Only the Good Stuff

I will be very happy to bid this week adieu.

There were fiascos (transport for Mr. Ginley's visit to an off-site doctor) and triumphs (significant leg movement without assistance in PT).

When Mr. Ginley asked me what I was going to talk about this week, I said maybe it was time to take a break from what he (self-named Strokie McStrokerson) was dealing with. It turns out, he was of a like mind.

He and I were strolling down memory lane this week when he asked what my favorite day with him was. With so many years behind us, I said that was a tough one. So instead of concentrating one one, why not do a Top 10 List of Our Best Days. So here they are, in no particular order, and some are time periods rather than days, but you get the picture.

1. Our First Date

Bill and I met at JBR and worked together for six years before he asked me out in the hallway at work. (I was married before and had dated someone else for a time.) "Do you want this package sent UPS or FedEx," he asked. "UPS, please." He followed up with, "Do you want to go out with me Friday night?" "Sure." The rest is history. (Noting that this photo was prior to our dating. He'd lost the beard by the time we started going out. But lately, he's been making references to his monicker at the time, The Amish Kid, so I said I'd share a pic.)

2. Our First Trip Together

I suggested we go to the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake. So in the autumn of our first year together, we headed up north for a weekend away. We played room baseball (beware of the Paisley Monster), saw two Shaw plays, ate well, and generally had a wonderful time together.

3. Our Wedding Day

In our apartment in Virginia, we hosted six guests and Martha (the Justice of the Peace). There was a party tray, a home-baked devil's food cake, and lots of champagne. We said our vows and did the secret handshake to seal the deal. 

4. The Metro

Back in the day, Washington's Metro system was the bomb. We'd take it everywhere around town. Sometimes, we'd get on, pick a stop, and get off and explore. Georgetown is cool, but parking is premium, so we'd get off the Metro and walk across the Key Bridge. We met my niece, Rose, one evening and had dinner with her in Georgetown. So many good memories.

5. The Mall

Unlike many DC natives, we never took the Smithsonian for granted. We explored each of the museums, plus the National Gallery of Art, the monuments, and other attractions. And many Sunday mornings were spent sitting on the Mall, reading the newspaper and people-watching.

6. Cape May

There were two trips to Cape May. One before we got married and then again for our honeymoon. We drove to Delaware and took the ferry from Lewes. (I got seasick, of course.) Both were lovely getaways. We went early in the season, before Memorial Day, so we could hang out with the locals and get a better feel for the true nature of the place. We walked on the beach, strolled through town, and ate well. I'm sorry we haven't been back since. 

7. Our House

Two years after moving back home to take care of my mother-in-law, we were able to buy our own home. We moved in on Halloween and have remained in the Casa de Ginley, where we anticipate Mr. Ginley's return in the coming months. 

8. Joe

No, Joe, we didn't forget about you. (You'll notice these items are chronological.) Our son's birth changed everything, in a good way. And he has not disappointed us. He's turned out to be a wonderful human being, and we're very proud of him and all he's accomplished. There are too many days with him to call out just one. Graduations from preschool, OLA, high school and college. His wedding day. Reading him stories at bedtime. Lunches with him and Mr. Ginley when they'd come down to see me at work. So much good stuff. 

9. The Cruise

Seven days of bliss aboard The Freedom of the Seas, courtesy of my employer. In spite of Mr. Ginley's misgivings prior to the trip, he quickly converted to cruise fandom once he experienced the sheer joy of time spent together, the open sea, and a night sky full of stars.

10. A Grandchild

Our granddaughter was born this year, and we couldn't be happier to meet and spend time with her. We're hoping and praying that in the new year, we'll be able to do more of that once the worst of this odyssey is behind us. (P.S. I'm not sharing a photo out of respect for her parents' wishes, not because I don't love her to pieces.)

I'm sure I've left out many great days in this list (and that Mr. will point them all out to me). 

But with 35+ years under our belts, there's lots to be thankful for. Here's hoping I can add to this list in the coming year. 

Till the Mighty Rivers, baby.*

*Our song, credit to Graham Parker.

Finding Acceptance

"It won't always be like this."

Talkin' sports with Mark

I came across this phrase one day last week, and I wasn't sure whether to be reassured or disheartened.

It could mean things are going to get better. Or not.

We passed the one month mark on Sunday; one month since he had his stroke. It feels a lifetime ago. In a way, it is.

Meanwhile, it was the first full week at Mr. Ginley's new digs, and PT finally began in earnest. It's five days a week, and the PT staff is very good.

We started a new routine, whereby, I rise early, do my work at home, then go visit my husband at the skilled care facility. We catch up on our day. He tells me how PT went, what he had for breakfast and lunch, and whether he's talked to our son that day. It's a plus day if Mark stopped by to visit. 

In the beforetimes, Mr. Ginley would read the advice columns in the newspaper. Now I bring the iPad and read them to him. Then we do some speech therapy exercises on an app recommended by a former therapist.  

When dinner arrives, I lift the lid, survey his meal, and let him know what's for eats. I cut up his meat for him and arrange the food on his plate so he can see it. As the royal taste tester, I will sample things if need be to assure him it's okay to partake. 

Admittedly, I'm a bit of a taskmaster. I make him try at least one bite; if he doesn't like it, he can pass on it. I bring yogurt or somesuch for myself, and if he doesn't eat enough of what's on his plate, I'll let him eat my yogurt.

Who's a good wife?

After dinner has settled, I bring him his toothbrush and mouthwash. I clean him up and rub eucalyptus body lotion on him. It calms him and reminds him of home. Then I tuck him in, turn on ESPN, and kiss him goodnight. 

I think the hardest thing for me has been acceptance of all this. Clearly, denial wasn't going to work. Crying, while cathartic, was not helping the situation. And I was not prepared to go the way of a good stiff belt. (Ilene and I agree that ice cream is much better medication.) 

Now it's time to move forward, let go of the life we knew, and be grateful that we can be together each day. 

Someday, Mr. Ginley will be recovered enough to come home to me. 

And if that's the meaning of "it won't always be like this," that will be just fine with me.

Turkey Day Ramblings

It's Thanksgiving morning, and I'm sitting here with a heavy heart, wondering how I'm going to get through the day. 

the new view

I'm beginning to realize the trick is not to have any preconceived notions about what today is going to be like. Mr. Ginley and I will never be the same again. We've taken to calling life prior to the stroke "the beforetimes." It was another life ago. It sucks that this is our life now, but at least we have a life together, and there is hope that he'll come home to me one day. 

But for now, we have this, and this is what we have to work with. 
I'm going to eat my breakfast, do the dishes, take care of some laundry, have my coffee and read the funnies. Then I'm going to go and be with my husband on Thanksgiving. 

I am thankful that his mind is still there, even though things are jumbled and the rest of him isn't working so well.

I'm thankful for my health, because my ability to help him through this is the most important thing right now. I'm allowed to be sad. I'm allowed to be heartbroken. But I can't curl up in a ball and hide because that's not going to do anyone any good. 

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And now we jump ahead a bit to Friday night. The snow has been piling up, it's been a cold, ugly day, and I've shed my share of tears. Then the phone rings, and it's Mr. Ginley saying excitedly, "I'm moving my foot! I moved it again! And again!"

Of course this doesn't mean he's going to jump out of bed and run a marathon, but it's a very good sign that his brain is trying to reconnect with his errant foot. It's a victory, and we'll take it.

And so it seems I have another thing to be thankful for, after all.

Moving Right Along

In a few short days, Mr. Ginley will be making another move, this time to a skilled care facility. 

The good news is that it will be much closer to home. 

The bad news is that he won't be getting the same aggressive level of physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy he's enjoyed at Parma Hospital's Acute Care Unit. Also, we will both miss the crew that has taken care of him during his stay. I have learned so much from them, and they've been so kind and patient (but firm) with Mr. Ginley. He tells each of them, "you're the boss." (Although Lisa is the only one to have earned the title of "Coach.") I cannot recommend this team highly enough.

I think they will miss him, too. Who else will throw out musical references from the 70's and 80's? He was talking about Little Feat. He was singing along a little too loudly to Dave Edmunds on his ipod. And he coached himself by singing "Hold Your Head Up" by Argent, at which point he tried to explain about the song and got a lot of blank looks from the youngsters. But that's okay. That's what YouTube is for, right?

But I digress.

In the meantime, Mr. has made progress. He's able to sit up for longer periods with little or no assistance. He can use the board instead of the Hoyer device to get in and out of bed. His speech has improved quite a bit, and his diet has expanded. (Although he consistently orders the mac and cheese for lunch and dinner.) The catheter came out this week, which was a big plus. 

We continue to hope the brain will start communicating with the left side of his body again. In the meantime, he's learning how to adapt as much as possible. He's getting better at steering the wheelchair with his good foot. He can bridge his back to help with getting dressed. And he practiced folding clothes one-handed.

He left it to me to decide about shaving. I voted yea, and off came the whiskers. I think it's an improvement, but I'll leave it to my readers to chime in.

In the meantime, we'll be ready to move to the new digs on Wednesday. 

Doing our best to take one day at a time. 

(Kidney) Stoned

I never ever say, "What else could go wrong?" Long experience has taught me that plenty can and will go wrong, oftentimes in rapid succession.

Taking a short break from PT

So when we were told that the CT scan of Mr. Ginley's kidneys revealed he had two too-large kidney stones, they were blocking the flow, and he needed surgery, I was distressed but not shocked. 

Mr. has had problems with kidney stones dating back to our early years together. In fact, he was suffering from one the day we married. It was a running joke that he was on pain meds that day and therefore shouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

But I digress.

The plan was to put in a stent to improve the flow around the kidney. Any more drastic procedure, such as breaking up the large stones, was deemed unsafe given Mr.'s recent stroke. Surgery was set for Thursday, then postponed until Friday at 4pm. I decided to stay at the hospital overnight because I knew Bill would be upset and scared. 

They wheeled him in on schedule, and shortly thereafter, I began getting texts. The first said he was being prepped. The second said the procedure was beginning. The third said the procedure was finished and that the doctor would be speaking with me shortly.

The span of time between the start and end of the procedure was less than 10 minutes, an observation that sent my heart to my stomach. A few minutes later, I was meeting with the doctor, who told me they couldn't put in the stent because the stone wouldn't budge and they were afraid of doing more damage. It's likely the stones have been there for some time, so it was deemed prudent to postpone any further action.

So here we are.

In the meantime, Mr. Ginley is determined to work his ass off to regain as much of his pre-stroke abilities as soon as possible. He wants to come home. And I want him here. (I think I can speak for the cat and say she misses the big guy, too.)

In addition to his positive attitude, which includes boundless courtesy and appreciation of his caregivers, Mr. Ginley has retained his sense of humor.

"I want to pray to somebody, but I'm not sure who to pray to," he quipped last night. "Who's the patron saint of this cause? St. Bartholomew of the Bowels?"

If I can't laugh, I will cry. 

And heaven knows, I've done plenty of that over the past 2+ weeks. 

Sending out so many thanks to my support crew (you know who you are and I love each and every one of you). Thank you for letting me talk your ear off, giving me sage advice, offering up prayers and healing wishes, and sending me chicken noodle soup. You've done more to help me than you'll ever know.

A Stroke of Bad Luck

I'd always joked with Mr. Ginley that I could sleep on a box of rocks. But for the life of me, I could not sleep in that chair. I tried every position, but no go.

In the beforetimes.

It wasn't just that the chair was uncomfortable, there was that infernal beeping of machines. Rhythmic, then not. Like a leaky faucet with a syncopated rhythm. It was maddening.

Then there were the nurses, coming in at all hours to check his vitals. Or draw blood. Or take his temperature.

I tried to wake up, but I couldn't. I was awake. And the ugly truth remained.

Mr. Ginley had a stroke.

Now, nearly one week later, I still can't fathom how our world blew up overnight. He went to get out of bed Thursday morning, and he couldn't walk. 

I managed to maneuver him down the stairs and set him in the easy chair. Then I called 911.

The ambulance came, worked on him for a bit, and whisked him off to the hospital which was minutes away. I met them there. First, we were in Emergency. Then ICU. Over the next few days, a gazillion tests confirmed he'd had a stroke. But his symptoms were worsening. More tests. Then he was transferred to Cleveland Clinic's main campus.

More tests. No change. No progress. Time for rehab.

So here we are. Mr. cannot move his left arm or leg. His words are slurred. He can't see properly. He has no appetite. The one big plus is that his cognitive abilities are mostly intact. He remembers all manner of song lyrics. He sang our song to me tonight. And he recited major portions of the St. Crispin's Day Speech. He is unfailing kind to all his caretakers, asking their names, and assuring them that they're the boss. He cracks jokes.

I cannot process any of it. 

And so, I take each day as it comes. I send prayers to the heavens and hope there is a positive response. I can't think about what will happen next. I'm too afraid.

On the way to the rehab facility last night, I listened to Linda Ronstadt and lost it when she sang, "What'll I do when you are far away, and I am blue, what'll I do?"

Then I dried my tears, put on my happy face, and went in to visit my husband. Fortunately, he's determined to work as hard as he can to get his body operational again. And so many people have been praying for us, that is a comfort, thank you.

As for what comes next, I cannot fathom. It's baby steps. Small bites. And, if those prayers are answered, a miracle.

A True Blue Spectacle

It should not be a surprise to anyone, particularly Mr. Ginley, that I am easily distracted and should not take on philosophical discussions when I'm driving.

attribution below

And yet, here we are.

I'm not sure how we got on the topic, but somehow we landed on John 2:1-11. For those of you who haven't memorized your bible verses (frankly, I had to Google it myself), this is the story where they run out of wine at a wedding in Cana.

Jesus' mom (aka Mary) turns to her beloved son and says, "They don't have anymore wine. Do that thing you do." (I may be paraphrasing.)

An exasperated Jesus turns to Mom and says, "It's not my time yet. You don't get to tell me what to do."

What I imagine was left out of the bible story is Mary turning to Jesus and saying, "Are you f-ing kidding me, Son? Do you have any idea what I went through to bring you into this world? Do you think anybody bought the story of how I got pregnant? It was no piece of cake explaining the whole angel visitation and Immaculate Conception thing to Joseph. I go through all that, and you can't work a little miracle for your mother?"

Then, with righteousness on her side, Mary sidles over to the servants, points at her son, and says, "Do what He tells you to do."

It's not been recorded what Jesus' reply was, but undoubtedly, He was reminded of the 5th Commandment to "honor thy father and thy mother." Or maybe He just got a case of the guilts. In any event, He caved, told the servants to fill the jars with water and take them to the man in charge. The head guy took a swig and went steaming over to the bridegroom. 

"Hey, dunderhead, you're supposed to serve the best wine first. Then when everyone is slobberknockered, you give them the cheap stuff because they're too stiff to know the difference." (Again, I may be paraphrasing.)

Thinking about this story made me wonder aloud how women came to be considered subservient in the church. Maybe it's the bad publicity Mary Magdalene got. (No she wasn't the hooker, the one who anointed Jesus' feet with perfume to atone for her sins. Although church leaders did their best to meld two different women into one.) 

It was the women who wept at His feet when Jesus was crucified. And it was the women who went to the officials to claim His body and discovered the stone was rolled back. And where were the apostles? They were in hiding. 

After my rant in the car, I nearly missed a turn. 

It was a miracle I didn't get us totally lost.

Attribution: Mutialulu, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons