Today, I went to the doctor, which is unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence for me (or my son, for that matter). I had yet another follow-up with my neurosurgeon, who had always managed to crush all of my hopes and dreams with more bad news, more prescriptions, and more appointments. Today, I walked in the office, sat in the lobby, and patiently waited for my name to be called. This week, it’s been a year since my ICU stay. I’ve “successfully” reached 365 self-injected blood thinners to the stomach, consecutive countless pills taken morning and before bed, and days full of headaches with no end in sight. I’m officially one year post-stroke and I’ve carried a hematoma and several blood clots with me every step of the way. Today, my name was called and I walked back into the same room that I’ve entered what feels like a million times before. The same exam room where I’ve viewed hopeless brain scans showing worse results or no improvement from the one before. Even with memory loss,
Wife. Preemie Mom. Warrior.