A SILENT KILLER

     Growing up in East Los Angeles and El Monte in Southern California, the sound of sirens certainly wasn’t unfamiliar.  Sometimes they were preceded by gunshots; sometimes they were in response to the scene of an accident, but regardless of the reason, after awhile the sound became so commonplace that it ceased to be a matter worth my attention.

     But this time, the sound of the siren was closer than ever and it definitely had my attention.   I was in the back of an ambulance on the way to the emergency room with a paramedic pumping medicine into me while my daughter, who was very upset, was in the passenger seat of her mother’s car as they were following the ambulance.

     The sound of a siren is attention getting, designed to alert, to warn, to call to attention.  I really shouldn’t have waited for things to get to this point, for I had plenty of warning, plenty of signs to alert me to the fact that something was very wrong with me.

 

     “Umm…Do you realize that your hand is in your soup?!”  That sounded like an odd question for her to ask me.  I mean you’d think I’d know a thing like that and I couldn’t think of a valid reason why my hand would be there.  But sure enough, I looked to my left and there my hand was in a bowl of Japanese soup and noodles.  I pulled it out, shook it a little and replied to my girlfriend in a somewhat detached voice, “Damn!  That soup is pretty hot…”

     It was May 30^th, 2011 and after spending some time in Griffith Park, we had decided to drive to the Little Tokyo section of Los Angeles to get something to eat.  I hadn’t had much to eat for breakfast and while at the park my girlfriend had remarked that I looked very tired.  I figured that my blood sugar was very low, as I was accustomed to eating several times a day but hadn’t eaten much that particular day.  Plus, about a year and a half before, I had been diagnosed as a borderline diabetic.  My energy levels had been fluctuating quite a bit in the previous few months and I was beginning to wonder if I had indeed become diabetic by that point, but had yet to see a doctor to determine whether or not that was the case.

     I was usually very excited anytime I went to Little Tokyo and why not?  With attractive exotic looking women, good food, rice candy, and plenty of Godzilla merchandise, what was there not to like? Yet instead of being infused with my usual childlike enthusiasm I felt like I was in a little bit of a daze.  My left arm almost seemed like it had a mind of its own and after knocking over my drink a couple of times in the restaurant and bumping my left shoulder into a couple of poles, my girlfriend thought that I might be in need of a rest and suggested that I try to catch a nap in the car.  I replied that it wasn’t necessary and instead suggested that we head over to Olvera Street, as she had never been there.  She asked if I wanted her to drive, which I also said was unnecessary. 

     While my girlfriend could certainly be assertive in some ways, I’m sure that in hindsight she wished she had been more assertive regarding her suggestion to drive.  For while on the way to Olvera Street my driving prompted her to ask in what was simultaneously a nervous and annoyed voice, “Do you not feel the need to stop at “Stop signs”?

     After a brief stop at Olvera Street where apparently where my left arm decided on its own to randomly slap away at lady’s purses and men’s stomachs, I preceded to act like I was a member of the car acrobatic team from the old Speed Racer cartoon series.  Strangely enough a little voice in my head that sounded oddly like my own was saying, “You know, I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but this is some pretty dangerous stuff you’re pulling here…Whoa!  Check out the Brunette in the convertible!  Oh, excuse me!  Well, as I was saying, this is some pretty dangerous stuff that you’re pulling here and I’m not sure that if you keep this up you’re going to come out of this unhurt.”  And that voice would return over the course of the next two weeks as I would do and experience things that required it to do so.

     While we made it safely back to Griffith Park where my girlfriend had left her car parked, it was very obvious that we had only barely made it there in one piece.  My girlfriend had always had an unreasonable fear that she would one day die in a car accident and my actions that day convinced her that I was hell bent on making that come true.  After slamming my car door shut she jumped in her vehicle and skidded out of the parking lot, leaving me on my own to admire the greenery of the park and to enjoy the cool gentle breeze on my face.  In an environment like that, I thought, “What could be wrong?”

     But I knew something was, because all through my drive home a thought kept creeping up in my mind that it would be quite a relief if I made it home in one piece.  And I hadn’t had thoughts like that since my younger and crazier days of sometimes driving somewhat under the influence.  Because if I did, why would I ever get behind the wheel of a car in the first place?  But I tried to focus on what I was doing all the while knowing somewhere in a part of my mind far, far away, that if I had to focus like that, something just wasn’t right.

     But I managed to get home safe and sound, with only running a single red light, although I had decided to get off of the freeway a little sooner than I normally did.  For some reason I felt that the faster speeds on the freeway were beginning to be a little too much for me.

     And during the course of the next two weeks, I would experience odd little things.  I couldn’t seem to go a day without bumping my left shoulder into a doorframe or something, and it would make me laugh.  It just seemed like such an odd thing to keep happening!  And it was only later that I would realize that it was always with my left shoulder that I would bump into things.  When typing a message to a friend I would often make mistakes, sometime spelling the words backwards, and while watching reruns of TV shows I had already seen previously, I would hear background music that I hadn’t noticed before.  Was it always there and I just hadn’t picked up on it before, or did someone do a soundtrack remix?  As bizarre as that seemed, I also found it a little fascinating, as if I had my own little special version of the show that was airing just for me.  I also couldn’t seem to hold onto things with my left hand and I was always dropping something.  And I always seemed to just barely make it to the bathroom, at times nearly urinating on myself.  I came so close to that happening one time that it really upset me.  I suddenly had a feeling of being out of control of things, of helplessness, and I was so emotional about it I nearly broke down in tears in the bathroom.

     Two days before the ambulance ride my daughter and I were exiting the parking lot of the local Fresh n’ Easy where we had just finished our grocery shopping.  I love that there’s lots of trees in the City of Chino Hills where I live, and across the street from where we were there’s a park, and I was just caught up in the beauty and serenity of all the greenery within my eyesight.  I then tried to convey the awe with which I was filled to my daughter who was sitting in the back seat.

     And for some reason, I just couldn’t seem to get the words out.  Now anyone who’s every had a conversation with me can tell you that being able to express myself verbally and articulating my thoughts has never been an issue for me.  If anything, in earlier years there have been times when they wish I wasn’t so articulate and would just keep my thoughts to myself.  However, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to get any words out.  I stammered and uttered a few sounds, but nothing would come out of my mouth.  And I suddenly had an urge to spit, and to spit quite a bit.  My daughter asked, with a little bit of concern in her voice, “Dad, is everything alright?”

     Finally I was able to get some words out.  “Yeah…I’m fine.”  She didn’t seem convinced though and neither did a man who pulled up beside me in his car.  “Hey Buddy, are you ok?”  “Why would he ask that?” I thought.  “What a strange thing for him to do” a voice in my head said.

     “Are you sure?” he asked.  I just nodded, smiled, and muttered “Yeah…fine.”  I still wondered why he asked that.  It was only later that I began to reflect on the situation and wondered what kind of body language was I exhibiting that made it obvious to him that something might not be right, and had his car been idling behind mine for some time before he made his inquiries, wondering why I was idling in the driveway and not moving my car forward?

     To this day I still don’t know what I did or what kind of physical gestures I may have made to make that such a scary ride home for my daughter, but I do know that she asked me a few time if I was okay and felt the need to direct me home.  I was puzzled by that because why would I not know the way to get home, and wasn’t I making all of the right turns?

     In any case, the next day, which was a Monday, I told my daughter that we were going to stay in for the day but that the next day we would go on some kind of outing.  As it turned out, the next day on Tuesday around 11:00 in the morning, I would be the only one going on an outing and it wasn’t like anything I would ever plan on.  My daughter, frightened by the thought that I would be getting behind the wheel of a car and driving us somewhere had unbeknownst to me, called her mother to tell her that she was scared and that something wasn’t right with me.  So I was quite surprised when her mother knocked on my door asking to speak with me.  She told me about our daughter calling her and telling her that was afraid to ride in the car with me.  She then asked me if there was something wrong with me.

     All at once my mind seemed to break somewhat free of the fog that I had been walking around in for the previous two weeks.  The memories of the little weird things that had been going on came flooding back to me as did the capacity to be completely honest with myself.  Something was terribly wrong me. 

     With all that I had gone through and experienced in life, with every struggle and trial that I had overcome and successfully seen myself through, I had become a person who was confident and could remain composed under fire.  This time however, I began to experience thoughts and feelings of panic.  I began to worry that I would no longer be able to care for my daughter and that I would lose her.  During my attempt to show and articulate that I would be alright, the stress, combined with whatever physical complications I was experiencing, overwhelmed my system and things became critical.

     I was able to utter some words but even I could tell that I was largely incoherent, and the realization of this caused me to become more frustrated as I struggled to compose myself and overcome whatever it was I was experiencing.  My jaw then began to tic, and drool came pouring out of my mouth.  My daughter’s mother then said that she was calling 911 and I was pleading with her not to, that a hospital stay was too expensive, and that my insurance had run out.  “This country doesn’t care about people like me!” I uttered in frustration.

     Within minutes the ambulance arrived and the paramedics inquired about my situation.  I was still drooling although I was a little more coherent, and one of the paramedics asked me if I was on drugs.  Although my daughter was in the house I had no doubt that she could probably hear the conversation we were having outside and my first thought was to punch the paramedic for asking me such a question within earshot of my daughter.  From somewhere in the fog a voice of reason reminded me that he was only doing his job and that it was a logical question to ask given my physical behavior.

     He then informed me that I might be having a stroke and they said that they’d strap me into a gurney and take me to the hospital.  I insisted that I was alright to walk on my own into the ambulance but they insisted I get on the gurney.  When I said wait until I get my wallet and keys and lock up the house, they insisted I shouldn’t walk.  They seemed rather adamant about it and I was ready to force my way past them if I needed to, but I remembered my daughter.  They suggested that she get my wallet and keys and after locking up, she and her mom could follow the ambulance in the car.

     In the ambulance the paramedics informed me that I may be having either a stroke or a T.I.A. which is much like a stroke but not as severe.  They said that both my blood sugar and my blood pressure were through the roof.  They began to intravenously pump medication into me and informed me that the hospital they were taking me to had a unit that specialized in treating those who had sustained a stroke.

     I was already becoming more coherent during the ambulance ride and most of my drooling had stooped.  When we arrived at the hospital I was admitted quickly and taken to the emergency room.  My daughter and her mom arrived shortly and while my daughter couldn’t enter the emergency room because she was only 11, I spoke to her mother.

     “She was really scared on the way over here and I felt bad for her” she said.  “I know that you’re not one to ask help from anyone, but you need to let them give you treatment.”

     I informed her that the emergency room personnel were very surprised at how much better I was already doing all things considered, and that my blood pressure and blood sugar levels had dropped quite a bit.  I then asked her to relay the message to our daughter that I was doing much better and that everything was going to be alright.  “Tell her that there’s nothing that her Dad can’t get through and I’m going to let them help me while I’m here.  I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

     With that she left and I resumed my friendly chats with the nurses.  After meeting with a neurologist and a surgeon, I underwent my initial wave of testing and was informed that I did indeed have a full blown stroke.  “You have bleeding on the brain and it seems to have been going on for a little while” the Neurologist informed me.  “How long have you been experiencing your symptoms?”  “Two weeks” I replied. 

     “We’re going to have to keep you in intensive care for at least two days and do more testing.  Then we’ll be able to determine if your condition requires surgery” he told me.  “Great” I thought, I hated hospitals and previously I never had to stay more than a few hours in one with the exception of when I broke my leg when I was a baby. I began to ask myself, “Am I going to be able to get any sleep in this place, and how the hell am I going to pay for my stay?  And am I really going to require surgery?”

 

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