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.