Emails and Waffles

It’s no secret Dad has a sweet tooth. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with regards to this as my Oma had a wicked sweet tooth. We got Dad a waffle maker for Christmas. More a kitchen gadget for me to play with than anything else, it allows me to prepare a different sweet breakfast that’s not pancakes or French toast.

As is my daily workday routine, I typically call Mom and Dad in the morning, around lunchtime and then again in the afternoon. What can I say, I like to make sure everything runs smoothly. Today I called around lunchtime to make sure, well, that they were having lunch. Mom answered and told me Dad had already eaten. He had made waffles for himself. I was ecstatic! When he was at Stillwater, in the skilled nursing facility last year, they tried to get him to cook right before he was discharged. It didn’t work out so well. Since he’s been home, he hasn’t really had the desire or ambition to want to cook, although he has managed to help out with keeping an eye on things heating up on the stovetop.

Now who would think something like making waffles would be such a great feat to marvel at, but it is in my opinion. Think of all the steps involved. Dad had to move the waffle maker from one counter to another, get out a mixing bowl and all the ingredients, mix it all together, figure out how to use the machine, make the waffles and not burn them. He did all of that with a limp and the use of his left arm only.

I cannot stress enough how hearing things like this make every day new, exciting and filled with boundless hope.

PJ had taken Dad to speech therapy last week and mentioned to his newest therapist Kate, that Dad had become quite proficient on the computer prior to his stroke. It was something we tried to get him to use in the early months after the stroke to no avail. Kate was very enthusiastic about getting Dad to use the computer again after hearing this and they were to try it this week.

This afternoon I received an email from PJ, forwarded from Dad.

Always remember, when you think you can’t, you can.  

The Number

“What’s the number Rudi?” Dr. Biswas, his PCP asked.

“1.8,” replied Dad.

It’s still not high enough. For someone like Dad, on blood thinners, Dr. Biswas would like his number to be between 2 and 3. The higher the number the thinner the blood and Dad’s blood is still too thick. Pre blood thinners, Dad’s number was 1.4. Once he went back on, it slowly increased to 1.5, then 1.8 and then, much like his fluctuating weight, back to 1.5. We have increased his dosage in increments over this last month, being cautious not to increase it too much (and the fluke lower number is attributed to the cream of broccoli soup that Dad ate all week for lunch, apparently broccoli can lower the number). You don’t realize how important blood flow and thickness is until you need to monitor it weekly. I’ve come to realize that pulmonologists really are the glue that hold all the other physicians together. If you don’t have an understanding of how blood moves through our bodies and what prevents it from doing so, you are just paddling against the current, trying to figure this or that out after say a stroke, heart attack, embolism, anything inside of us. So every Friday we go to the doctor for what’s called his pro-time test and we get a number. We will continue these appointments until the number is within a range Dr. Biswas is comfortable with. Slowly but steadily we will get there because slow and steady always wins out in the end.   

Addendum: As of Dad's visit Friday 1/17/14, his pro-time number is 2, exactly where we want it for now. He was approved for bi-weekly blood checks and monthly PCP visits. All good things do come to those who wait.

One Year Ago Today

In a galaxy far far away…

Big Star Wars fan, so please forgive the reference, but today marks one year since Dad had his stroke.

This morning I overslept and it was Dad who woke me up by calling my name as he exited his bedroom. I’m up before him every morning and with few exceptions, he follows suit and gets up after hearing me start to get ready for the day. He meanders into the TV room with his hemi-cane (now always a dead give- away he’s moving around the house), sits down and turns on the TV to check out the local news. I get him his pills and a cup of coffee before heading out to work. This is the morning routine now.

I rarely oversleep, but much like the weather last January 2, it is bitter cold out. It’s the kind of weather that makes you subconsciously not hear your alarm going off during the dark hours of the early morning. One year. It’s almost hard to imagine life before, yet it did exist and for a long long time. Still, the daily reminder now is, this is the way it is and while different than what it was, this is all there is. Yet the events of a year ago today still echo in my mind. The fall in the house, the call to 911, the ambulance arrival, the unsettling ER visit where Dad was spastically moving around on the bed, seeing him strapped in as he was readied for the helicopter ride to Portland, mom and I driving the 2 plus hours to meet him and eventually my brother PJ at the hospital down there, all of it. The only difference is I now know how the events of the last year played out, whereas this moment last January I had no clue what was going to happen. I had no clue as to the severity of his stroke. I don’t think any of us did.   

Dad will never be the same, this we all know and have accepted. But a comparison as to how he was last year and now can only be described as miraculous. At the time, after being given the news about the damage done to his brain, I was unsure if he was going to be able to swallow food or drink, go to the bathroom without a catheter, bathe himself, dress himself, walk or talk at all (let alone makes sense). None of us had an idea what his mental facilities would be like, we had not a clue about any of it. I never gave up hope; however, every once in a while that pesky devil doubt would creep up almost without warning. Sneaky skunk doubt can be.   

Fortunately, despite some limitations, Dad is able to do all of the things I just mentioned today. Even his right arm, which has been the slowest to show any signs of improvement, has improved greatly over the last few months. The sling that he wears now hangs more on his side (in case he needs it), the muscles in his arm giving more strength to his limb enabling him to hold it up on his own instead of just hanging by his side like dead weight. All three therapies, physical, occupational and speech show that improvements can be made long after a debilitating event like this and continue to highlight what an amazing organ the brain is in its ability to relearn and find new ways to do things.  

Dad still doesn’t see it on some days. That’s when we have to remind him of how bad it was a year ago and how much better it can be a year from now. For the rest of us, my Mom, PJ and I, well we remember for Dad. We remember all too well how it was that awful day last January. We remember how he was then versus how he is now and that fact is like the difference between night and day. What a difference a day makes? How about what a difference a year makes.