Tracy Said: The Day He Couldn't Remember My Name

August 17, 2014

It was pretty early, but the sun was still streaming through the windows and I knew that I would only have a few minutes before I had to get up for church.  The parsonage was just across the parking lot, but Sunday mornings seemed to be rushed and hectic anyway.  This morning, Sophie (age 2) had spent the night at Grandma Lord’s house.  Joey (age 14) was still asleep in his room.  Jason, who had been sleeping in the recliner in the living room had just sat next to me in bed.  He spent a few hours a night in the recliner.  Congestive heart failure got better and worse and some nights it was the best way to rest.

I rolled over and snuggled just a little bit.  My arm ached and throbbed horribly in the morning.  The car accident a month ago caused my left wrist to be broken in many places.  It still hurt.  Especially in the morning. 

Jason didn’t move.  Something didn’t seem right.  I thought he might lay down next to me and we would talk about plans for the day.

“You okay?”  I asked in my sexy Louis Armstrong sounding morning voice.

“Hey.  You okay?”  I looked up.  He seemed a little confused.  Actually, he looked weird.  Different.  I rolled over thinking it was just the angle that I was laying that was making his face look a little odd.

“Whooa.” He said shaking his head from side to side.

“Wah wah whoa.”  I sat straight up in bed thinking maybe he was just joking with me.

“Wha.”  He looked at me in disbelief and tried to make words come out instead of the grunts and sounds that I heard.

“Oh my god.  Are you doing this on purpose?”  He shook his head again rolling his eyes in irritation.  My body went icy cold and I’m sure my blood sugar dropped 50 points as I realized what was happening.

“Jason.  You’re having a stroke.  I’ve got to call somebody.” I said reaching for my phone.  He caught my hand and shook his head again.
“Wah!”

I could only sit for just a few seconds more.  This was bad.  This was really bad.  I started shaking, my eyes burning and reached for my clothes.  Throwing them on I woke Joey up.  “Joey!  Get up!  Something is wrong with Dad.”  Probably not the best way to welcome the day, but I wasn’t screaming yet.  That was something.  I had covered my naked parts.  That was also something.

Jason was still trying to keep me from calling, but there was no way on earth that I wasn’t making that call.  Was he having the stroke right now?  How do you know when it is over?  Is this going to lead to a heart attack?  Would I be able to save him?  I dialed 911 wondering if I would get someone local.  It seemed that I read articles about cell phone calls to 911 going to weird places.  Why was I thinking about that?

“911.  What is your emergency?” said a calm and reasonable sounding woman on the other end.

“My husband.  My husband has had a stroke or he’s having a stroke.  I’m not sure.  I don’t know what to do.”  Talk about understatement of the year.  Butter for a burn.  Aspirin for a heart attack.  Pressure to a wound.  What do you do for a stroke?  Why the hell were these things flashing through my mind now? 

“All right mam.  I’m going to help you.  Can you give me your address?”

“1004 High Street, Fredericktown.”  My voice was shaking and tears were flowing.  I was officially freaking out.  I stuttered through the rest of the questions that she asked focusing on getting her as much information as I could. 

Yes.  He can walk.  No.  This has never happened before.

“He has a heart condition.  He’s had a heart attack before.”  I helped him walk to the living room and back to the recliner.

No, there are no dogs in the house.  There’s one step.  Come in the front door.

Jason was shaking his head each time I looked at him.  I knew that look.  He wasn’t going to go.  He just had a stroke and he wasn’t going to go when the paramedics got there.  He was going to sit there, not able to talk and refuse to go?  Aw, heck no.  He was going if I had to drag him out myself with my one good arm.

Then I realized that he was naked.  He was sitting in the living room naked waiting on strangers to come and carry him out.  I saw the problem now.  Running back to the bedroom I grabbed the clothes he shed the night before and helped him get his underwear and shorts on.  I remember the pain shooting through my arm as I struggled to help him. 

“Okay.  He’s stable and he’s in the living room.  Thank you for your help.  I really appreciate it.”

“Mam, you need to stay on the line until the paramedics get there.  I’ll be right here.  Tell me how he looks right now.”

Aw, man.  I knew that.  Of course they stay on the line with you.  Had television taught me nothing?

Then they were there. Joey went to the front porch and 2 paramedics quickly entered the room.

Then the phone rang.  Seriously?  And rang.  And rang.  It was a sweet lady from church that lived down the road.  She wanted to know if everything was all right.  “No.  No it is not.”  I’m sure I said something else, but I don’t remember.  I hung up and watched the paramedics check his blood pressure, his pupils, listen to his heart and then I realized how young they looked.

OH MY GAWD!  They sent TEENAGERS to save my husband?  How could these people be old enough to drive let alone save a life?  They asked Jason questions which he answered by shaking or nodding his head.  When he couldn’t do that I filled in the blanks.

His color looked good.  He was obviously annoyed and looked at me disoriented and shaking his head. 

“We need to get him to the hospital.  The nearest stage 4 stroke care is Farmington or Cape Girardeau.  Where do you us to take him?”  (What is stage 4 stroke care?  I don’t know.)

Putting his hands out as though he was an umpire calling safe, he spoke slowly in a low deliberate voice.

“I.  Feel.  Fine.”

We all just looked at him for a few seconds of silence. 

“I.  Feeeeeeeeeel.  Fine.”

I looked at Joey and he looked back at me.  He was pale.  He was scared too.  Jason was not fine.

“Feeling fine or not, you’ve had a stroke and you are absolutely going to the hospital.” I explained.  “Don’t even try to fight this.”

He sighed a sigh of exasperation.  I knew that sigh too.  I took that as a sign that he would be compliant.   They wouldn’t let him walk all the way to the ambulance but they did let him walk out the door and onto the sidewalk to the awaiting stretcher.  I kissed him.  I told him I loved him and they took him away.

As fast as we could, we grabbed phones and my purse and jumped in the car.  Calls were made.  I don’t remember much, just that I cried when I talked to my Mom and that I was thankful that Jason’s mom had a friend at her house to help her.

By the time we met at the hospital about 15 minutes away and they finished examining him, he could speak.  He sounded like himself, but he looked exhausted.  He couldn’t remember some things about himself.  He repeated things like “for lack of a better word” and “you know”.  He repeated them a lot.  Although he was talking and sounded like himself, he wasn’t always making sense.

Soon he was transferred to St. Louis.  Before he left my brother and sister in law brought some things from the house (Hurray for a clean shirt and a bra!) and took Joey home.  I told them that doctors said that he would be all right.  “But he’s not the same.” I stammered.  “He’s not the same.”

My head hurt, my eyes burned and I could barely stop imagining the worst possible outcomes.  Long hours later I sat beside him in his room.  Team after team came through.  They asked him the same questions. 

“What is your name?” He couldn’t remember, but he could read it off of his bracelet.  That was at least resourceful.  I reasoned that being able to read was a good thing.  He could remember things like the date and who was president most times, but when they asked him where his other injuries were (from the car accident a few weeks ago) he couldn’t say “stomach”.  He couldn’t label things.  He knew that the thing in their hand was used to write on paper, but he couldn’t call it a pen.  He knew that it had 5 buttons and was blue but couldn’t say it was a shirt.

My heart beat faster every time he got something wrong.  This was not my husband.  He was incredibly intelligent and well-spoken.  His vocabulary was through the roof.  Why couldn’t he say “shirt”?  He could tell them what happened, but he couldn’t label anything.

The more tired he got, the more he mixed up words and began substituting them with the same word.  For a while it was “July”.  July is his birth month and also the month that we had the car accident and he got the huge seatbelt wounds on his chest and abdomen.   He used the word often enough that it was probably a good one to get stuck on for a while.

I realized that I was holding my breath through their examinations.  I tried to catch his eye and smile just so he would know that he was doing fine.  Really, I was petrified.  What on earth had happened?  What on earth was going to happen?

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Jason Matthew King” he said looking at his hospital bracelet.

“And who is this with you?”

He looked at me.  I swear a quick flash of fear sparkled in his eyes.  Silence followed.

I held my breath and willed him to get it right.  “Come on, baby!” I thought. “Look at me.  Remember how much I love you.  Say my name.”

“This is my wife.”  He said slowly, staring at me as though the answer might appear on my forehead.

“What is her name?”

“I can’t remember.  I know her.  I know our life.” 

More  silence.

“I can’t remember her name.”

Read Jason's story.