WidowSphere: A Circle of Hope

For the first time in my life, I find it too hard to write. Two weeks ago, at 6:30 a.m. I was just awakening, groggily imagining a quiet weekend with not much to do beyond interviewing a potential new handyman. The phone jangled and suddenly I was wide awake. Caller ID showed my daughter-in-law’s cell number. I knew it was bad news. Getting up at 6:00 is simply not done in that household on a summer Saturday. The news was worse than I imagined. My son had had a stroke in the middle of the night; they were at the emergency room. My daughter was on her way to pick me up.




From that moment on, I have existed in a bubble of unreality, living one moment at a time, not allowing myself to look back, afraid to look too far forward. Thinking too much is like taking a scalpel and cutting myself open.



Despite a left hemisphere stroke, his news was pretty good. Absolutely no physical involvement. When he had his PT evaluation, the therapist began by asking him to lift his leg, stand on one foot, and eventually had him running down the hall, running up and down stairs, and doing long jumps.



His language is affected. I’ve never worked with a stroke patient—I do speech therapy with little kids--but I know there’s spontaneous improvement after an insult to the brain, and I see it every day. He will be going to TIRR for therapy—same place that Gabby Giffords went after she was shot. We’re lucky to be a few minutes from one of the best rehab centers in the country.



See how nicely I’ve written that paragraph. Just information. Nothing about the emotions. Too hard to probe that wound. I’m signing off for now. If you’ve read this, keep us in your prayers.  Thanks.