Changing Innings

A beautiful day for a selfie in Hazard Park

Yesterday I spent most of the day at the hospital, and got to see firsthand what Jon's day has been like. He's not kidding when he says every day is pretty much the same. Three different therapies, three different meals, medications, blood pressure checks, the regularities of hospital schedule. It's like going to school, and living in the school, for weeks. I can see why the nurses and doctors keep assuring me that once Jon comes home, we'll see an improvement in his progress. At the very least, family life provides differentiation in the days, even though we are the same old people all the time. In the hospital, everything looks the same, and even the clothing doesn't change from person to person.

The therapies themselves are fascinating. It's repetition with purpose, combining questions, commands, physical movements, verbal cues, and sequencing to rewire the brain. It has given me insight and some ideas in using our own interactions to enhance his progress. I bought some small jigsaw puzzles, and we worked on sorting the pieces, building the frame, checking against the existing image, etc. After working together, he kept going on his own when he's alone, and now is very close to being done.

The speech therapy was especially interesting for me, because his therapist, Jacqui, was re-introducing the concepts of object naming, and time. She put together a "memory book," with a calendar and the dates of his stroke, and his arrival in rehab. At first I was a little put off by the book--why do I want to remember the worst day of my life? Why would he? But then I realized that he needs to recognize the stroke as a reference point in time, partly as a way of rebuilding his short-term memory and working memory, and also as a way of referencing the things that were part of his part life before the stroke.

So when I sat with him today, I went over some of the same dates in the memory book, and drew in simple icons (a sad face for the day of the stroke, a happy face when he came to rehab) and added in a date of my own. Two weeks before his stroke was my birthday, so I circled that date on the calendar and drew a squiggly birthday cake with candles.

Today was a beautiful day, and since he's coming home next week, I decided to test the waters a bit, and we took the wheelchair and went outside, first to the ground floor garden, then across the street to Hazard Park. It's really one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen, because it's populated by families, local sports leagues, picnics--all the things that remind you of what life is really about. It's exactly what you need when you're in a hospital most of the day. A late spring baseball game, with coolers full of cold drinks, an ice cream truck ambling down the road, and a local taco truck on the main road. What more could anyone want in life?

We sat, and talked, and watched baseball.

Me: Is the game over?

Jon: No, they're changing innings.

Me: Oh, okay. Jon, when you come home, we're going to have a talk about your blood pressure medication, which I found, and apparently you weren't taking.

Jon: I don't know what you're talking about, Min.

Me: Oh really?

Jon: Nope.

(This is how I know he's still him--he's lying to me through his teeth.)

Me: Jon, I'm really, really happy you're not dead.

Jon: So am I, Min, I'm really happy I'm not dead, too.

Later on, the boys and I were having dinner, and I explained the types of activities and conversations that might help Jon's memory. Maybe even things like karaoke, that involve reading, music, memory—multiple areas of the brain that have to work together. The old Jon most definitely did NOT sing karaoke. The new Jon? Who knows!

C: So it's almost like Dad's a kid again, and we're teaching him things.

Me: Yes, that's exactly right.

CH: We're raising Dad.

Me: In a way. Until he's recovered. Maybe we're all raising each other.

Maybe we are.

Love you, can't wait to have you home again.

Min