This past Monday my mom supposedly had a stroke. She was reading my daughters a book and suddenly the words she was seeing were unable to translate into the words she wanted to speak. Then a few moments later, on the phone with my uncle/her brother, she repeated a sentence and was unable to finish another one. My dad drove her to the hospital, where she was treated as though she had just had a stroke. Spent the night in the emergency room, then the following day, too, since the hospital had no beds. While in ER, she had an MRI to see what up with her brain. The results came back completely normal. Nothing happened visually in the MRI. She appears to not have had a stroke after all. Though she did experience some sort of neurological event, possibly related to an accidental overdose or adverse reaction to her migraine medication. She’s due to leave the hospital tomorrow. So, she’s fine, right? Right?
This little episode, of course, was a draining one, especially for mom. But also for my dad, brother, sister, uncle and me. All of us. Not for the girls, though. They remain in that special place where two year-olds roam– aware of most everything… everything but mortality. If I recall correctly, the concept that we really will die one day doesn’t quite kick in until the mid-30’s. At least that was the case with me. Around the same time that the idea of reproducing floated to the surface of my mind. I’m not quite ready for this, though. No passing yet, parents, please. Not now.
I think it’s really something that my mom had a stroke and then a day later it was determined she didn’t. Medicine is such a smoke and mirrors type of game, full of guessing, predictions, gambles. A big crapshoot. Do doctors have any idea what they are talking about? It gives me confidence in my own powers of self-healing. This I know for certain: scotch is an effective sleep-aid and anti-anxiety medication. Especially if it is 12 years old or older.
20 Fingers, 20 Toes 