Our God is an awesome God. He is the Great Physician and Healer, and he heals hearts, minds, bodies and souls. And I thank Him and praise Him and go to Him in prayer each and every day.
In these last two and a half weeks, I've prayed harder than I've prayed in my entire life. I've asked for the prayers of others everywhere to join with mine.
And our prayers continue to be answered.
When I got to Chicago last Thursday morning, I expected the worst. Rick was still in intensive care, and I could see that much from the hallway. Tubes went everywhere, he had multiple IVs in his arms, and he looked out of it. That is at least until I entered the room.
Where he was listless before, he started trying to talk to me, and became very animated over the course of the conversation. No words, mind you, but he kept trying, nonetheless. Courtney had told him he sounded like "Young Frankenstein," and that was an apt comparison, though not quite as gravely as what everyone said he sounded like earlier in the week.
My folks and I sat and watched, and talked to him. Once in awhile, he'd get this real vacant "Where am I" type of look. My mother would immediately try to soothe him, telling him not to worry. I just watched.
During one of these episodes, he became very animated, gesturing to her and then pointing in the vague direction of the chair next to the bed.
"I'm fine," the gesture said (at least from what I could see). "Stop worrying about me."
I stood up behind my mother, reached over and patted Rick's hand. He looked at me.
"Cool it," I said. I pointed at my chest. "I've got this covered. She'll be fine. She'll get some rest. No worries."
He nodded wearily, and dropped his head back onto his pillow. My mother looked at me quizically, but didn't say anything. She sat down in the chair next to the bed and rested her head on Rick's arm.
On Friday, Dad and I made Mom go to work. Something to get some kind of mental rest (as if teachers get a mental rest).
When he and I got to the hospital, Rick was finishing breakfast. A veritable pantheon of doctors and nurses came in over the next few hours, including both his lead doctor, and a diabetes specialist. Dad and I were schooled in the mechanics of testing Rick's blood sugar and giving him insulin. Among the prognoses, as you'd might imagine, was full-blown diabetes.
Dad and I got to feed Rick his lunch. He surprised us by reaching up and grabbing the cup out of my hand and drinking from the straw himself. Of course, I had to keep him from going too fast. The liquid was thickened, so to make it easier to swallow.
Diagnosis-wise, Rick had what amounts to a perfect storm of maladies that came together to create the stroke. Rick was damn-near 400 pounds at 6'3". Those of you who remember us together will remember that he has always been a good hundred pounds (or more) bigger than me over the years.
In any event, in addition to the newly-diagnosed diabetes, he's got a measure of high cholesterol, some hypertension (though the doctors think that may be directly related to the aftermath of the stroke), and his weight, the doctors found a couple of blood-borne disorders that may have contributed to the stroke itself. In particular, he's got a genetic disorder that causes sticky platelets, and is apparently related to lupus in some form. The doctors there said that my parents, my sister and I need to be tested for that (my appointment is tomorrow morning), plus if I'm found to be a carrier, my kids will have to be tested. They said that since my sister and I are relatively health, if we're found to have this same disorder, we most likely will only have to take a baby aspirin each day -- and of course watch our weight (more an admonishment to me than anyone else).
Rick improved so much that on Sunday, he was transferred from the hospital to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago (RIC), which is adjacent to, and affiliated with Northwestern Memorial. According to a number of surveys and bits of information I was able to glean from the web and elsewhere, RIC is renouned around the world for their work with patients in general, and stroke patients in particular.
Since then, they have worked him quite a bit. They get him dressed each morning in a t-shirt and workout shorts, and are working wtih him to regain his mobility and other skills. On Sunday, once they had gotten him settled in his bed, he was trying to scratch at his catheter (the one remaining tube). I grabbed his left arm and pulled it away. He wasn't happy; he gave me a look that would have withered most people. And I suppose rightly so. I've been on the business end of his left hook before. But I stood my ground.
He finally rolled his eyes at me (a good sign in and of itself) and huffed. I said, "You're gonna cuss me out when you get a chance, aren't you?" He nodded vigorously.
The doctors and my parents commented on the non-verbal level of communication that we have in general. They said that they had noticed it throughout my stay there. I just shrugged. That's what siblings do.
By the time I left Chicago, he had been able to get a few words out, with great effort: "Hi," "Yes," and "All Right." The doctors say he'll be able to speak again, pretty soon, and say that some of his first words will probably be profanity-laced. They say that is normal in cases like his. His appetite had come back, too. Of course, he's still on soft food only.
My parents made it over there yesterday (Wednesday), and while there, he moved his RIGHT leg while they were trying to help readjust him in the bed. He said he's got some pain in his right arm as well. This is a Godsend, considering that when I was there, he had no feeling on that side at all.
I've still got a bit more to do and get for him on this end -- he wants a ballcap, and in particular one from a black college. We had talked about that before. I'll pick one up from Clark Atlanta or Morehouse either tonight or tomorrow. He also wants me to read to him on tape or CD. I've got a book on the Negro Leagues that I had reviewed last year that I was going to give him for Christmas; when I suggested that to him, he smiled and nodded.
In any event, he is well on his way back this way, and with prayerful hope, I watch and smile at each baby step that he's taking. This has been a life-changing event for all of us. And all the repercussions are not over and done with yet, I'm sure. God is not done with us yet.
For now, it looks like he'll be coming to live with my folks once he gets out of rehab, which is good; their house is mostly on one level, and has wide doorways that can accomodate a wheelchair or walker, if necessary. Plus with my dad retired and my mom about to retire, they have the time to spend with him. Rick's wife seems to be okay with this, since she's working long hours, and they have stairs in their home.
Many of our other relatives have been passing through and calling and e-mailing like mad. Once we get a handle on everything, Courtney and I will both be headed back home at varying points to lend a hand where we can.
My mother has asked that anyone with any cards, to please send them to Rick in care of their address: c/o Mr. & Mrs. Howard C. King, 8330 Doubletree Drive North, Crown Point, IN 46307.
Thank you once again for all the prayers, well-wishes, thoughts, calls, e-mails, and cards. We all truly appreciate them. Please keep up the prayers, for God is able!
Prayers continue for your brother, and your whole family.
Praising the Lord for all that He has already done, and all that will be done!!
Continued prayers for you and yours... to join with those surrounding you!
Thank you for the update!
Hang in there, MHK. A co-worker of mine had a stroke like this at the same age. He’s sixty now, full time teacher, walks with a limp and is a little weak, but... still alive, kicking, working, twenty years later.
God bless you and your family, Michael. I’m glad to see that your brother is improving and that your work situation has resolved itself. Best wishes to you from me.
Prayers & best wishes.
Prayers for all of you.