There is Nothing Funny about a Stroke

My father in law is in the hospital. He suffered a stroke about a week ago, the second one in three months. He was seemingly fine after the first one, with very little weakness on his left side that resolved quickly. He was back to volunteering at his former place of employment, what I like to call free consulting, and being the primary caregiver for my mother in law, who is in even worse shape than he is. But despite his daily walks, his abstaining from all things alcohol and sugar related, and his strict adherence to medication, he surprised us all by having another stroke.

Only this time, he isn't home and recovering in three days. He is still in the hospital, and while the medical professionals all agree he should recover well, they have no time frame they want to share with us. He is able to walk, talk, think, and feel. He has vertigo, though, so while physically he can stand, every time he does, he is like a falling tree. He has already had a good fall, too, good enough that he has a special fall bracelet and bathroom restrictions. And to top it off, he is experiencing double vision, so he isn't able to read a newspaper or magazine, and can only look at a computer or the television with one eye closed. So he is wearing an eye patch. Like a pirate.

My father in law is the strong silent type. He likes a good joke, especially if it is raunchy, but he doesn't laugh loudly unless he has a really good reason. He rather listen than talk, especially when you need advice. He belongs to the "show, not tell" school of love. He doesn't talk about his feelings, but if you need him to do something, he does it. Family matters more to him than anything in the world. Clemson football and a good hot dog are close seconds.

I love my father in law, and so do my kids. They got short-changed in the grandparent department, as some kids do. I was lucky in grandparents, which made up for the shitty parents I had. For my children, it is the opposite. They have no grandmothers to teach them how to bake, to put on lipstick or make pin curls in their hair, to take them shopping and to tea parties and spend the nights. They have no grandfathers to teach them how to whittle a stick, or catch a fish, or change a tire, or mix a tall Jack Daniels and water. They have two grandmothers who are unable to care for them or be alone with them, even though they both love them. They have one grandfather who won't talk to them, opting for his cigarettes and his daily nap over conversation or even game playing.

And then they have my father in law, who is different from the other three because he listens. He asks them questions and sits back for the answers to unfold. He teases them, in a subtle way, which is enough to make them smile and be glad for his company. They each have their own style with him, their own inside jokes, their own special relationship. He respects their individuality, and they know it.

None of us is handling his stroke well. We all want him to be like he was over a week ago, none of us half as much as he does. We want him to go back home, back to driving and working for free and grilling chicken tenders and falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I don't know when that will happen. Until then, I hope he gets better, and I hope he gets over his frustration at himself, at his inability to self heal, at his anger for getting older. Actually, I hope that for all of us.

My youngest daughter thought they should make hospital gowns in plaid for her grandfather, since he wears plaid shirts almost every day of his life. She wants to play with the buttons on his bed and the levers on his tray and the convertible bed in his room and (of course!) his wheel chair. My oldest daughter, however, stands there and watches it all with her big doe eyes, wanting to ask the question that none of the adults in the room want to answer, because we don't know or don't want to admit it. She wants the truth, and we can't give it to her.

To make herself feel better, my oldest daughter drew a picture for her grandfather, whom my girls call Andaddy, since "grand" was too hard to say when they were babies. She was taken with his eye patch, since it gave him his first real air of mystery. It depicts him as a pirate, his hospital bed his ship, and his wheelchair as a treasure chest. I know he will love it when he see it. My daughter felt better making a fantasy out of a hospital stay, and honestly, it's a much better scenario than the ones I make up. Getting old sucks, but being a pirate is cool.