process and understand this. As I was crossing the threshold to sleep
another thought ran through my mind; when one door closes another always opens,
but I realized that I was now in a dark hallway waiting for the next door to
open. With that thought I finally fell
asleep.
***
I was awakened by a disembodied voice coming through the
speaker in my room asking the “lord to make me an instrument for peace”; after
all this was a Catholic Hospital. Staff
arrived on the heels of this prayer to further examine me. They needed to evaluate my ability to swallow
and manage solid foods. I could do both,
swallow without difficulty, and eat solid food.
Next they needed to check my vitals, the IV was still in place, someone
helped me wash up, change my gown, and straightened the bedding. Breakfast arrived but I was not hungry, just
thirsty, so I picked at the food and then sent the tray away.
The days I was on the neuro unit are still hazy. I was inside myself in that dark hallway
waiting for the next door to open. My
inner awareness is much better defined than my outer experiences were from
those six days. I have fragments of
memories that lie scattered haphazardly throughout my recall of that time
there, while my inner images bump around these outer happenings.
The hallway I was in was dark and one that I had not
traveled before. I could not see my way
through it and I stumbled as I tried to find a light or an open door. I knew that I was lost in an unfamiliar
landscape and that I needed to become still and allow my senses to adjust to
this darkness. Given time this would
happen; if I would surrender to the situation.
I realized that just like the night in the ER I had to let go in this
place and trust that light would find its way to me. Surrender to life and it would live itself if
I were still enough and brave enough to let this happen.
Many people visited me during that time. Their visits are not a clear part of my
memory but are recalled through deduction and reason. My feelings of that time are confused and
lost. I was wandering in a dark place
with no direction. My body was confined
to the bed, a wheelchair, and a side chair.
My thoughts were scared and confused and my spirit was waiting in this
dark hallway. It was perhaps the most
frightening time in my life.
When Roger died I was afraid, but I could move about and
others could depend on me to be there. I
took courage from others wanting me to be strong and adapted myself to doing
this as a way to move forward. But
there, in the hospital, with my body not responding to commands, my mind scared
and confused, and my spirit off in a dark place I was alone; separated from
me.
I had felt this separation when we found Roger after he
died, but I could physically move, and even though I hung out for several
months in this place of dissociation, I could distract myself from the fugue
state that now encompassed me. I was now
trapped by a body that could not respond to mental commands, and a spirit that
could not see through the darkness that surrounded it.
I remembered to breathe.
I drew in one breath at a time and released it to draw in another…time
seemed to stand still. I floated in this
darkness not knowing or caring where I was or where I would go. I had lost my way. I had no desire to live or die. Either was acceptable to me; I just floated
in this place. I would occasionally
wonder about this but would sink back into the comfort of others caring for me.
Events marked time, but time no longer flowed in a linear
fashion. Things seemed to happen not
connected to each other. A doctor and
his staff were in my room; he was asking questions of his students and they
answered. A friend had brought me a
small pillow in a pillowcase with Chinese characters on it. This doctor was Chinese and commented that
the writing was from his culture but he couldn’t read it. He identified a young female student and
said, “But she can”, and ask her what it said.
She smiled, took the pillow, looked it over, and said they were just
characters that meant good luck, good life.
The friend who gave me the pillow and another young
friend were in my room when this doctor came in again. He assumed they were my children; I didn’t
correct him; and he answered questions about my stroke. His words were reassuring and positive, but I
was still in the dark hallway and couldn’t believe him.
I didn’t want to stay in the darkness but neither did I
want to leave it. Another friend who
does reflexology came each day to the hospital and quietly worked on my hands
and feet as I continued in this darkness.
My friend and business partner was in and out of my room, supporting me,
helping me make work decisions, and offering her compassion and her
comfort. I listened, heard, and
responded, but inside I was not willing to venture beyond the dark hallway of
waiting.
***
I was sitting on this red bench of waiting. And like Ferlinghetti writes in his poem, I Am Waiting, I was waiting to decide
what I would do. Did I want to die, or
did I want to re-embrace life and begin again?
As I sat on this bench I realized that if I chose life it would be a new
and very different sort of life; is that what I wanted?
Suddenly a sparked flared in the dark hallway; a thought
entered my mind; to prepare for death I must
live life wholly and completely…. I
needed to be fully engaged in life to prepare for death. This spark was momentary but it triggered the
feeling of hope. I knew I was prepared
to die, but that death would be from giving up hope, and not from knowing that
my day was truly done. I knew this was a
big awareness, illuminated by a brief spark of light in the hallway of darkness,
this awareness and the hope I felt faded in and out of my consciousness as I
continued on my physical journey. But it
was a spark, an idea, a thought and the darkness became a little less intense.
***
Life on the neuro floor continued, and I think a routine
of sorts began. I can’t be sure, though,
because those six days are still shrouded in a thick fog. I do know that friends visited me because they
have told me so. I did ask for an anti
anxiety medication because I felt so anxious, especially at night. I realize in hindsight that my fear was of
falling asleep and waking up unable to use my right side. Ativan helped reduce this anxiety, and so each
night I would take a half pill of this.
I do have one very vivid memory from those first six
days; it was the second or third day that I was in the hospital. I had talked to both Tad and Jason each day
after my admission and although I didn’t feel I was being reassuring I kept
telling them I would let them know when they could visit. I wasn’t ready to admit to them what was
becoming clear to me; my life had changed drastically and would not return to
what was normal prior to the stroke. My
friend and business partner contacted them and told them the facts that I was
hedging on. Jason, who was only three
hours away by car, arrived on the second or third day of my being in the
hospital.
On the second day following my admission both a physical
and an occupational therapist began visiting me in my room. The physical therapist helped me stand and
pivot to a chair by the bed that had a harness for a Hoyer lift on it. The Hoyer was a part of the ceiling of my
room and this harness could be attached to me and when I was buckled and
strapped safely inside I was then lifted back into my bed. The therapist worked with me doing some light
exercises before helping me pivot into the chair. Once I was seated the PT left asking me to
remain seated for at least an hour. I
rang the nurse when I became tired, and the nurse or a tech would strap the
harness around me, and use the Hoyer Lift to assist me back into bed. I was lifted straight up toward the ceiling, and
then moved through the air toward the bed, slowly lowered into the bed, the
harness was removed, and I could lie down.
The day of Jason’s first visit I was being returned to
bed as he walked into my room. I was
laughing at the experience of “flying” through the air. What is vivid about this memory is I think at
that moment he had a clear visual realization of how serious my situation was
and the understanding that my life had changed forever. I looked at him as the shock registered on
his face and tears filled his eyes.
There was nothing I could do to change this. I realize now that he recognized then what I
was struggling to accept within myself; another flash of light appeared through
the darkness.
***
It was recommended that I be transferred to the rehab
unit as soon as there was an opening.
The doctor whose student had interpreted the symbols on my pillowcase
told me of this pending move, as did the therapists who continued with daily
visits to my room. On the sixth day
there the staff was told that a bed was available for me on the rehab floor. The staff told me and began bagging the
things I had accumulated during my stay there.
I still had the IV port in my arm, the Hoyer harness, the clothes and
shoes I wore to the hospital, plants that were not allowed in my room, some
muffins that someone had brought me, and other things that I had no idea where
they came from.
The nurse could see that I was becoming anxious about
this move and said I could have an Ativan.
I asked for a half pill and she suggested that maybe a whole pill would
be better. The time between doses was 4
hours, so I ask if I could take half now and half later if I still felt anxious? She said no; I could take a half or a whole
pill now and repeat the same dosage in 4 hours.
So I took the whole pill because I felt very anxious.
The transportation staff arrived in the next hour and I
was moved in my bed to the rehab unit.
This bed was with me through my entire stay at the hospital. As I was rolling down halls and elevators I
was watching the environment as the scenes changed. Rolling along I became animated, joking and
laughing, my anxiety left behind. I
realized that my anti anxiety pill was perhaps working more than I needed, so I
just relaxed and enjoyed the ride.
A couple of funny things happened on my way to
rehab. First I was “looppie” on the
“ride to rehab”. Next my friends were
helping me sort through what had come with me as the transport people had
delivered me and my things to the room and left. So as my friends were going through my bags
and I was deciding where things should go I remember that someone had made
muffins and they were probably in one of these bags. They were; at the bottom and completely
smashed. There had been three muffins in
the bag when my friend gave them to me; now there was only one smashed
muffin. I remarked on this remembering I
had eaten only one. I giggled, the drug
still had power, as I said one of the staff must have been hungry and my
muffins looked good. Then I stopped my
babble, giggled again, and said oops, I had two.
I looked out the windows in my room. Did I have windows on the neuro floor? I couldn’t recall them but here on rehab my
room had a wall of windows. They looked
out into the night and a lighted place across from my room. As I watched people glided through a well lit
passage way; unlike the dark hallway of my inner self. As I watched through this my window into life
I remarked to my friends that I didn’t realize that there was a skating rink
downtown. How cool was that? My friends looked at me, followed my gaze,
and then replied that I was looking at the passage from the parking deck into
the hospital, and the people were riding on the shuttles. Again I broke into giggles.
Today, as I write this, it does not seem so hilarious,
but at that moment it was the funniest thing I thought I had ever heard. In retrospect I understand that I was coming
to the end of the dark hallway and another door would soon open.
There was light at the end of this tunnel.
***
I had survived my initiation through the fire, where the
chaff and doss of my life as it was had burned away. I had entered the transition of being in
between places, had lived in the darkness of that tunnel, and now was standing
at a new doorway into me.
