Home Alone

When it was dawning on me that hubby Buck was in trouble and needed the ER, I had an awful thought, one I haven’t admitted until now: I would have to miss my favorite class at the Y to take him, and I wasn’t happy about it. I was putting on my shoes and about to leave the house when he stumbled in from the barn, “I’m much worse this morning. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He’d had some strange symptoms the day before that we couldn’t make sense of, but the stumbling and staggering he was doing on this particular morning, the confusion, the slight slurring–so slight I wasn’t sure whether I heard it or just made it up–scared me enough to tell him we were going to the ER, ASAP.

“Just take me to Bill’s office,” he’d said, wanting to avoid the hospital.

I was adamant, “I’ll give up my class to take you to the ER, but not to go sit in a doctor’s office all morning.” It was as I said this, that The Awful Thought morphed into …or maybe I can go to my class first while you wait in the car.

I know, I know. Best to move on if you’re looking for someone to admire. But this is where I was and where I kept coming back to as the destruction of his stroke kept landing: Buck needed me. I would have to lay down everything I do to help him recover. Seven days in, I was exhausted. What I needed was a day off.

I live a full life with grandkids and friends and church and writing. I’m never wondering what I’ll do with my day—I’m scheduled, not spontaneous. I thought I might still lead our church’s women’s retreat planned for two weeks post stroke day. A little denial about how our lives had changed was blinding me to the obvious: along with the retreat, I’d have to set aside the rest of my calendar.

Lord have mercy.

I told myself I was heading home that day to gather clean clothes and snacks and good pillows. But the reason I stayed home all day was because I needed the freedom; I needed a day to gather myself and remember who I was. Besides, hadn’t everybody been telling me, “Take care of yourself!”?

So with Buck stable and two nurses just outside his door, I headed home. What I did when I got there was feel overwhelmed by the house, so I headed outside for some stress-relieving yard work.

The funny thing about taking a day off is that what you think you need to get away from haunts you. I kept wondering how Buck was doing, how physical therapy was going, what he’d had for lunch, who’d stopped by, whether he was drinking enough water.

I reminded myself that I was enjoying the time to myself. I liked getting something done rather than simply sitting around the hospital waiting for lunch. I liked being alone and having no one needing me. I liked seeing the weeds filling up the brush pile. I could see tangible results everywhere I looked.

Even so, I felt lost in this place I’ve always found myself in.

The hospital was different. Besides Buck, there was Marilyn on the table beside him, who told me about her husband, who she nursed for years after his double amputation, “…and he never had a bed sore,” she beamed, “I made sure of it.” She hoped her double knee replacement recovery would be easy by comparison, so we prayed about it.

Linda across the hall couldn’t eat solid foods. I’d been there the day they gave her cooked spinach and lumpy mashed potatoes. She and I cried for the joy of it.

Mamie had a big smile and a warm voice and only said three things, “Thank you…I miss you…I love you.” Sometimes she said them appropriately. Sometimes she said them as fast as she could while searching for the words she really wanted. She bested Buck at tossing a ball with both hands, but he didn’t mind—she’d said “I love you” the whole time. When it’s my time, I hope the three things I’m left saying are kind.

Mark couldn’t speak and never had a visitor. He’d obviously had a stroke but wasn’t progressing. In fact, he seemed to be going backwards. One day he showed up for PT with a catheter bag attached to his calf. The next day, an oxygen tank attached to his nose. The day after that, he wore his PJs and a nurse followed him around, monitoring his vitals while he did nothing but moan.

About 4 p.m., I looked around at the weeding and the watering and the mulching and realized none of it mattered. Not really. And no one cared if I finished it–not even me. What I wanted was to be at the hospital where the action was, where people were fighting to get their lives back, where hurting people weren’t afraid to tell you their story, where I wasn’t afraid to ask and listen.

But what I most wanted was to be with Buck and to fight to get our life back, because home wasn’t on Lookout Mountain anymore. Home was where he was. It was the first time in 43 years that I both knew it and felt it. I couldn’t wait to get back to him.

I wouldn’t have chosen for Buck to have a stroke—it’s been awful. I wouldn’t choose suffering for anyone. I certainly wouldn’t choose to spend any more time in a hospital than I have to. But there’s been something surprisingly freeing about it. Suffering opens a pathway between people that’s vulnerable and welcoming.

Paul said 2000 years ago that serving others doesn’t hogtie our freedom. When we serve with love, our freedom grows, Ga 5:13-15, MSG. Being freed to serve is why Jesus came. It’s what he did. Sometimes it takes being stroked to find out what you really want—and what really matters.

Here’s a link to my blog with more of Buck’s stroke story, http://stroked.blog.

The names of patients have been changed.