by Al Edwards

Special to the Sounder

It was 11:50 a.m. on “Cinco de Mayo,” and I was pondering working on my John Deere or watching an episode of NCIS when I was beset rather suddenly with muscle spasms in my arms, legs and back. Concerned doesn’t capture my feelings – scared cometh closer.

My left arm was numbed up, so my attempt to dial 911 failed. I figured I had one more stab at calling for help as I was getting dizzy and panic wasn’t far away. I carefully dialed my wife Pam at work, and suggested she call 911 – USCG, BSA, USAF, NAACp, USN, SPCA and any other party she might think of. She reached someone at 911 who got right back to me.

“The EMTS are on the way – how are you feeling – just passing through the Moran Park arch –did you fall down– med chopper en route – EMT truck now in your driveway.”

Then I espied the finest looking shiny red EMT truck with Captains Max Jones and Rick Anda closely followed by half a dozen EMTs. As they entered, Max said, “What the hell you doing on the floor, Al? We got a chopper waiting for you at Janet’s farm.”

These people were so sharp and efficient, I was in St. Joseph’s being fitted for one of those silly hospital gowns within 20 minutes of the 911 call.

The absolute misery I experienced those first few days was something I would not like to repeat. I wondered if anyone had copied the number of the cement truck that ran over me?

There was a degree of insanity in my behavior that I seemed unable to control – where was I –who was I – will the same truck be lurking around the corner to gun me down again? Then Claudia Piff, and other good people at Islands Convalescent Center in Friday Harbor, took the time and had the patience to explain that in the aftermath of a stroke, the brain is one messed up scrambled egg. The mollifying systems which the brain normally utilizes come unglued and the demons of doubt and fear try to take over. I vaguely recall a week of awakening at 0200 and staring at the clock until dawn, all the while striving to comprehend. I cried, I cursed, I screamed – it seemed as if the world, God, and the Devil had conspired and had entered into a rather complex plot to tear me apart. A nurse explained that those forces of darkness seem to pounce on most stroke victims in varying degrees. And so to react in an abnormal manner is quite normal in the early recovery phase. The med staff is primarily concerned with your safety and your digestive system, and they pursue the theory that time will cause our inbred survival instinct to rally round the flag and slowly bring us back from the edge of darkness and to pre-stroke reality.

This survival sequence is the most difficult, tedious, and trying time I have spent while on this planet. I felt self doubt and denial of my ability to sustain the battle. I swore I was the weakest, wimpiest coward that ever trod this Earth, and hardly worthy of anyone’s care and nurturing. There again I played into the hands of the demons – the turmoil, utter confusion and self abasement led me towards an alternate path of self destruction.

And so with a heavy heart I persevered, and there came a time when I could laugh at such behavior and apologize to all for my actions. I found, however, a staff that was only thankful that I had not elected to stuff a bazooka up my nose – the fact that bazookas were hard to come by this time of year was a factor as well, but they welcomed me back from my dark trip to the river Styx.

It was explained that my pain, whether real or imagined, was very real to me – the repair and rejoining of my synapses and associated neurons would continue.

My wife Pam and our friends have converted our house into “Alfie’s Recovery Center.” Pam found a hospital bed and many other pieces of survival equipment and Medicare delivered a Hoveround electric wheelchair – it does 0 to 60 in a week and a half.

I still cry some as I ponder our future. I find praying does actually help, but why I survived and have come this far can be answered in six words: my wife Pam and the kids. Without her refusal to crumble and then kicking me in the ass on occasion, it all might have read: Alfie bit the dust.

My wish is that others facing the possibility of a stroke will gain some insight into the ramifications and survival possibilities. Do like the Mariners did in the mid ’60s: refuse to lose.

Al Edwards lives on Orcas Island.