When My Brain Took a Timeout

May is National Stroke Awareness Month, but for me, April is. Today marks the 22^nd anniversary of my stroke. This is my story.

For the first several years that we lived in Indianapolis, my husband, Dee, and I both worked downtown. Like many parents, we had busy evenings with sports, scouting, dance lessons, and we had recently started taking a Taekwondo class – all four of us. I was also a workaholic, working long hours and give-give-giving while rarely taking the time to fill my own cup.

Falling asleep and staying asleep were difficult for me. I had always been a night owl, but even a night owl needs sleep. The best way to describe my dilemma was that my brain would not shut up. Nobody was surprised when I started experiencing migraines for the first time in my life.

After my having a headache for a week straight with little to no comfort coming from the medication prescribed by my primary care physician, and reaching a point where I was sobbing in misery, Dee took me to the ER. They hooked me up to an IV pump and gave me morphine, probably what I have since learned is a “cocktail” of medications, to kill the pain. They also referred me to a neurologist. When the pain subsided, we went home.

The following week was another busy one. I worked at an advertising and public relations firm that was preparing for the grand opening of a horseracing track. By that time, most of my advertising work for the client was in place, but the public relations team was still busy in preparation. A cohort asked me to attend the press event on her behalf and deliver the media kits. I jumped at the chance to be involved in the big event.

My headache was not entirely gone, but it was tolerable. The day before the grand opening, our team gathered in our conference room to celebrate a baby shower for one of our associates. I recall standing in the room and having a brief experience of tunnel vision; my sight darkened for just a few seconds, and then the problem dissipated. I did not tell anyone and carried on with my business.

Friday, April 11, 2003, was the day: the grand opening and the day I credit my husband and some quick-thinking caregivers with saving my life.

The migraine was back, but I had no time for suffering. I gathered the media kits and left work to head to the event. Looking back, I am amazed I found my vehicle in the multi-level parking garage. Even on days when I was at 100 percent, I sometimes forgot where I parked.

I knew the route I needed to take to head to the racetrack, but instead I took my normal route toward home. Dee called my cell phone … thank God. I told him about my horrible headache and said I just needed to go home and lie down. He quickly caught on that I was speaking in third person, saying things like, “What is he doing?” instead of asking him, “What are you doing?” He thought perhaps someone was with me, but when I said, “No,” he knew something was wrong.

Dee asked me where I was. I was not able to give him a description. He asked what cross-street I was near. I remember looking at a street sign that started with the letter “S,” but I was not able to read the name to him. He pleaded with me to stop the vehicle, but I continued to drive and again told him I just needed to go home and lie down.

He kept me on the phone and asked me again where I was. My next response was, “I’m as close as Mom and Dad’s.” That was another red flag: my parents lived in Michigan and his lived in Florida. By that point he was worried. He implored one more time, and I said, “I’m by that damn church.” (There is a story behind that but nothing worth sharing.) Finally, he knew where I was … almost home.

Completely neglecting the stack of media kits on my passenger seat, I pulled into our driveway and went straight to the couch. Dee arrived a few minutes later. He had planned to take the girls to family movie night at their school, but he knew he had something more important to do.

He wanted to take me to the hospital, but I kept saying, “I need to take the papers to the horses.” I had a hell of a time remembering the name of the ad agency lead, so Dee could call and let him know I could not go to the media event. I was relieved to find out later that my small stack of media kits was just extras to supplement what we had already delivered.

Dee had been an emergency medical technician years prior. His hunch was right: I had a stroke … just two weeks before my 34^th birthday.

Dee’s parents drove up from Florida, and mine down from Michigan, to help with our busy girls. I spent six nights in the hospital and was released just before Easter. My dad was retired and stayed another week to “babysit” me while I lounged and gained weight. I was on prednisone, and I drank so much milk: three or four glasses a day. And we both feasted on jelly beans all week.

When I finally went back to work, I wanted to look for the street whose name eluded me. Sloan. Simply S-L-O-A-N. And yet my brain had been unable to process it.

I am sure my crazy talk was haunting at the time, but now, my silly remark is one of my family’s favorite ways to tease me. If I am forgetful or say something a bit wacky, my daughters will say, “Mom, do you need to take the papers to the horses?”

My story is full of lessons: Know the signs of a stroke. Don’t ignore the signs. No job is more important than your health. And if you ever gain weight, you could always blame the meds.