When Tomorrow Comes

Last night while you were

Lying in my arms

And I was wondering where you were

You know you looked just like a baby

Fast asleep in this dangerous world.

Every star was shining brightly

Just like a million years before.

And we were feeling very small

Underneath the universe.

And you know that I'm gonna be the one

Who'll be there when you need

Someone to depend upon

When tomorrow comes...

When tomorrow comes...

--Eurythmics

It's been the longest, most eventful summer, and it's only just past the Fourth of July. We've just come back from Joshua Tree, an appropriate full circle. When I first alerted friends on social media about Jon's stroke, it was April 29, and I posted a photo of him during our spring trip to the desert two weeks prior. When Jon was taken to the hospital on April 26, I didn't know if I would ever see him be so happy and so himself ever again.

Jon doesn't remember any of it, except the last few days in the hospital. It's as if he woke from a long, dreamless sleep. And sometimes I feel like that too.

For a long time I felt I was falling in an endless deep free fall. No bottom to hit, no sides to cling to and right myself, just a giant tumble with formless wind whistling past my ears. Sometimes I still jolt awake in the mornings, half expecting to rush to get dressed, get the kids ready, and rush to the hospital. It's a relief to look over and see Jon, and settle back, and remember where we are right now.

And where we are is--hard to believe.

On June 22, Jon saw his occupational therapy team, and his speech therapist. Occupational and speech work closely together, and together with physical therapy on the motor skills side, focused on bringing back neuro cognitive abilities. Throughout his therapies over the last two months, both emphasized setting goals and re-examining what is possible, what is desired, and working back to everyday abilities in a way that is satisfying for the stroke patient. It's remarkable to think it sometimes takes an event like this to figure of what you truly want out of life, and that's very much what the process was for Jon, and for me.

Who were we before? Who do we want to be now? How do we want to spend the most precious gift we've been given--time, second chances, a future?

Every day, we discover what that means. Every day is a good day, because I get to come home to you. Problems are a hound with no teeth, and the days of pleasure abound.

A week later, we had a follow up visit with the neurologist. I remember the doctor so vividly from ICU--her face, her voice, her clear "in charge" manner with the residents during rounds. I remember so much relief to see her after we were coming out of the ambulance transport, my anxiousness waiting to see her after the CT scan, and rewinding every aspect of her answers to my questions, over and over in my head.

Jon doesn't remember her at all. For him, this was an encounter with a stranger. But I was instantly flooded with memories.

She was completely surprised to see Jon, looking so...so well. There really isn't any other way to describe it. "I'm so pleased to see you looking so good," she kept saying again and again. "I'm surprised, but I'm very happy." She was alternately smiling and clasping her hands over her mouth in shock, and at one moment we glanced at each other and locked eyes. I could see tears of happy incredulity in her eyes, and we both struggled to keep our composure. This wasn't what we each had prepared for over the last two months. It was not just a surprise, it was astonishing.

Then she pulled up his files on the monitor, and then Jon and I both saw the scans of the bleed.

We saw the lateral ventricles--hollow spaces between the left and right hemispheres--with the left side completely filled in white (blood) where it should be black. We saw progressive scans from other angles where the cloud of blood seemed almost a complete cover over the brain. I'm glad to not have seen them until now. It would have drained the heart right out of me.

In the moment of decision, all I had was hope, and desire to hold my sweetheart again whole. And maybe something in that hope, and the light and prayers of our unbelievably supportive friends and family, in the endless wheel of gentle talking, handling, feeding, caring, loving, was a part of bringing him back. 

I choose to believe it is so.  

After the neurological follow through: walk on tip toes, can you feel this on your arms, your legs, look up, big smile, push me away from you, pull me towards you...he's cleared for, well, life and living, with regular follow up visits and tests.

"We see many, many very difficult outcomes to get a single one like yours," she says, and I see that this moment is nearly as emotional for her as it is for me.

That's you, you're one in a million, babe. If anyone is going to find his way back from the storm inside his own head, it would be you. 

You've come home to me, right back where you belong, where I've been waiting for you, where we've all been waiting for you. We've been saving your place just for you.

Welcome back, darling, welcome home.