The Stroke

The night my father had a stroke, my mother called me, but I didn't answer.

It's midweek, during the busiest time of the year at the salon, just before the holidays. Most of my clients book their December appointments months in advance. They work backward from Christmas and New Year's, scheduling their color touch-ups, highlights, and trims to be ready for holiday parties, travel, and family time.

In December, a few clients always seem shocked, suddenly realizing that they haven't checked their appearance or the calendar and are about to have a busy social schedule. I receive text messages and voicemails in all caps, filled with worry. "CAN I GET IN THIS WEEK?" or "HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?" I respond with apologies and let them know I'll inform them if there's a cancellation. However, it's highly unlikely that any cancellations will occur. Most of my clients would prioritize their holiday hair appointment over their work meeting or doctors visit.

It had been a week of soothing frantic clients, while hustling to color, cut, style, and blow-dry those who had scheduled in advance. My neck was stiff, my shoulders tight. I had already started my nightly habit of vaping marijuana and sipping Grey Goose martinis when I saw "Mom cel" on the caller ID. I was tired and didn’t want to talk. She left a voicemail and I forgot about it.

Hours passed, I was getting ready for bed when my husband mentioned that he had missed a call from my mother. I remembered her voicemail and listened to it. "Tif, your dad had a stroke. We're at the hospital."

My husband and I quickly changed out of our pajamas and drove across the Columbia River from Washington to Oregon. Upon reaching Hood River Hospital, we entered through the emergency doors. My mom was sitting in the waiting area with her sister-in-law. I asked, "What happened?"

My father was driving on Portland Drive, a straight road, heading to a 5 o'clock appointment. He drifted into the other lane and collided with an oncoming car. The exact speed he was traveling is unclear, but the speed limit in that area is 45 mph. Fortunately, no one was injured in the accident. However, his car had to be towed from the scene. The police arrived and questioned my dad about whether he had been drinking. He had not; he rarely consumed alcohol. The officer then drove him home, which was less than three miles away, to where my mother was.

My mother thought the accident and my father's behavior afterward was strange. She noticed him lying on the bed, watching TV with his belt and pants undone. The way he was eating dinner, with his mouth open and spinning the placemat in circles, also struck her as peculiar. The situation escalated when he fell out of the dining chair. When my mother reached out to her neighbor friend for assistance in getting him off the floor, her friend told her to hang up and call an ambulance.

So here we are at the hospital. My mother is currently at the admittance counter, looking through my dad's wallet and handing over a worn-out and barely legible, yet highly important, medical directive. The directive explicitly states that, under no circumstances, should my father receive a blood transfusion. This is due to my parents being Jehovah's Witnesses, and accepting blood transfusions goes against their religious beliefs.

My father is diagnosed with a blood clot in his brain, which has resulted in a stroke. There is an injection available that can restore blood flow and dissolve the clot, potentially mitigating the effects of the stroke. However, we have exceeded the window of three to a maximum of four and a half hours for this option.

He will need to go to Providence Hospital in Portland for surgery. The Life Flight helicopter can’t be used because the weather is not cooperating. Too foggy, too windy. An ambulance will drive him the sixty miles.

I’m wondering, why is something so important as a medical directive on a crumbly piece of paper? I’m wondering, why did it take over five hours to recognize something was wrong? And now it's too late for the injection. And now it will be over an hour before he is driven to a new hospital and is admitted and prepped for surgery. 

One reason is that no-one thought this would ever happen.

My father is seventy-seven years old. Just that month he’d been working on wildfires clearing trees and debris with a chainsaw. He’d been sleeping on cots in a crew camp, hiking in wilderness terrain. He had worked in the woods for more than fifty years. He lifted weights and did sit-ups for his mental health, a routine he started as a teenager. This is why when he drove his car into another car and was acting strange it took several hours for his wife of fifty-four years to comprehend that he’d had a stroke. She couldn’t believe it was happening.

My husband and I go back home to pack for the long night ahead that we will spend in the hospital waiting room. I grab several vape pens. I do this because when I smoke marijuana I misplace the vape pen and so I always have several in rotation.

I turn to my husband and ask, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a cocktail at the hospital?” I decide I’d better make a vodka roadie for myself, he drives us. An hour later we arrived at Providence Hospital in Portland. He parks the car, I have a couple big inhalations of my vape pen, and finish the roadie I mixed at home. We gather our things and go inside.

Thank you for reading this. I hope you'll come back. I'll be over here.