This is What a Stroke Survivor Looks Like — Yes, it Can Happen to You
It was Saturday, January 28, 2017. I had just turned 40 two months prior and was working as the Director of a lakeside campground. My then 9-year-old daughter, Mia, and I were packing up the car before heading to a tradeshow where I was representing the company.
We’d prepared sandwiches and snacks the night before and she was excited to spend an otherwise boring day sitting at a table with me for 12 hours, talking about boat slips and cabin prices.
Mia asked me, “Mom, did you just drop your keys?” I’d been holding them in my left hand as we made the final trip to the car before making the two-hour drive. I didn’t notice I’d dropped them. Hmm. Odd.
Then, I did what you’d probably do — I bent down to pick them up, and while my body bent down, my left arm did… nothing. My right arm was carrying the last load of brochures. I couldn’t pick them up. I jolted straight up and turned to the side, confused suddenly. Something was hitting me in the stomach as I looked right and then left in a panic. What was it?
It was my own arm. But it was like a ‘thing’ — not an appendage of mine, not a limb, just a dangling, lifeless thing I had no control over.
With a mirror next to our front door I looked at my face and evaluated the situation. It couldn’t be.
Yep. Left side is drooping. I can’t speak. I don’t have a left arm, apparently. This is a stroke. What the hell? No one in my family has had a stroke. I don’t smoke or drink and I’m not on any medications. What the hell is happening??
I turned to my daughter and tried to smile at her so as not to alarm her, but smiling only showed her that half my face wasn’t moving. Her smile left quickly.
Luckily, my children and I know some sign language and I signed for her to go get her brother, because while I was completely mentally there — I couldn’t get the words in my brain to move into my mouth. My son, Gunnar, was 17 at the time. They saved my life.
Screw the tradeshow — we’re going to the Emergency Room. I sent a text to my boss.
Me: “Hey. Emergency. Can’t go to the tradeshow. Stroke.” (I was clearly losing it at this point.)
Boss: “You? Or someone else?”
Me: “Me.”
Boss: “Got it. I’ll head to the tradeshow now. Update me.”
I thought, ‘Well, thank God I wasn’t behind the wheel, an hour from home, with just my 9-year-old when this happened!’ But, to be honest — of the two of us — she was handling it better.
The hospital was about 10 minutes from the house. By the time we’d pulled out of our driveway, I had full use of my left arm and I could smile without looking like my face was melting, but I had to talk slowly to get the words out right. By the time I walked into the ER though, I was perfectly fine.
I was triaged by a fill-in nurse from the neighboring military base, who was supporting the ER on a very busy day. To be fair, I didn’t look sick. I didn’t feel sick. I did that thing we do as women where we apologize for even bothering them and really underplayed how scared I was since they were busy and I was “totally fine. False alarm, I’m sure.”
Since it was Saturday morning, and we lived in a small Kansas town, their traveling MRI machine wouldn’t be there until Monday and after a stroke, if this even was a stroke, it’s not evident on an MRI until over 24-hours after the incident anyway. Apparently, in the minutes following a true stroke, the brain doesn’t show any death yet. It takes time. So, we’d have to wait and see.
After checking my blood pressure and temperature and having me smile and talk, the nurse assumed it was a TIA (Transient Ischemic Attack) or a “mini-stroke.” Possibly a “warning sign,” he said. But, he asked if I wanted to be admitted until Monday when I could have the MRI, or, since I was feeling fine now, if I’d be more comfortable waiting it out at home.
The phrasing there is important. “Be more comfortable” was a suggestion rather than a question. And he was right. I would MUCH prefer my own house for the weekend to the hospital.
Eight months earlier, I’d had an unrelated 6-pound non-cancerous tumor removed from my ribs and if I never had to stay at a hospital again, that would be okay with me.
“Given that you have no risk factors, I’d say you have a 1% chance of having a stroke,” the nurse said when I asked if he thought it was safe. So, we went home.
I have six children, and at this point, three of them were adults living in their own nearby houses. The oldest, and the panicker of the family, is Megan. She drove straight to the house with her boyfriend and stayed for a few hours just in case. I was laying down watching TV and honestly feeling pretty grateful to have missed out on the ol’ tradeshow at this point. I had those pre-packed snacks on my bed and I was milking the sick-day for all it was worth when Megan came in with a quick question before they left.
“Did I leave my cell phone in here,” she asked without waiting for a reply before she walked back out.
I tried to answer her. But, I couldn’t get the words out of my brain… again. Shit.
This time though, I immediately sat up and looked at my left hand. I could wiggle my fingers, point to my nose, I was fine… right? Wrong.
I stood up, walked to my bathroom and smiled — you’ve GOT to be kidding me! Can’t smile right. Can’t talk. My face is drooping, further and further it seemed. This was bad.
And yet — I did it again. Didn’t want to bother anyone. I spoke to my eldest, but very slowly and calmly. “Megan, hey, don’t panic but my face is being a little weird and I want to call the ER just in case.” I felt like it took ten minutes to get that sentence out. Of course, they insisted we get in the truck “right now” and go there, but I insisted.
Me: “Hi. This. Is. Lynette. Richards. From. Earlier. Possible Stroke. Remember?”
Nurse: “Sure. What’s going on?”
Me: “It’s... Happening… Again... But... Different... Should I come in? Or wait?”
Nurse: “Can you move your left arm?”
Me: “Yes.”
Nurse: “I can’t advise you to NOT come in. It’s against the rules. I can’t triage you over the phone. If you think you’re fine, you’re probably fine. But if you want to come in, you can come in.”
There was ZERO passion in his voice in that last statement and if it was up to me, I’d have stayed home SOLELY because I didn’t want to be in his way.
But, Megan’s boyfriend was having none of this ridiculousness. He said, “I don’t care if your arm is fine! This (‘this’ being my face) is NOT normal. We’re going. That’s final. Get in the truck.” Fair enough. Off we went. They saved my life. Again.
I was triaged by the same nurse as before. I felt bad. I talked slowly so he could understand me. He took my blood pressure. It was high, but then, I was in a panic, so that’s to be expected. No fever. We already know my weight from a few hours ago so we can skip that charade. I said very little and felt like crap for being there again, and I was probably fine.
What I didn’t know in this moment, but learned later, was that right then, as I was being triaged with the nurse sitting to my right (not seeing my drooping face) he left the room for a moment to give CPR to a patient in sudden cardiac arrest before returning to me. That patient didn’t make it. Car wreck brought in by ambulance. When he came back in, he seemed satisfied with my evaluation and told me to wait in the waiting room to be called back since there were no beds available at the moment, which is what I did… for the next three hours… with no one checking in.
The entire 3 hours — I had a sagging face. But, I really wasn’t in my right frame of mind enough to advocate for myself. I just sat there and waited and laughed and joked with my kids and made funny faces, which was easier for me than them. ;)
After 3 hours though, Megan lost her temper. With a packed waiting room, she loudly informed the intake desk that her Mom had been sitting there having a stroke for three hours and SOMEBODY was going to do something about it or she was going come across that desk and lose her shit. (She’d already lost her shit.)
Another nurse, none too pleased with us, came over and said “You doing okay? We’re gonna have you come back here and we’ll get you seen by the doc and on your way, okay? We were just waiting on some paperwork to release you, hon. Shouldn’t be too long now.”
Interesting.
So, I was back on a bed waiting for the same nurse to come roll his eyes at me for the last time. This time though, something else happened. He came in and told me the Dr. had to have a quick word before they sent me home and then we’d be all set.
Why did everyone assume I was in a hurry to leave? Uh — I’m just over here having a stroke, people. Don’t mind me.
The Dr. came in for the first time and I spoke slowly and clearly and apologized multiple times for having come in twice. (Why was I saying this crap?) And then I smiled and said, “It’s just because of my face. Sorry. We got worried.”
His demeanor changed and he tapped the paperwork he was holding and said, “Let me just check one thing with neurology first and I’ll be right back.” What he actually did was call a neurologist from a town 45 minutes away and sent the initial nurse back in with me.
They were both standing in front of me now.
Doctor: “Ma’am can you smile again for me?”
Me: (Smiles uncomfortably) “It’s weird, right?”
Doctor to Nurse (angry now): “And she came in with this condition at what time?”
Nurse: “Um, it says, 1310.”
Doctor: “And it’s now?”
Nurse: “1615”
Doctor: “And we need to administer treatment within?”
Nurse: (It’s sinking in now.) “3–1/2 hours. I am so sorry, ma’am.”
And with that, they both went into Grey’s Anatomy mode with the drama dial turned WAY up.
Doctor: “Ma’am you are having what appears to be a stroke and we have a treatment we can offer you, but I need you to listen carefully. This treatment will go in through an IV in your arm. It has a 50/50 chance of working and a 10% chance of death. If we miss the window though, we can’t give the treatment and you only have right now to decide, because it has to be administered within 3–1/2 hours of the start of the stroke. Can we begin?”
Me: “Wait. 50/50 chance of working? 10% chance of… death? What happens if I refuse? What’s the alternative?”
Doctor: “The things you’re experiencing now could be permanent if we don’t treat you immediately and this treatment gives you the best chance of avoiding that. Permanent impaired speech. Muscle paralysis in your face.”
Me: “I left earlier because I was told I had a ‘1% chance of having a stroke’ so I don’t like the odds on a 10% chance of death, especially given the 6-lb. tumor they removed eight months ago, which I’m told makes me one in maybe ten people in the world who’ve ever had that kind. If there’s a chance at all — I’m the girl it’s going to happen to, so, I’ll pass. I’d rather be disfigured and there for my kids than roll the dice. I’m all they’ve got. But — if I’m not thinking clearly, let me ask, what would you do if it were you?”
Doctor: (slight hesitation) “Honestly, I wouldn’t do it, but the decision has to come from you.”
Me: “And you?” I asked the nurse.
Nurse: “I’d say no. I’ve had a stroke before. I wouldn’t risk it.”
Me: “Well then, decision made. No. What now?”
Doctor: “We’ll start an alternative. It’s a blood thinner and it should stop what’s happening right now and prevent it from getting any worse. But it may not reverse what you’re experiencing.”
At this point, the nurse already had the pic line in his hand, ready to act and another nurse ran in with a bag of some liquid.
Me: “Yes. Go. Do it.”
One nurse sat and talked with my kids while the other staff, 3–4 of them now, quickly unlocked the bed and prepared to move me to the ICU, where I’d be staying until Monday, no matter what.
The original nurse says, “No. I got it. This is my fault. I’m taking her. I can get her there faster.” And he did. Picture the way kids ride on the shopping cart through an empty parking lot. That was him on my little ER hospital bed zooming past people in the hallways to the elevator.
He was furiously throwing open doors, and turning the bed on a dime, because his guilt was killing him and he didn’t want me to die or be disfigured because he was having a tough day. I could read the panic and the Mom in me wanted to comfort him.
He apologized profusely and kept kicking himself. “Ugh. I triaged you sitting to your right! I know better than that. (This is when I learned about the cardiac arrest happening at that time.) I’m going to make sure you’re okay. I promise you that. I know you probably don’t believe me right now, and that’s okay, but I’m not leaving this hospital until I know you’re okay and you’re halfway there now. Treatment is in. It’s going to be okay.”
I don’t know if he was trying to convince himself, or me, but I felt for him. I really did.
Once the bed was locked into its new location in the ICU, he called the nurses over, gave them a quick rundown and instructions and let them know that he, the ER Dr., my Dr. and the neurologist from the neighboring town, were all in the loop and would all be checking in over the next hour.
Goodness. I’m suddenly a VIP. Can I milk this for a bag of chips or a Diet Dr. Pepper up in here?
Monday comes and the verdict is in.
I’d had two CVAs (Cerebrovascular Accidents) or “full on strokes” causing tiny measurements of brain death in two areas of my frontal lobe.
Because the blood thinner did its thing, I’m happy to report that the physical symptoms subsided within an hour of the IV going in and I have no lasting issues, externally. My short-term memory, which honestly was not the best before, is distinctly worse now and sometimes the word I want to say doesn’t come to mind and I have to replace it with a lesser, similar word. It’s very frustrating and was a definite impairment when it came to my career.
Even now, approaching 4–1/2 years later, my memory and ability to retain information without tons of notes is a problem. But, I’ll take it. I’m here. I’m alive. And it’s because my CHILDREN acted quickly, did not negotiate with me, and got me to a place that could treat me. They are why I’m alive and NOT disfigured.
Recognizing the symptoms of a stroke quickly saved my life. As did knowing sign language and having some pretty amazing children!
I encourage everyone, regardless of family history, to know the F.A.S.T warning signs below — and to act quickly, and NOT apologize for it, even if you “feel fine now.” You know your body better than anyone.
