Saturday, August 30, 2008

You always had the power to go back home. You just click your
heels three times and say, “There's no place like home." ...From The Wizard of Oz

Dad came home today and the first thing he did was sit in the living room and pet his cat. She missed him terribly and he her. While he was in the hospital, she would walk through the house and “call” him each day. Something was terribly amiss in her world, too.

Dad spent most of his day sitting on the back patio reading Motor Trend and Car and Driver – two of his favorite magazines. He said it felt so good to be outside – no nurses, no therapy, no confusion, no schedule.

I took their “Caddy” out today and filled it with gas (Mom doesn’t know how to pump gas; that was Dad’s job) and picked up Dad’s prescriptions. He will take three pills each morning and must wear a Clonidine patch to help lower his blood pressure. (As for driving the Cadillac, I got a lot of strange looks while I was out and about. I think you're supposed to be over 70 to drive one. Me? I had the windows down, the sunroof open, and Led Zeppelin playing - quite the oxymoron.)

My younger daughter Christy stopped by to visit her grandparents and welcome her grandfather home. She has been so caring and concerned during Dad's hospitalization. She called me multiple times nearly every day to check on him.

Mom fixed hot dogs on the grill for Dad’s welcome home meal – it was his request. He was tired of beef and noodles and “Prince Edward” vegetables. And, unlike the hospital, he got “seconds” at home.

After dinner, Dad and I sat on their back patio. Dad was looking a bit shaggy, so I gave him a haircut. (Yes, he still has both ears.) He looks much better, in fact.

We called Wendy in Georgia and she and Dad talked for a long while. She couldn’t believe how much he’s improved in such a short time. She is recovering well after her first reconstructive procedure and said she feels like a "girl" again. She will have several additional surgeries over the next year to complete her breast reconstruction.

There are subtle differences in Dad’s personality. He’s a bit more cautious, a bit more outspoken, and he eats much faster (he used to be the world’s slowest eater). Yesterday, Mom heard him whistling while he was outside enjoying the sunshine. Dad never whistled before. Occasionally, he struggles for just the right word, but he converses intelligently and effectively. He was able to navigate the house with no problem today.

He wants desperately to drive again and return to work. Those are his personal goals. With the progress he’s made in just two short weeks, I have no doubt that Dad will achieve his goals in time. G and G Oil said Dad’s job is waiting for him and they can’t wait to have him back.

Mom and Dad will settle into a new routine at home over the course of the next few days, weeks, and months. My routine at home will return to “normal” – no more dashing to the hospital after work to have dinner with Dad. I’ll ease back into my “social life,” but will keep a watchful eye on my parents. Thankfully, they live close to me. I’ve become “chained” to my phones - my heart skips two beats until I hear my mother’s voice when she calls and I know all is well. So much is different, yet, thankfully, still the same.

To the doctors, nurses, therapists, friends, neighbors, colleagues, and family members who’ve travelled this journey with us, thank you for your support, assistance, guidance, encouragement, and prayers. The baggage we carried was lighter because of each and every one of you.

I will no longer post to this blog each day. Chronicling my father’s recovery on his road back has been cathartic for me and helped me document his amazing progress on this unscheduled journey. I will post again when we have something new to share. Check back in a few days.

Journeys never really end – our direction merely changes. Scottish author Samuel Smiles said, “Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us.” Thank you one and all for travelling with us. Our journey continues…

Friday, August 29, 2008

Today was Dad’s last full day as a patient in Ball Memorial Hospital. Saturday morning he will have breakfast and endure my mother’s driving when he leaves for home.

Today in physical therapy, Allen reviewed the exercises Dad must continue to work on once he gets home. Allen said he starts work with two new patients on Monday who are in the same situation Dad was in just two weeks ago. He told Dad he hoped they would recover as well as he has. When they finished their last therapy session today, Dad hugged Allen and said, “I love you, man.”

I read that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Dr. John Wulff, speech therapist Kristie, occupational therapist Natalie, and physical therapist Allen came into my father’s life for a reason and helped him find the long road back. The Wenz family is - and shall continue to be - eternally grateful.

Japanese poet Matsuo Basho said, “Every day is a journey and the journey itself is home.” Tomorrow, my dad comes home. Still, our journey continues…

Thursday, August 28, 2008

After a few long, hectic days at work, the highlight of my day today was seeing my dad. Each day, my dad seems more like... my dad.

Today in physical therapy, Dad walked from the rehabilitation unit, out of the hospital, and down University Avenue and back again with only his cane. Mom said he did beautifully. As they were preparing to leave the fourth floor rehab unit, Allen said to Dad, "Jim, call me an elevator."

Without missing a beat, Dad said, "You're an elevator." That's my dad!

Dad has done very well in occupational therapy as well. He's able to dress himself with little assistance, take care of his grooming and bathroom needs, and feed himself.

Last night he went out for dinner with Bill, Orville, and a few members of the hospital staff. Dad ordered a hamburger and french fries - his favorite meal. For his welcome home meal, he's requested hot dogs on the grill. Mom won't have to "fuss" much over that one!

Allen reminded Mom that we need to be mindful of Dad's blind spot. His vision is still impaired, but we're hoping time will improve his vision as well as give him use of his right hand once again. His speech and memory are also impaired, but not a great deal. Dr. Wulff said we'd notice some impairment with Dad's short term memory for a while.

Tonight we extend special thanks to Tina Goodman who helped Mom make the bathroom accessible and to Jim Maul and Richard Coulter for building a railing at the front steps of Mom and Dad's house. Friends and neighbors are truly one of life's greatest treasures. Thank you all from the bottoms of our hearts.

Two weeks ago tonight I slept in a recliner by my dad's bedside, afraid to go to sleep for fear I wouldn't have my dad when I woke up. He couldn't speak and the right side of his body was paralyzed. Tonight, when I took him back to his room after dinner, he stood up, gave me a hug, kissed my cheek, and told me he loved me more than I would ever know. I love you, too, Dad. More than you will ever know.

There's a Chinese Proverb that says, "To get through the hardest journey we need take only one step at a time, but we must keep on stepping." My dad has never stopped stepping. Our journey continues...

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

This is the first day since August 14, I've not seen my dad. Work has been utterly crazy this week. We launched a new Web application and I've been troubleshooting and fielding phone calls all week. I worked more than nine hours both yesterday and today. I don't mind busy days - they fly by, but my brain is totally fried. Mom's friend Bev took her out to dinner this evening. She's earned the reward - and the break.

Tonight Dad and Bill are going out to dinner with the hospital staff as part of their rehabilitative therapy.

Mom met with Dr. Wulff today who said Dad has made a "remarkable recovery." He said tests showed Dad's carotid arteries are fine and he can enjoy a regular diet with no restrictions, which is good news. Dad is a "meat and potatoes" guy who doesn't eat fish, chicken, or "Prince Edward" vegetables unless he's starving. He also said Dad is physically very strong, which aided in his quick recovery. He said Dad still has some short-term memory loss and some issues with his speech and recommended he also continue speech therapy (in addition to physical therapy) as an outpatient. Since I am a Ball State employee, Dad can receive speech therapy in the BSU Speech Pathology Clinic at no charge. (Thank you, Ball State University. From tuition reduction for Carrie, to helping my father, Ball State is, and has been, a true blessing in my life.)

Dad continues to gain some use of his right arm, but not his hand. Dr. Wulff said movement in the hand is usually the last thing to come back after a stroke - if it does. He said we may see improvement in time.

In physical therapy today, Allen took Dad outside and had him walk up and down the sidewalks with his cane. They also practiced getting in and out of the car. Dad did very well and had no difficulties.

Dad now has a real "corker" of a roommate. He's very loud and very negative.

Mom and I are very anxious to get Dad back home. We both know her life will change in ways she can't begin to comprehend. I will help her to the best of my ability, but she will bear a heavy burden. Please keep she and and my father in your thoughts and prayers as Dad makes the transition home.

An old Japanese proverb says, "When you have completed 95 percent of your journey, you are only halfway there." Dad has, indeed, made a remarkable recovery, but he has miles to go. Our journey continues...

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Dad gets to go home THIS Saturday, August 30, 2008, at 10:00 a.m.! Sixteen days after our journey began, dad will go home! We're all SO anxious and utterly amazed at his progress!

His therapy continues to go extremely well. Today, Dad's physical therapist Allen had Mom work with Dad. She walked with him around the therapy gym and up a flight of stairs. Allen showed her how to assist him with his walking and how to help him to his feet should he fall. He will use only a lightweight cane for stability. No wheelchair; no walker!

Dad's communication skills improve significantly each day. Tonight after dinner Dad and I went outside for our evening stroll and we called Wendy in Georgia and Carrie in Alaska and he had nice chats with both his daughter and granddaughter. They were both amazed at how he sounds and how well he's conversing. He doesn't slur his speech, his voice is getting stronger, and he doesn't struggle to find his words.

After he goes home, he will continue therapy a few days a week at a nearby outpatient facility for some time.

Tonight Dad and I said goodbye to my "boyfriend" Dewey. Dewey is going home tomorrow after spending more than two months in the rehabilitation unit after breaking his hip. Orville leaves Friday and Bill will leave Saturday, too.

Tonight's Swiss Steak dinner included green beans and two pieces of carrot. Last week, the dietary service referred to this "mixture" as "Prince Edward" vegetables. Tonight, they were identified as, "Belgian" vegetables. Talk about a culinary trip around the world! Bill still hasn't been successful in getting blue cheese crumbles for his salad.

Tomorrow evening the therapy unit is taking Dad to Richard's Restaurant in Muncie for dinner with a couple of the other therapy patients. This outing will be his first trip away from Ball Memorial Hospital since he arrived on August 14.

Tim Cahill said, "A journey is best measured in friends rather than miles." To our many friends and family members who've called, stopped by, sent cards, and said prayers, thank you for taking this journey with us. We couldn't have walked this winding path without each of you. When you are blessed with wonderful friends, you never walk alone. Our journey continues...

Monday, August 25, 2008

Some days everything just seems right in the world. Today was one of those days. The students started fall semester classes at Ball State, my sister Wendy is feeling much better and is pleased with her newly acquired "34 Bs," Tropical Storm Fay seems to be finishing her Floridian tirade, my daughter Carrie will be home for a short visit in less than a month, and my dad is making progress by leaps and bounds.

Dr. Wulff and Dad's therapists are extremely pleased with his progress. He's met, or exceeded, all of the goals they set for him in therapy and he may be released from the hospital as early as this Friday or by the middle of next week. He wasn't scheduled for release until September 9.

Dad's conversational skills improve each day and he doesn't struggle for the right word now. He's walking well in therapy and will need only a cane for mobility once he's released. He has made incredible progress.

The doctors are still working to get his blood pressure under control. I'm certain we'll have to monitor it closely for the rest of his life. He still has limited mobility in his right arm and no use of his right hand. We're hoping time and continued therapy will bring forth improvement.

No matter how incredible the journey, there's no place like home. Soon, it seems, my dad will get to go... home. Still, our journey continues...

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Today was a “normal” Sunday for me. I read the paper while I drank my morning coffee, mowed the lawn, washed the car, and did laundry. But instead of my normal Sunday dinner with a date or my friends, I’ll be having dinner with my dad and our new friends Bill, Dewey, and Orville who are all patients in the rehabilitation unit at Ball Memorial Hospital.

Have you ever noticed how often we say, “Things will be better when they get back to normal,” or “That’s normal.”? Just what is normal? Normal is the expected, the standard; and what we - or society - define as typical. Normal defines our personal comfort zones. Often we become mired in our own states of normalcy, which, all too often, results in complacency. Today’s normal is typically tomorrow’s change. Whoopi Goldberg once said, “Normal is nothing more than a cycle on a washing machine.”

I started the New Year with an injury to my face. The wounds have healed, the scars have faded, and, once again, I look “normal.” (No comments, please.)

In February, my older daughter Carrie got married. She became a wife and I became a mother-in-law. This progression of the life cycle is both traditional and “normal.”

In March, a pipe broke in my slab, damaging carpet, paint, and drywall in two rooms. After significant repairs and a huge mess, my home, once again, looks “normal.”

In May, Carrie and her new husband Luke moved from their home near me in Indiana to a new home in Anchorage, Alaska. I have accepted that I will only see her about once a year from now on. For parents whose children embrace careers far from home, this time span between visits is “normal.”

Also in May, a year and a half-long relationship with a man I loved and cared for deeply ended. His voice on the phone is no longer the first thing I hear in the morning, or the last thing I hear before falling asleep. After a period of adjustment, not having him as a part of my daily routine any longer is “normal.”

In June, my mother was hospitalized for a week with kidney and liver issues. Initially, doctors suspected a mass on her liver. Fortunately, they were mistaken. After rest and medication, she is feeling much better and her health has returned to “normal.”

Also in June, after living with me for more than 21 years, my younger daughter Christy moved out and into her own home. Living alone feels “normal” to me now. (Though sometimes I still find myself tiptoeing down the hall in the morning so as not to wake her).

In August, my younger sister Wendy started breast reconstruction surgery so she could look “normal” once again after her double mastectomy nearly two years ago.

This August, my father had stroke and my mother and I are struggling to redefine “normal.” Right now, Dad’s life is anything but normal. He is relearning how to walk, talk, perform simple tasks, and organize his thoughts.

My mother and I are overwhelmed thinking of changes that must be made in our lives and the accommodations that must be made to my parents’ home to facilitate my father’s acquired cognitive, vision, and mobility impairments. But, in time, even the stormiest of seas calm themselves. We will come to accept what has happened to him - to us - and continue our daily quest to bring forth positive changes in his recovery. Our new “normal” will be different from the normal we knew just 11 days ago. Very different. Perhaps Whoopi was correct. Perhaps there really is so such thing as “normal,” for just when you think you’ve achieved it, embrace it, and take comfort in it, your definition must change.

Mary Astor said, “It's not good to make sentimental journeys. You see the differences instead of the sameness.” The Wenz family will not focus on what we lost, but on what we still have. Our journey continues…

Saturday, August 23, 2008

This morning Tropical Storm Fay was still enjoying her Florida "vacation" and like a bad house guest, she just wouldn't leave. Rain and winds continued throughout last night. Flooded areas, downed trees, and downed power lines were still a problem for Wendy's area in southeastern Georgia. But the rain seems to finally be moving westward into Southwest Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Wendy is feeling much better and is up and about.

I forgot to mention in last night's post that Dad's therapists have identified a significant blind spot in his field of vision. This stroke-related vision loss is called Hemianopsia and is blindness in one half of the visual field; usually on the affected side. The extent of his vision loss isn't yet known. There is no specific treatment, though it may show improvement with time.

Being the (self-proclaimed) "Google Queen" that I am, I stumbled upon The Low Vision Centers of Indiana - a nationally recognized center for low vision rehabilitation. To my amazement, they have an office in nearby Hartford City and specialize in treatment of Hemianopsia. Mom and I are going to ask Dr. Wulff about it on Monday.

Dad didn't have any therapy today. Mom took him for a stroll around the hospital grounds and even wheeled him to the parking lot to prove to him she hadn't "dinged up" the car on her many trips back and forth to the hospital. When they got back to his room he became very interested in an old John Wayne movie. Dad loves his cars and a good Western. Some things never change.

Tonight, when I got to the hospital, Dad was seated in the dining room with three other gentlemen and they seemed to be carrying on a pretty lively conversation. I joined them and we had a nice chat. One of the men, Bill, had a stroke last Tuesday, but is making a remarkable recovery. He appears to have no paralysis and his speech hasn't been affected. While we waited on dinner to be served, Bill wondered, jokingly, if his dinner salad would have blue cheese crumbles. I reminded him that he was in the hospital and not a five-star restaurant. However, Bill's dinner did include (according to his menu) "Prince Edward vegetables," which we all learned was a fancy name for green beans and two small pieces of carrot. Who knew?

I'm developing a "crush" on a charming man named Dewey who recently moved to Muncie from Arkansas. I would guess him to be in his mid 80s. He's soft-spoken and has a subtle, yet delightful sense of humor.

At dinner, we were talking about Senator Obama's choice for his vice presidential running mate. My dad was the only one at the table, including myself, who knew Joe Biden was from Delaware. I also started to tell Dad about a woman who drove her car through the local Verizon store yesterday. Dad told me he'd read about it in the morning paper.

One week ago today, Dad had a vocabulary of less than 10 words and had no movement on the right side of his body. Today, he's reading the paper, feeding himself, walking, and conversing. I am astounded when I stand back and actually assess how far he's progressed in such a short period of time.

Time is a word Mom and I have heard often since August 14. Many of our questions to doctors and therapists have been met with responses such as, "We'll know in time," and "Time will tell." Time is a measuring system used to sequence events, to compare the durations of events, as well as a measurement used to track the intervals between them. When one is waiting for a particular result, time either seems to pass much too quickly or much too slowly. Have you ever noticed how few events in life ever seem to occupy just the "right amount" of time? Time is both our friend and our enemy; time is a blessing and a curse. Despite the adage, one can't buy time; it simply isn't for sale. Just like a river, time cannot be controlled; it flows by itself.

Star Trek's Jean-Luc Picard said, "Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to cherish each moment because it will never come again." And our journey continues...

Friday, August 22, 2008

Wendy is feeling much better today, but is still plagued by the wrath of Tropical Storm Fay. Fay just won't go away!

Dad did well in his therapy sessions today. In speech, his therapist asked him if I had sons or daughters. He said I had two sons and even argued a bit with mom about it when she told him I had daughters. But, he knew Carrie and Chrisy's names and remembered Carrie lives in Anchorage. She then held up a pink ball and asked him what it was. He had a bit of difficulty identifying it. Then she asked him what color it was. He said, "mauve."

In OT, his therapist asked him to match some multi-colored wooden beads. She held up a purple one and asked him what color it was. He said, "heliotrope." (Now, don't go and google it folks, heliotrope means purple!) Mom and I wonder if Dad might be getting in touch with his "feminine side." :-)

In PT, his therapist started weight training in his right hand and arm. He's continuing to walk well, but still isn't permitted to walk unattended outside of therapy yet for his own safety.

Mom and I were so impressed with the nursing staff in the CVICU and the stroke ward. They were attentive, caring, friendly, and compassionate. The nursing staff in the therapy unit (with a few exceptions) are extremely indifferent. They don't smile and seem to view their jobs and patients as great chores. While the therapists are compassionate and extremely dedicated, the nurses truly underwhelm us. In a unit where each patient has mobility and/or cognitive issues and special needs, one would think they would be more attentive and caring. Every request is met with, "it will be a while...". We get very frustrated.

Tonight Dad was very tired and maybe a tad depressed. His right arm and hand continue to concern him and I think he's weary of the hospital. How could one not be?

Someone asked me today how I felt. I guess the answer is, "I really don't know." I'm still rather numb. I never thought I'd be overcome with emotion watching my father take steps or listening to him speak my name.

Mom and I have managed to retain our senses of humor and we share a few laughs - as we always have. "Heliotrope" proved to be good for a chuckle between the two of us this evening. We have a routine. Mom goes to the hospital in the morning and attends therapy, sits with Dad during lunch, and goes back to afternoon therapy for a while. She then calls and gives me a progress report when she gets home.

I sneak over during my lunch hour if I'm able to watch therapy and return to sit with Dad during dinner. We usually take a stroll outside. Then I come home and call Mom to give her a progress report. We are both tired and a bit weary, but we are where we need to be - and where we want to be.

One can always ask, "Why me?" Perhaps a better question is, "Why not me?" Everyone must deal with adversity and sorrow in their lifetimes. We must all climb mountains. Your "bad" could always be someone else's "worse." This week, I count my many blessings because I have my my mother, two beautiful daughters (not sons), and the greatest friends in the world. And I have my father. I can touch him, hug him, and converse with him. He is still a mighty presence in my life. Mom and I both feel a desire, a need, and an obligation to be with him, to encourage him, and to let him know he his not travelling this road alone.

Thank you one and all for the cards and well-wishes. Dad reads his own cards and he has them displayed on a bulletin board in his room. The funny ones make him laugh aloud. Please keep them coming.

I received a card from my "son" Carrie today, which said, "Sometimes the best thing to do is just look in the mirror and say, 'What shoes go with this STRESS?'" Thank you Carrie, the card - and your words - made me smile - and cry. I miss you so.

Dan Rather said, "If all difficulties were known at the outset of a long journey, most of us would never start out at all." And our journey continues...

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Tropical Storm Fay is dumping buckets of rain on southeast Georgia where my sister and her family live. I just spoke with her and she said they're experiencing high winds, but she still has electricity. Many in her area don't. School is cancelled again tomorrow and the main bridges in nearby Jacksonville, FL, remain closed due to high winds and waves. Wendy is still experiencing discomfort after her surgery, but is feeling better.

Wendy is a breast cancer survivor - not a cancer victim. Dad is a stroke survivor - not a stroke victim. We continue to see amazing progress in Dad each day. My mother and I continue to be amazed by the mind and body's ability to heal itself.

Today Dad walked up a flight of stairs in the hospital corridor with his therapist Allen (whom Mom and I think is an angel on Earth) by his side. He did several laps around the therapy gym and even gave my mother a a hug - standing up. She told him they will dance in the kitchen at home on their anniversary, which is in October.

At lunch I took Dad Pizza King pizza, and if you live in East Central Indiana, you know what a treat that is! He ate that as well as his hospital lunch.

He's still struggling with his speech and with finding the right word for certain things. He told me today he needed to go to the laundromat when he meant the bathroom, but we figured it out. At least he knew he needed to go somewhere!

In OT he worked on using the telephone and relearning his telephone number, which he recited for me a couple of times at dinner.

When I got to the hospital this evening, Dad's boss was visiting and the two were discussing work-related subjects. Dad loves his job and truly enjoyed his visit with Scott. Dad is determined to go back to work.

For a brief time today, Dad had a roommate named Orville who was 89. (We wondered if his last name was Wright and if he had a brother named Wilber.) Orville was very nice, but had a big family who liked to spread out and use ALL the chairs. They also liked to talk. Loudly. Orville was moved to a private room later in the day so Dad, once again, has a room to himself.

After dinner I took Dad outside for a stroll around the hospital grounds. On our way, we ran into Erin, a paraplegic and her therapy dog Buddy. Dad and I visited with Erin and got acquainted with Buddy who was more interested in getting a treat than being social. Erin is an amazing woman who has suffered adversity in her own life, but has a strong desire to make the lives of others better. We could all learn great lessons from her.

Mom and I each stopped and thanked Jim, the hospital shuttle driver who helped Dad get from his car in the hospital parking lot to the ED last Thursday. I truly believe Jim saved Dad's life and I thanked him for doing so. If Jim hadn't happened along, I can only imagine how different the outcome might have been. Jim is an angel on Earth, too.

Tonight Dad was very tired and fatigued. He's worked so hard this week. His spirit seems unbreakable. He will rest well and give his rehabilitation everything he has again tomorrow.

Thanks to Jim Maul, Scott Arrington, Jaye Gaddis, all of Mom and Dad's classmates, email pals, and friends. Your cards, flowers, emails, visits, and phone calls mean so very much. I extend loads of thanks to my valued BSU colleagues for their support, understanding, and patience. Every one's ever-present support makes our mountain seem more like a molehill. There are so many people to thank and we can't adequately express how much your thoughts, prayers, support, and kindness mean.

One week has passed since Dad had his stroke last Thursday. Success is a journey - not a destination and our journey continues...

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Fay, Fay, GO AWAY!

Well, Tropical Storm Fay boomeranged across Florida and is pounding northern Florida and southern Georgia where Wendy lives. Her area is currently under a tropical storm warning and a wind warning. She said it's been raining quite a bit. Her recovery seems to be going well, but she's having quite a bit of discomfort.

Carrie's Persian cat Apollo had to have emergency surgery last evening for an injury and he is recovering well, too. He's supposed to wear a "lamp shade" collar around his neck, but it terrifies him and her other pets, so Carrie took it off.

Carrie will return to Indiana in September for her brother-in-law's wedding. She'll be able to spend a couple of days in Muncie! I haven't seen her since she moved to Alaska in May - this is the longest I've gone without seeing her in her entire life! I am truly counting the days! Her visit is a very bright spot on my horizon. Her grandfather will be thrilled to see her, too.

Last Thursday night I wasn't sure Dad would make it through the night. Today, I saw him walk at a fairly brisk pace - and not just a few steps either. He walked more than 240' with the aid of a four-pronged cane. He also took many steps by himself with his therapist by his side. He walks with only a very slight limp and he doesn't drag his right foot or leg at all. He looks like himself, he sounds like himself, and his sense of humor remains intact. He's conversing much better, but is still having difficulty identifying common objects. He's regaining limited mobility in his right arm, but it still concerns him. He told me his vision has changed, but Dr. Wulff thinks that will improve with time.

Dr. Wulff read Allen's notes from therapy yesterday and wrote the following in Dad's chart this morning, "FANTASTIC!!!!!!!!"

For lunch Dad had a hamburger and "tater tots." He was thrilled as "burgers and fries" have always been some of his favorites. He ate every bite - on his own, of course.

Tonight Dad was so excited with his new-found walking skills that he got out of his wheelchair, walked around his room, and was going to walk to the dining room before his nurses saw him and explained that he's not supposed to do that yet. He's stubborn - and determined.

Christy and I had dinner with him this evening and afterward took him outside for some fresh, warm, humid Indiana air.

He gets dressed in his own clothes each morning and spends much of his time in therapy. He will probably remain in the therapy unit for about three weeks. Afterward, he should be able to go home and go to therapy three times a week as an out-patient.

These past seven days have been riddled with incredible lows - and incredible highs. Tomorrow marks one week. Our journey continues...

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Today was a good day for the Wenz family.

Wendy is home from the hospital recuperating from her surgery. She had tissue expanders inserted in her chest so she can begin breast reconstruction. Her latest incisions must heal before the doctors can proceed further.

Dad had an amazing day. Allen, his physical therapist, set a goal yesterday for dad to walk 50 to 75' by the end of this week. Today he walked 140' feet using a hemi walker and little assistance! A hemi walker is designed for people with limited or no dexterity in one arm or hand and is easy to lift and maneuver. Allen was amazed at his progress and was leaving detailed notes for Dad's neurologist. Allen told us today was probably an exception and not to expect such results every day.

Today Dad regained some mobility in his right arm and he was moving it on his own quite a bit.

He has a bit of spatial neglect, meaning he isn't fully aware of what's happening on the right side of his body. (His stroke occurred in the left side of his brain, which controls functions on the right side of his body as well as speech.)

Dad had PT and speech therapy twice today and OT once. He is having some difficulty correctly identifying common objects, which, we're told, is to be expected. His conversations with Mom are becoming more spontaneous and light.

He and Mom called me in my office this morning and he said, "Hi Beth." We talked a few minutes. His speech isn't slurred or sluggish. He's very easy to understand - he talks quietly, but he sounds like himself.

Mom and I sat with him during dinner; afterward we took him outside in his wheelchair for a while to get some fresh air. We talked and laughed.

He had quite a physical and mental workout today and was very tired tonight. If someone had told me last Thursday night he'd be talking, taking steps on his own, and feeding himself, I wouldn't have believed them. I read somewhere that the emotional component — the determination to fight and pursue recovery — is part of the actual recovery itself. My dad is a fighter. And he is determined.

Mom and I understand there will be good days, bad days, great victories, and small defeats. That's life. The Wenz family shall walk this path together. Our journey continues...

Monday, August 18, 2008

Today our hearts are in two states in two hospitals. Dad remains at Ball Memorial Hospital in Muncie, Indiana, and my sister Wendy is in a small hospital in South Georgia. She had surgery this morning to begin her breast reconstruction after her double mastectomy nearly two years ago. Mom and I are needed here and we're needed there and it's not possible to be in two places at once. Our hearts are heavy today.

One might think our family actually liked hospitals. Carrie was in two years ago, Wendy has been in and out of hospitals for two years, Mom was in the hospital in June for a week, Christy had to go to the ED a week ago for a severe case of tonsillitis, now Dad's in the hospital, and Wendy is back again. As for me, I have no plans of becoming a patient myself thank-you-very-much!

Wendy's surgery went well. Mark and Wendy's friend Cindy are taking care of her. She should get to come home tomorrow to rest and recover.

Dad is troubled by his inability to move his right arm and hand and frequently stretches his fingers and tries to work his hand. On Liz Howard's advice Mom took Dad's hand and began to move his right arm a bit. He lightly squeezed her hand and moved his thumb. He looked at her and said, "I'm moving my right hand." And he was!

Dad has lost 10 pounds on his "beige diet" since he entered the hospital last Thursday. Mom asked if he could be switched to a regular diet and after some additional assessment, he was cleared to eat "normal" food.

Dad had a busy day chock-full of accomplishments. The therapists dressed him in his own clothes for therapy this morning. He had breakfast and went to speech therapy. During his session, he was able to count to 20, say the days of the week, and identify common objects. Kristi, his therapist, asked him if he knew where he was and why he was here. He said, "Ball Memorial Hospital. I had a stroke." Kristi wrote my name on a piece of paper and Dad was able to read and say it. Today was the first time I'd heard him say my name since last Thursday. I wasn't sure if I ever would again.

Mom and I accompanied him to PT and his therapist, Allen, explained the effects of a stroke, discussed goals for Dad, and worked both of his legs. One of Dad's goals is to walk 50 to 75' with the aid of a cane in one week.

Mom wasn't feeling well and acquired a bit of a stomach bug today. We had to leave his OT session and I drove her home. I extend my thanks to Dottie Kratz's "shuttle service" for getting me back to work for the remainder of the day.

I went back to the hospital after work to sit with Dad while he had dinner. He now takes his meals in the therapy dining room. He sits in a chair at a table instead of eating on a bed tray in bed. He fed himself his dinner and drank a large glass of sweet tea - one of his favorites. We called Mom and he talked to her on the phone.

He's now able to answer yes or no questions with a good deal of accuracy and now he can even say, "no." I would estimate he said more than 200 different words today. He conversed in small - yet complete - sentences. Over dinner, we talked about cars and he told me he drove a Grand Am. His speech is very clear and not sluggish or slow. Just to look at him, you'd never know just how sick he was last Thursday.

As I was leaving tonight, his nurses were preparing to give him a shower. His long and strenuous day wore him out physically and mentally. I could tell he was very tired. He will rest and greet Tuesday ready to begin anew.

My dad is - and has always been - my hero. He is a gentle giant who loves his family, his friends, and his job. He is kind man who would do anything for anyone and expect nothing in return. Those who know my father will tell you he is determined and never quits. He is proud of his new accomplishments, yet frustrated by the miles he knows he still must travel. He will succeed because he wants to succeed. He will redefine determination - and he will raise the bar.

We extend our deepest thanks to G and G Oil and Christy and Eric for the beautiful floral arrangements. Dad was truly touched and they brighten his new room. Friends are always a treasure. Thank you one and all for being there for us. Please continue to keep Dad in your thoughts and prayers. And tonight, say a special prayer for Wendy. As a breast cancer survivor, she has travelled a very long and winding road herself.

To Dad in Indiana - to Wendy in Georgia, we love you with all our hearts. Our journey continues...

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Today was an amazing day. The human body's ability to heal itself is nothing short of a true miracle.

I took the morning shift again and got to the hospital about 7:30 to help feed Dad his yellow and beige breakfast. Afterward, he and I glanced at the morning paper together. He turned the pages himself and he slowed over stories that would typically interest him. He was very quiet and didn't say much to me.

Seeing Mom makes Dad light up. When she arrives, he smiles and seems happier. He told her he loved her when she arrived and gave her a kiss. She and I stepped out of his room for a few minutes to get coffee. When we returned, Dr. Wulff entered his room very excitedly. "Did you see his right leg?" He went back to Dad's bedside, lifted his covers, and told him to move his leg. Dad was able to lift it off the bed several inches and wiggle his toes.

After Dr. Wulff left, I asked Dad if he knew what this latest gift meant. I said, "It means you're going to walk again." We all cried. There was hope - great hope - and we could all see it now.

We called my sister Wendy (who lives in South Georgia) and put Dad on the phone. He said, "Hello Wendy," and said several other complete sentences to her. He was even able to tell her good bye.

At lunch, Mom put dad's tray in front of him, and he fed himself.

Dad started another taking medication called Altace, and ACE inhibitor, which lowers blood pressure.

After lunch, Dad moved to his fourth room in four days. This time, he moved to the physical therapy floor where he'll remain for two to three weeks. He'll receive speech therapy once a day, physical therapy (PT) twice a day for 45 minutes each session and occupational therapy (OT)twice a day for 45 minutes each session. Occupational therapy is activity analysis and adaptation which enables those with disabilities to maximize their skills and abilities by providing necessary skills for the job of living.

Thanks to Scott Arrington - your visit brightened Dad's day. Thanks to Liz Howard - your call to Mom was enlightening and encouraging.

Sometimes the smallest steps lead to the greatest achievements. Our journey continues...

Saturday, August 16, 2008

I took the "morning shift" and got to the hospital around 7:00 a.m. to wait for the doctors to make rounds and help dad with his breakfast, which again consisted of "scrambled eggs" and an oatmeal-like substance. But, Dad's a tropper and he ate it all. Mom always said he had an iron stomach.

His speech therapist came in and explained that speaking and singing are sited in different hemispheres of the brain; talking in the left, and singing in the right. The left side of Dad's brain was damaged by the stroke. She encouraged dad to sing certain words rather than trying to speak them. She also said that two syllable words were easier to say than one syllable words. He and his therapist sang simple songs and they practiced a few words. (If you know my father, you know he's not a singer by anyone's definition.) I was amazed hearing him string together sentences and phrases in song. And I don't care what anyone says, that day, his voice was melodious to me!

When my mother arrived later that morning, Dad was able to surprise her by saying, "Hello Connie." The moment was an emotional one.

Dad started taking Plavix, a medication which helps keep platelets from sticking together and forming clots, which can help protect against a future stroke.

I left for the afternoon. Mom said she and dad watched a few old movies and sang a few songs. At one point, the remote got misplaced and Dad said, "Well shit." And, before she left for the evening, he told her he loved her. These are good signs, too. Dad is in there - we just need to help him find his way out.

I came back for the dinner hour and Dad was served a beige-colored substance the hospital dietary service referred to as, "creamed chicken." They were being kind. And, once again, he ate every bite of his beige, white, and green dinner.

The Maul's came up to visit that evening and Dad seemed genuinely happy to see his breakfast "buddy," Jim. My younger daughter Christy also came up to visit. Once again, Mom and I thank our respective support networks. We couldn't walk this path without each of you.

Sometimes great successes are measured in small amounts. Our journey continues...

Friday, August 15, 2008

Around 7:30 Dr. Wulff came in and checked Dad's neurological function. He had no movement in his right side and couldn't track your finger if you moved it in front of his eyes. The tPA didn't bring forth the results we'd hoped for in dad's case.

Dad had his first speech therapy session and we learned he has aphasia, which is an impairment in the ability to use or comprehend words. He also has verbal apraxia, which is characterized by difficulty initiating and executing voluntary movement patterns necessary to produce speech when there is no paralysis or weakness of the speech muscles. His swallowing was not affected, so he could begin eating a soft diet of easy to swallow foods.

Mom gave him his first meal which consisted of a yellow rubbery pile of "stuff" the dietary service called "scrambled eggs" and a paste-like substance served in a bowl identified as "oatmeal." He ate it all. At lunch, he ate his and mom's! His appetite remains intact!

Dad was taken off oxygen and disconnected from the beeping monitors and "automatic things" that continually monitored his vital functions. He had a second CT scan which showed no change. He also had an MRI (which produces accurate pictures of the brain and its arteries and determines the area of the brain damaged by an ischemic stroke), a carotid doppler (used to look at blood flow in the carotid arteries), and an echocardiogram. He was moved to a room in the "Stroke Tower" located on the hospital's ninth floor.

When we talked to him, Mom and I thought he could comprehended some of what we were telling him, but there was no way to be certain. His response to questions and commands, continued to be "Yes," accompanied by a nod of his head.

I went home for a while and napped and went back to help with Dad's dinner. This time, instead of spoon feeding him, I filled the spoon and handed it to him. He knew exactly what to do with it and even held his own cup. We saw that as great progress.

Mom and I extend buckets of thanks to the Maul's, the Kratz's, the Dalton's, the Goodman's, the Zgunda's, and the G and G Oil staff for visits, support, phone calls, and prayers. Thanks to mom's email pals far and near for their words of support. Thanks, too, to my support network - especially Yas, Tina, Karen, and the "CVC diva's." We couldn't walk this road without each and every one of you. We love you all.

Even the longest journey must begin with a single step. And our journey continues...

Thursday, August 14, 2008

One of my favorite quotes was uttered by the late John Lennon. He said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

On Thursday, August 14, 2008, my 72-year-old father, Jim Wenz, suffered an ischemic stroke. His was a cerebral thrombosis, the most common kind of stroke which occurs when a blood clot forms in an artery blocking the flow of blood to the brain.

This blog shall become my online diary as I chronicle my father's recovery from this life-altering event. For my mother Connie and me, the road ahead is a long one. For my father, the road back is even longer. Our journey begins... our plans have changed... and life goes on.

Thursday, August 14, 2008, began like most end-of-summer days do. The morning sun was bright, the air was cool, and the cicadas were chirping in unison letting me know students would soon return to campus, summer would soon end, and days would continue getting shorter and start getting colder.

I was in my office at Ball State University formatting network printers which weren't cooperating. Around 9:00 a.m., my parents' telephone number came up on my office caller ID, just as it does most every morning about that time when my mother calls to say hello and wish me a good day. This phone call was different than any I'd received from her before. "Beth," she said, "your dad's had a stroke." I didn't ask questions, I just told her I'd meet her at the hospital.

I ran from my office on campus across the street to Ball Memorial Hospital (in three-inch wedge heals I might add, which if you know me, really isn't a big deal). On my trek, it occurred to me my mother would be making the drive from her house to the hospital alone and I became concerned about her well-being and wondered if I should turn back. I continued on and wound through the hospital's maze of corridors until I reached the Emergency Department (ED). Out of breath, I told the receptionist my father had been brought in. She quickly ushered me to a small room where Dad was sitting upright on an exam table wearing a tiny hospital gown. He was connected to oxygen, beeping monitors with colorful, scrolling lines, and an IV. He was surrounded by doctors, nurses, and Dr. John Wulff, the neurologist I see annually for treatment of my migraine headaches. There was urgency in their collective expressions, but I took comfort in Dr. Wulff's presence and the fact that dad was sitting up. Dr. Wulff told me they'd already performed a CT scan. The team informed me his blood pressure was 220 over 135.

Dad turned to me and said, "What are you doing here?"

I replied, "What are you doing here!"

One of the medical staff members asked dad, "Who is that?"

"That's my daughter. That's Beth," he quickly replied. He held his right arm closely at his side with his right hand curled in a tightly bundled fist, but lifted his right leg high off the exam table and wiggled his toes.

Because he was sitting up and knew who I was, I was certain he'd be just fine and would go home in a few days with some new medications and a few restrictions to his diet and lifestyle. He didn't look like other stroke victims I'd seen. My father was never sick so he never went to the doctor, he never slowed down, and was only semi-retired. How could anything possibly happen to him? He was invincible to me. I had no comprehension of the severity of what was happening to him.

A nurse told me they were trying to contact my mother and I assured them she was on her way. I left dad's side to wait for her to arrive and walked her back to his tiny, crowded room. Dr. Wulff explained the importance - and the risks - of administering a "clot busting" drug called tPA (tissue plasminogen activator). If given within three hours of a stroke or heart attack, tPA can significantly reduce the effects of stroke and reduce permanent disability. The risk of internal bleeding is significant, but the risk of doing nothing appeared much greater. My mother signed the release and tPA was administered through his IV.

Dr. Wulff said tPA worked quickly and if it was going to be effective, we would see results within one hour.

I assumed dad went from home by ambulance to the hospital, but the hospital staff said he'd driven himself. That morning, Dad got ready for work, kissed my mother goodbye, and went to his usual breakfast spot. He said he'd "hit a couple of cars in the parking lot" at the restaurant as he made his way to the hospital. (We later learned he had not.) We're not certain when he first began to experience symptoms.

While in the ED, my mother and I were approached by an older gentleman in a straw golf hat also named Jim. He drives a golf cart around the parking lot ferrying hospital visitors from their cars to the massive building. He said he watched Dad pull into the lot and try and park his car, but hit the bumper of a van parked in the adjacent space. Jim approached dad and asked if he was okay. Dad told him he thought he was having a stroke. Jim helped him into the cart and got him to the door of the Emergency Department. He gave my mother and I each a hug and wished us all well. I'm so thankful to Jim for his assistance that morning.

After the tPA was administered, Dad was moved to the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit where he was under close and near constant observation for signs of internal bleeding and assessment of his neurological function.

His neurological function quickly declined and by early afternoon he'd lost all mobility in his right arm, hand, leg, foot, and toes. His speech rapidly disappeared and all he could say was, "Yes." He seemed horribly confused and was restless.

I spent the afternoon making phone calls to my sister Wendy, a breast cancer survivor who lives in South Georgia; my two daughters, one of whom lives in Anchorage, AK; and friends near and far. Answering phone calls and text messages occupied much of my day. I became restless and very scared. My mother and I ate little, drank lots of coffee, and helplessly waited for even the smallest of miracles.

I told my mother to go home for the night around 8:30. I stayed the night in my dad's room. Somehow, I managed to get some sleep in a recliner beside his bed.

Day one is behind us. Our journey continues...