Just under a year ago, I couldn’t catch my breath. No, that’s not quite right. I woke throughout the night because no matter what I tried, I couldn’t force my body to breathe. The next morning, I still had trouble breathing. I looked in the mirror. The whole left side of my face drooped. I opened my mouth, and what little sound came out was slurred. Breathing wasn’t my only problem; I also couldn’t find the words I needed to tell my wife.
When I carefully made my way downstairs, I didn’t have to say anything. She could easily see my shaky legs and lack of voice, and she grabbed her keys. I tried to make a joke as we headed out the door and to the hospital with what seemed to be a stroke. But my speech was slowed way down, and the worry she and I felt was way high. She offered a slight smile as she brought me to her car. She didn’t say much, which worked out well since I couldn’t say much. The closer we got to the hospital, the less I could say. The words I managed to find were a garbled word salad.
Eventually I was brought to the ICU and hooked up to an IV, heart monitor, and blood pressure cuff. They concluded that the stroke I’d had was also a heart attack. “Minor heart attack” was what they wrote in my chart. From where my body lay, it didn’t feel minor. Though my mind and mouth weren’t on speaking terms at the time, I now wondered whether the end was announcing its ill-timed arrival. My speech grew even slower. The few words I could utter sounded mumbled.
