I love you too much to not call 911.

Sunday morning, I awoke feeling stressed. Feeling anxious. I could point to a number of reasons as the source of this stress. My dad’s recent stay in the hospital for a major hernia repair. A big one. My husband’s upcoming posting and relocation to Ottawa, another. My dad’s surgery was a success and only required a 10-day stay in the hospital. The daily trips to visit him. The time in-between visits. The stress of not being there in body, but always there in my mind. It was the first time in my entire life that I had ever seen my dad in the hospital. Images of him in a hospital were merely images I created in my mind. Those images are now replaced with images that have edges. No longer imaginary. Jagged and as real as it gets. Images that stick to your skin and stay with you.

So, yes. I was stressed that morning. Tired, but grateful. Weakened by worry but strengthened by hope. My dad got through this surgery. A surgery he had been waiting for. Three years of waiting. Worry is compounded by waiting. It grows exponentially. At least it feels that way for me. 

So on that Sunday morning, although relieved, it would still take time for the weight of all that accumulated worry to ease.

But we got through it, and my dad was doing really well and was recovering nicely. And on that Sunday he had spent the afternoon watching a Blue Jays game at my brother’s place. A treat for both after 10 days without a game together. Later that night, he watched a movie with me and my husband. A normal day. A hopeful day.

I said goodnight to dad around 10 pm. “Sleep well. See you in the morning.” – our typical goodnight routine. My dad was occupying our guest room downstairs. He went to bed not long after me. I heard his footsteps on the stairs.

A typical night.    

I was still awake reading in bed. My usual bedtime routine. Our room was illuminated only by my night light for reading my book. Quiet. The world – my world – had reached its final waking minutes and suddenly I heard a noise downstairs. An unusual noise. A bang. Like something dropped on the floor.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered to my husband.

“I think the cat knocked something over,” he replied.

My unspoken worry hung in the air. Slicing the silence I said, “I have to check.”

I put on my robe and headed downstairs to check the origin of the suspicious noise. As I descended the stairs our cat came running up. I felt a tinge of relief. Noise = cat. Good. The tinge of relief was still not adequate to halt my descent. I stood outside my dad’s closed bedroom door, and “Dad, are you…..” and the reply behind the door is something that will stay with me forever. “I need help”. Three unforgettable words, no more than a faint whisper. I opened the door and found my dad on the bedroom floor. On the floor. Laying on his left side. His head and shoulder against the nightstand. “I need help. I slipped on the mat.”

Seconds became a lifetime. Time stood still. Standing on the edge of before and after.

Every second, every blink of my eye – a new scar on my retina. Images burned into memory.

I yelled Help to my husband.

Time speed up.  

My dad had cut his ear on the nightstand. It was bleeding but it wasn’t bleeding bad. No broken bones. No gushing blood. He was conscious. He was alert. He was talking to us. He said he slipped on the mat next to his bed. I grabbed the mat and threw it to the corner. I was so angry at the mat. An object I now hated with every fiber of my being.

My husband and I helped my dad sit upright on the floor.

Me: “Scott, call 911”.

My dad:  “No, no, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

My brain needs time to process. My brain needs time to catch up.

Process. Process. Catch up. Catch up.

Too much is happening. Too much is happening.

My husband and I helped my dad up to the bed. My dad had no strength. He was trying to help, but he had no strength. We lifted him up. Mindful of his abdomen, still sutured from the hernia repair surgery.

He laid down. It wasn’t a gentle lie down. His body was stiff. His limbs were heavy.

My brain: He’s weak from the major hernia repair surgery.

My heart: He’s strong. He’s my dad. He’s the strongest person I know.

Me: Dad, are you okay?

My husband: Bill, how many fingers? 

My dad: Three.

My husband: Okay, good.

Me: Dad, can you see me? Dad, can you see me?

A necessary question because my dad was looking side to side and all around me. As if trying to grab hold of a lucid and moving thought.

I put a cold cloth on my dad’s forehead. We put a fan on him. Helped him lay on his side. He was present, but parts of him were missing. I can’t put my finger on it, but parts of him were missing.

My brain: Maybe he has a concussion.

Me: “I’m calling 911”.

My dad: “No, No. I’m okay. It’s okay.”

My Heart: He’s your dad. He’s wise. He’s strong.

My Brain: He’s your dad. He needs you to be strong. He needs you to be wise.  

Me: I’m calling 911.

I left the room and called 911. I didn’t want my dad to hear me on the phone calling for help. I didn’t want to scare him. Worry him. I told the 911 operator what had happened. I explained his recent surgery. The noise I heard. Finding my dad on the floor. He slipped on the mat. He’s conscious. He’s bleeding, but the wound is not open and gushing. No broken bones. But he is not coherent in the way he normally is. He is weak. He is dazed. I just want him checked in case he has a concussion. I just don’t know. I want to check.

I returned to my dad’s side. I said ‘Dad, I called 911. The ambulance is coming to check on you”.

My dad: “I’m okay. That’s okay.”

Me: Dad, I love you too much to not call 911.

The ambulance showed up. So fast. It seemed like I just hung up the phone and saw the flashing lights through the window. Three paramedics. I filled them in on what happened. They begin to assess my dad. Asked my dad to give them a smile. He smiled. My husband and I looked at each other. No words were needed. His smile seemed okay. But different. We knew this smile was different. Something wasn’t right.

My dad was talking to them. He was trying to be helpful. I looked at the paramedic and said “he doesn’t normally sound like that. He is usually very articulate. His words are slurred. He doesn’t sound like that.”

The paramedic did another motor assessment test. The 2nd paramedic turned to me and said, ‘He is showing signs of a stroke.”

Those words punctured my soul. Sudden and deep.

I wanted to say, ‘Stop saying that. He can hear you.”

A flood of emotion washed over me. 

Confusion. Denial. Worry. Loss. All of it.

Paramedics prepared to take my dad in the ambulance. To emergency. They lifted him to a large wheelchair with no arms. A straight back. They strapped him in. Strapped him in. Another puncture to my soul. The lead paramedic said they would call ahead to Emergency and prepare for his arrival. The paramedics rolled my dad out of my house to a waiting ambulance outside. I said I would follow in my car. The paramedic said “You won’t get to go in with him. You’ll have to wait in your car. You won’t get to see him until they admit him and he has been moved to a bed.”

I stood back. Wanting to help, but I was helpless. I grabbed my dad’s hand. A hand that no longer could feel mine. His whole left side was gone.

I learned later that while I was calling 911, my husband was with my dad. My dad was laying on the bed with his left arm across his chest. He asked my husband, ‘whose hand is that?’  Words I was spared. The mere thought of those words is hard enough to carry.

The paramedic told me that the ambulance will remain out front for a little while and to not be alarmed by that. They will be using that time to hook my dad up to an IV and prepare him for arrival and immediate care at the hospital, including a CT scan. She told me not to worry. She had reassuring eyes. I have come to rely on the emotion displayed in people’s eyes now. Our faces are covered. It is left to our eyes, to tell the truth.

I sat inside my home. In the same living room I had just sat with my dad an hour before, but a lifetime in between. I watched the glow of emergency lights through the window, and the sound that came out of me was hollow but full of despair. From inside my ribs, it traveled to my throat and stayed silent until it couldn’t contain itself, and the sound of everything I felt came out. I blamed myself for putting the mat on the floor next to the bed. A simple gesture of warmth on a hard floor ruined my father. The shame of that was the heaviest shame I have ever felt. I caused my dad to slip. He hit his head. He had a stroke. My husband tried to console me. It was no use. I said let me be. Let me release this.

The ambulance departed.

My husband and I sat in silence. A moment, but eternity.

I called my brother. It was now 11:40 pm. I hoped he was still awake and has his ringer on. I needed to hear his voice. I gathered my breath and told him what has happened. I didn’t want to scare him, but I had a hard time finding the nonscary words to describe what had just happened.

We have to wait. Someone will call.

We have to wait. And pray.

I told him about the mat. It was my fault. I put the mat there. How can dad have a stroke? He was just doing his sudoku. He was fine. He drove home from my brother’s place three hours before. He was fine. When he went to bed he was completely fine.

I crawled in my dad’s bed downstairs. A childlike instinct. It was the closest I could be.

I waited until 1:45 am. I called the Emergency and asked if there was an update.

I was passed around a few times to different departments. Moments later an Assistant Surgical Resident came on the line. She explained that the CTscan showed a sizeable blood clot on his brain. There were two ways they can remove it. My dad was a better candidate for the 2^nd way. They would be preparing him for surgery now. Someone will call me with an update.  I said, “Can I ask you something? I heard a noise and checked on him. He was on the floor. He hit his head. My dad said he slipped on a mat near the bed. Did he have a stroke because he slipped and hit his head or was he having a stroke and then slipped and hit his head?” She said “he was having a stroke and likely fell off the bed because of it. You were lucky you heard the noise”

Her words didn’t change things. My dad still had a stroke. But her words changed me. It absolved me of the pounding guilt that wreaked havoc on my mind. Guilt that it was something I did that had caused my dad’s injury. My heart couldn’t handle that size of regret.

The Assistant Resident Surgeon said they would take good care of him, and someone will call me with an update.

I hung up and called my brother. We waited. We prayed. I made every single offer to the universe to get my dad through this.

And then the images of him being lifted into the ambulance fill my head again. And the sudden thought ‘what if he never plays the piano again’ hit me like a blow to my entire being. A jolt of despair so sudden I couldn’t breathe. Another hollow sound followed, and I cried. My dad has played the piano for 70 years. It is as much a part of him as any living thing. It is part of us. The sound of us. The sound of him. The realization that if my dad loses strength and mobility in his left hand, his left side – the loss of that will be too much to bear.

I crawled back into my own bed. The phone in my hand. My eyes open. Offering everything I have, everything I own to the universe to get my dad through this. Silent tears drenched my pillow. My phone rang. I lept out of bed and smashed my phone to my ear. “This is Dr. We removed the clot from your dad’s brain. He has regained movement in his left side. We are all very pleased. Best possible outcome.”

Best possible outcome.

A simple combination of words. 19 letters. But my whole world.

I shared the news with my husband. Although he already knew it was good news by all the Thank yous I gave to the Dr. I called my brother. Our dad got through it. We got through it.

Best possible outcome.

A few minutes later a recovery nurse called. She wanted to make sure I knew. She was with my dad. He was in recovery and was doing good. They will move him to the floor when he is ready. She gave me the number for the nurse’s station. And told me I can call in the morning.

I had called the ambulance at 11:03pm.

We received word of the best possible outcome around 3am.

4 hours.  A lifetime in between.

I tried to sleep. I drifted in and out, images of the past 4+ hours filling my head. Some real. Some imaginary. All were terrifying.

The next morning, I went to see my dad. I prepared myself for what I will see. Blurred imagination. Blurred reality. He was there, but parts of him were still missing. His brain was still trying to find its way back. He needed rest. Lots of rest. We must be patient.

It was a long agonizing day. I sat in the family room outside the unit. Silent tears. A gentleman looked at me and asked if I was okay. I shared our ordeal. He shared his. Different, yet the same. We were all waiting. And hoping to get our loved ones back. Praying they find their way back to us.  I met many people. Similar expressions on their faces. Their faces tell the story. Their eyes tell their truth. No words are needed in a family room on a Neurosurgical unit.

The next morning, while at home, my phone rang. The number was my dad’s cell phone. I answered. His voice. His normal greeting. He found his way back.

It would be another 10 days before he was discharged. His recovery was astonishing. On day 6, my dad and brother found a piano in a nearby common room. My dad played. My brother took a video and shared it with us. A 30-second video, a priceless gift. On the following night, my dad entered the piano room and was greeted with cheers and clapping – an audience happy to see his return. Our dad found his way back to us. But signs of a stroke still linger.

Timing is (was) everything. Emergency Care and their expert response mean everything.  

During a stroke, minutes and hours separate two words. Best and Worst. Two words, but two different worlds. Best possible outcome and worst possible outcome.

We were lucky. So lucky. The stars aligned. So much had to align perfectly for us to have the best possible outcome.

I think back to us calling 911. We hesitated. Although very brief, we hesitated. Why? We were assessing the situation. Why? We were making sure our emergency was worthy of a 911 emergency. Why?

Here’s the thing. Here’s my message. If you are ever in a situation where you think, ‘should I call 911?” you have already answered the question. Just call. 911 is there for all of us. They are emergency responders. This is their job. This is what they are trained to do. Please, don’t ever hesitate. Don’t overthink. Just call.

In those chaotic fragmented moments of an emergency, your reality is blurred. My reality was blurred. My judgment was weakened. Compounded by my dad’s recent surgery and then confusion about why he was on the floor. Compounded by my dad’s good health and the fact that he was doing sudoku an hour before his stroke. Compounded by my dad saying he was okay. Compounded by the reality that my dad was fine when he went to bed. There was no warning for this. But that’s how a stroke works. No warning. Sudden. And now I know it can happen to anyone. Anywhere. Anytime. Know the signs. To learn more about the signs of stroke please visit the Heart and Stroke Foundation.  

My message. Trust your intuition.

My plea. Don’t hesitate. Don’t overthink. Call 911.

This experience has changed me. Changed all of us.

I am so grateful that I loved him too much to not call 911.

With gratitude,