An odd anniversary . . .

So, today is the two year anniversary of me having my stroke. Some people think it's odd for me to mark the date of such an "event," but for me it's important to remember that day. After all, it probably had a much more significant impact on my life than many other days.

It was a Saturday afternoon on Labor Day weekend, 2002. I had slept in until 11:00, which was odd for me at the time (much more commonplace nowadays.) I was bored so I rushed out and decided to hit a 1:00 movie. It was "One Hour Photo," with Robin Williams. When I got to the theatre, I was feeling a bit weak, but I chalked it up to hunger and grogginess from sleeping too late. Throughout the movie I felt weaker and more tired, but just promised myself some Subway and a long nap when I got home. Near the end of the film I reached into my pocket for a Listerine strip but my left arm wouldn't move near my pocket. I figured my arm was asleep and figured I could wait until the end of the film.

Which happened to be when everything fell apart.

When I walked out of the theatre, I felt like my entire left side of my body was controlled by a drunk pupetteer. My arms and legs wouldn't move in the directions I wanted them to and I kept stumbling into the walls. I barely made it into the lobby, and I could feel the left side of my face drooping. What's worse is that my thoughts were bouncing around incoherently and I couldn't even comprehend what I needed to do, except that I wanted to get outside. I think it's probably a lot like what being drunk feels like although without any pretty girls or friends around. Being alone was the worst part.

I sat on a bench to clear my head and remembered thinking "I'm dying." I went to tie my shoes but couldn't coordinate my legs and my hands together. I took off my glasses to rub my eyes, but my left arm wouldn't manuever them back on my head. I stood up and walked to get a drink of water and that's when I collapsed on the floor.

There was a little girl nearby and I asked her to get an usher. I remember that the worst part, as the crowd was gathering around, was how I spoke and thought. My words came out slurred and garbled, and I sounded like I had a mental impairment (I'm sure blood flow being cut off to the brain is actually an impairment, now that I think about it.) And as people asked me my name and if I had anyone I could call I couldn't think of the right words or responses to answer. I remember saying "I'm Chris" very loudly and saying "call my nana." Even as I said it, I was panicking. I had no idea what was going on except that it felt like my brain was retreating back to a child. I was sure I had cancer or that I wouldn't survive the trip to the hospital.

I remember the paramedics coming, asking me questions. The asked me to move my left fingers, my left toes. By then my entire left side was unresponsive. I remember the oxygen tubes being shoved in my nose, something I had always feared (although, honestly, they aren't as bad as I feared and the cool rush of air was refreshing.) I remember the ride to the hospital and how quick we made it to Beaumont. I probably would have been impressed had I not been hearing them talk about CT scans and scared to death I had a tumor. I know I've heard people who are calm in those moments; I was scared to death. I was sure that any minute I would die and all I could think of was that it was the worst way to go: on the floor, alone at a movie theatre (a pretty bad movie, at that), my parents camping two hours away, no friends or family by my side.

After about 20 minutes in the ER, my Papaw showed up and I was so glad to see him. He's been the person I loved and repected more than almost anyone and I felt much calmer when he showed up. After awhile, my left side began responding again. I think there was one more spell, but it was brief and--looking back--could have been due to my nerves. I was able to stand up and--sorry--go to the bathroom. I was able to eat a meal while answering questions about drug use and sexual history (it was a short interview; I'm a very boring person.) My parents showed up and talked to me. I had a CT Scan that came back normal. The doctors wanted to keep me in there overnight.

There is more. I spent a week in the hospital. They performed heart tests, brain tests, two MRIs, a spinal tap and more on me. Friends visited. I got by on a good sense of humor and company of good friends. To everyone else, I was in good spirits, but I was scared to death. The doctors were afraid I might have MS. I was scared I had cancer. Good news would be if there was a stroke, but then we had to figure out what caused it.

Moments like that, define your faith. Looking back, I sadly realize how much of a lack of it I had. I read my Bible looking for promises I'd be healthy. It took me a few weeks to pray again. I was mad at God for letting me go through something like this so young. I was scared to tell God "your will be done," because what if His will meant my death? I feigned faith and thanked people for praying. All I wanted was to get out of the hospital and I was sure that I would have another, more violent, episode before I was discharged. The last day was spent having a spinal tap, lying on my back for six hours to recover from it, and having an MRI before being discharged at ten in the evening. When I got in the car and felt the cold air from outside and got to eat a cheeseburger from McDonalds, I burst into tears. I never thought I'd feel that again.

Some people wouldn't get why this would be such a big deal. After all, in and out of the hospital. Back to work in a week. Not too bad, right? But I was a wreck for nearly a year. Even after the doctor came back with news that it was a stroke but my heart and blood were fine, I still worried. No answers meant no assurance. What if it happened again? When I went to the movies I'd have flashbacks. When I was out away from my secure zones, I'd have panic attacks. I couldn't work, think, or live without thinking of it. I was depressed and scared. And although medication was issued, it wasn't what made things right.

Looking back, I realize how serious the situation could have been and how lucky I was. I have no side effects lingering from the stroke, aside from maybe garbling my words when I'm tense or stressed. I can walk fine. My mental capacity is what it always was (which, admittedly, might not be much.) I needed no surgery and no medication stronger than a blood thinner. My doctor is optomistic. And although from time to time I still tense up and flash back, those times are fewer and farer between. I'm doing good.

But the situation made me think of so many things. First, life is short. You never know when your number could be up. So what am I going to do with the time I have left? It's put work and money in proper perspective, I can tell you that. It's given me a new appreciation for times with friends and times "smelling the roses."

Most importantly, though, it's made me take a hard look at my faith. I have never been a man of extreme faith, I'm sad to say. In my childhood years, I would question my salvation. In college, I doubted God's existence. Now, through this, i was brought face to face with another question: was God going to be enough for me? Was He going to see me through the trials? Could I trust Him with my life?

People talk about life-altering moments. And I guess this was one of them for me. But not because things changed in an instant, but because it's effects brought to light changes that I had to depend on God to work in me for almost two years. Things he's still working on me with. I'm stronger in faith because of going through that time. But I'm still dependent on God for that faith. But now I know that I can trust Him.

Guess you could call it my stroke of luck.

C-Dubbs