My husband survived
A wife's POV of crisis
On January 14th, 2025 at 2:54pm, my husband had a stroke as he drove our young son Isaac home from the bus stop. I was at home when they arrived and you can read the first 30 minutes of what happened, here and what happened after first responders arrived, here. Content warnings exist for heavy topics surrounding life and death.
My son stayed home from school the next day, a Wednesday. The original plan was that he’d be at school so I could return to the ICU. I had been instructed no children could enter the ICU with me, so with him home from school (and of course he would be, what a hard time for a little guy!) I was stuck. I had no relatives or friends nearby and capable, or willing to help watch my son so I could go to my husband.
The heavy fog over this day makes the details impossible to recall. I remember lying on a long couch in our TV room, my son nearby, on his phone. I was so tired. I just wanted to sleep. This one memory of lying on the couch is so heavy. It takes up the entire day. I’m on the couch, I can’t even turn to see if Isaac is looking at me or the phone or the TV or the dog. I just want to sink further into this couch. I never want to get up. I never want to get up until my husband is okay. Where is he? I want to talk to him. How did he have a stroke, how am I not there, how is the world still turning? I’ll stay here forever.
I’m not okay.
I was so terrified to call the hospital. Why? I do not know. I was so scared to call. My daughter, 28 years old and never residing under my roof, called for me from her home states away. She was the messenger delivering updates to his side of the family - whom he had been estranged -(and to many others we knew and didn’t) and found it easier to call on my behalf than I found it to call for myself.
No news is good news. They reminded and reassured and said to call anytime. But my fear persisted.
It was early on Wednesday morning still, when the phone rang and news.
No news is good news, but the phone rang… with news.
My brain was so chaotic that i cannot fully explain the fear and the fog and the noise and the ache when I listened to this doctor tell me that my husband needed brain surgery. The details were too much for me, Are you asking my permission? No, We’re telling you this is what is happening. I have a young son I can’t get there yet. No news is good news, but we’ll do this surgery very soon. Was he on blood thinners. I gave him Ibuprofen during the stroke, I didn’t know it was a stroke. Just as soon as he’s cleared from testing for the blood thinners, we’ll do this surgery.
[It wasn’t until I wrote this part of the blog that I considered perhaps the doctor was telling me it was risky and that maybe my husband was closer to death than I had realized at the time, or would even consider at the time]
Was my husband close to death here? I do not know. What I do know is my adult daughter’s boyfriend eventually agreed to drive the distance up to my home and take my son down to their house for a week to help us out. And with her brother’s adorable request, my daughter came along on the trip (and my oldest granddaughter), too.
My husband’s family had made it to the hospital Wednesday and were staying in the city with plans to visit again Thursday. They were able to update my daughter, who updated me, making the end of Wednesday easier than the start, at least a little.
Post-surgery my husband could correctly answer what year it was. My only clear memory of this Thursday (that’s discernable from any other day) is while sitting at the table in my dining room and listening to my husband’s aunt (over speaker phone) say that Ken knew the year was 2025. And I’m bawling in this memory. I feel the relief as I think of it now.
Perhaps something you can’t really understand without experiencing it, and I really hope you never do, but to know that Ken was no longer lost in the confusion of a stroke… relief.
I’m hearing he looked good. That he’s okay and has his phone (he texts and calls me too). He has a tube coming out of his head, as a heads up.
My young son and granddaughter are playing and laughing somewhere nearby in this memory and I’m reminded that their time together would be good for them both, while his father was in the thick of it, here back home. This would be the first time my son was away from me/us ever — and it wasn’t an easy decision for me, especially without the input or discussion with his father and with such a great distance (700 miles); I was desperate to get to the ICU.
The brakes on the car were loud as I navigated my way through the city to the ICU, this drive more clear than the drive to the Emergency Room 2 nights ago, but most of the day is a cloud of fog, still. Ken was so glad to see me when I arrived but didn’t know I hadn’t been there the entire time. The tube coming from his head wasn’t at all upsetting and I remember the doctors and nurses being incredible from start to end. The room was cold, and one day faded into another…
I arrived that Thursday and I’d only return home every other day for an hour or two to do laundry, shower, grab any items that I wanted to take back for us, video call someone, feed and water the pets, and clean up their messes (no help with the pets, so they had free reign… it took months to clean that up, but we won’t dwell here), for a full week …
Friday - Ken is mushy and sweet, he can’t sleep, his legs bug him so much. The couch I sleep on is cold. I’ll bring blankets when I go home. Grateful I brought toilet paper already. Ken isn’t a reliable narrator, but his voice and nearness are a great comfort.
Saturday - Let’s get Ken some sweats next trip home, he can probably put some on since his wires are all above the waist. His legs are bothering him so much. I miss Isaac like crazy. Ken’s voice and conversation heal my soul, but the doctors are worried about his numbers. The drain in his head is why he’s in ICU, but his blood pressure meds are a juggling act - and I’m witnessing his struggles and his medical teams’ struggles as they try to maintain a low blood pressure. Low stress a must. But rest is easy.
Sunday - I don’t remember which day was what, keep that in mind. I could check my camera log for a more accurate timeline, but who needs accurate. I was on the phone more these first few days. With my daughter, or my mother, or my son. Things were going along. A waiting game with best outcome being another week and worst outcome being… well, months to years to never, I suppose.
The Longest Monday ( I didn’t see anything about the inauguration this day, but that should tell which Monday) — He may have an infection in his spinal fluid. I was not okay. His BP numbers were starting to look good, though. No one was chatty today like they had been. The rush to be helpful dying off. A cousin said I wanted to have a pity party. Keep an eye out for any clues of infection. Recognizable changes in his demeanor, his behaviors, his abilities… keep stress low. My daughter said I was always worried so she didn’t know I was more worried. I would ask Ken, what day is it? And he’d get it right more often than he did the days before. It’s still Monday, I’d say, when he’d get it wrong. Long Monday. Don’t I know it, Baby, don’t I know it.
Tuesday - He was up all night. His numbers were too high, he kept trying to get up to pee, but he’d go the wrong way and the drain in his head only has so much slack. The alarms. The alarms haunt me. How has it been a week already, but yet only a week?
Wednesday - I don’t remember the real order of things still. But the infection is not there, though in another day or two it’ll test positive again. We’re okay. His numbers are looking okay. We’re not on track for best case, but still on track for very near to it.
Thursday - my sister and brother-in-law are driving to Tennessee and returning Isaac home. Thankfully, it turns out kids can come into the ICU room of their father if their father is stable and okay with it and if that kiddo is calm and respectful of the healing environment.
And so the next week I went home every night, my son with me every step of the way.
We spent everyday in the ICU together with Ken. Isaac and I would go home at night & get back as soon as we could the next morning. I’d call my family and message Ken’s family to update them on things. I talked to the Neurological/Stroke team, I talked to the Neurological Surgery team, I talked to the ICU Medical team, I talked to the physical therapists, nurses, and cleaning staff. It was safe there. Isaac and I were making the best out of everything. Ken was doing better and better. Isaac would miss the bulk of school that month. He’d also miss the pinewood car derby with his Cub Scouts troop, the first practice and game with his basketball team, and the skate night at his school he looked forward to so much.
But we made some memories. We ate at the hospital cafeteria, we got snacks from the vending machines, we played games that came from late-opened holiday gifts big sister had sent home with her brother. We talked, we checked on one another… we were a family. We hugged a lot. We opened sports cards together. Isaac and I would explore the hospital on tiny adventures- his memories fond. Many of mine, too, to be honest. Life paused for us and we are so grateful.
So grateful for the ability to feed ourselves so easily and so well, with the cafeteria nearby — never mind the debt I would find out about later and the financial chaos that would wreck our lives in the coming months. So grateful for the ability to stay together in the ICU while my son was elsewhere — never mind the dog and cat messes around the house that created a smell that when mixed with the heavy trauma would make my house unrecognizable and foreign to me for so long and So grateful we all left that hospital together and remain happy and healthy together today — period. Ken is back to work, Isaac is back to school (and nearly done with 1st grade!), and I’m ready to write other things.
It’s been 18 weeks, just nearly so, and I’m ready to be done. I’ve written poetry, I’ve written update messages, I’ve written thank you cards, and I’ve spoken accounts of events so much that I’m just okay being done here.
Not that I’ll never speak of my husband’s stroke or how that event impacted my life, my choices, or my persona - but as far as this retelling, this is where we end. Thank you so much for reading & following along. Consider subscribing for more about my life and writing journey.
Perhaps worth noting that since this event, there are (friends and family) options nearby, capable, and willing to help us today as compared to that cold January day — as with all crisis, some family bonds were built stronger, while others were severed completely. — but that’s another blog post entirely.