Satchel Paige, the legendary pitcher from the Negro Leagues, once said, ”Don’t look back. It might be gaining on you”. Never one to take good advice, I did look back, and it was gaining on me, and, finally, it did. It gained on me. And I went down, not quite out, although it could have been. Out. It’s three’clock in the morning. Full bladder. Gotta go. Again. I’m a guy. A little older. You know the drill. I’m half asleep making for the bathroom in the dark - I don’t remember it happening, how it happened, why it happened or when. I don’t remember tripping or slipping or snagging or any trigger whatsoever. But I remember knowing I was falling to the floor and twisting a little so I’d hit my side and not my back, muscle memory from sixty years ago, Marine Corps. And I remember the instant my head hit the floor so hard I wondered if I would live. Yes, it hurt. Of course, it hurt, but I was conscious, nothing seemed broken. I lay there astonished this had happened. I wondered if I could get up? I could. My balance was intact. The bathroom was only a few feet away. What’re you gonna do? Stand there all night? Just remember to flush.
Back to bed.
Spent the next four months doing what I normally do. Annoying headache from time to time but nothing much. Life went on as usual month to month. After a while my balance seemed a little off - I tripped a couple of times - and I was having some trouble remembering what I was doing when I was doing it. I thought, “OK, Bub, you’re gettin’ older.” No big deal. Better that than the alternative.
I had no clue, except there were clues - The balance? The memory? Some confusion like where the hell did I put my keys? - No big deal. Everybody loses their keys.
Right?
What I didn’t know was inside my head, out of sight, I had been bleeding since my head hit the floor. Blood had been surreptitiously seeping into my brain, building pressure, doing damage. It took four months to pull the trigger.
Bang.
As a rule, I keep a package of chocolate covered shortbread cookies on my desk. Sugar-less. Actually, they’re pretty good. Now, it’s three a.m. and the power has gone out. Everyone is asleep. No electricity, just a blessed darkness that has me at peace. I summon up my inner spa, lean back and just sit there, content with the way things are. My mother used to say, “Happiness is for idiots”. Right now I’m feeling like the biggest idiot in the universe, so I must be happy. I admit it. Even to myself.
Then Jamie, my wife, came to my office, flashlight in hand, because she had a yen for a chocolate covered shortbread cookie. She took one then went into the kitchen for a ginger beer. Not gone five minutes she came back to see me flailing like a crab, arms and legs in spasm, guttural sounds in place of speech, eyes rolled back, rolling, unconscious. It must have been horrible for her, but she kept me from hitting my head when the chair to my desk fell backwards, pitching me to the floor. I remember being flat on the floor insisting I was standing up.
It wasn’t a stroke. It was a seizure, actually, two of them.
I don’t remember much of anything else, snippets, whiffs, not much. I remember the ambulance but was surprised to find myself in a hospital bed. “Huh? What am I doin’ here?” Well, I was there for a week while every specialist in the neighborhood checked me out - neurologist, neurosurgeon, neuropsychiatrist, a vascular surgeon, a cardiologist - the whole megillah. They all agreed: subdural hematoma. What’s a little brain damage between friends? I’ll tell you what: a royal pain in the ass. Can’t drive for a year. Can’t lift anything greater than five pounds. Can’t drink a beer. Can’t shower by myself. Carry a cane. I refuse to go anywhere near a walker. Physical therapy, some, not much. Above all, do not fall...again! Thanks. I’ll see what I can do next time. Oh, yeah, excuse me, there’s not supposed to be a next time.
Right?
And that’s why you haven’t heard from me for a while. You can see I’ve been busy.
Best be on your toes, Bub.
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