THIS IS THE FACE OF AN UNEXPECTED MEDICAL EVENT: This Tuesday morning, today, I cried trying to put on a shirt. I got my arms & head through the right spots but it rolled up on my back & I couldn’t get it down…& down came the tears at 4:56 & up came Miss Julie’s words , “welcome to humanity”

I should explain, on Sunday morning, at 6:30, about two hours into my Sunday ritual, it hit. I’d just finished a long, slow, warm draw on my first cup of emotional support caffeine, closed social media with a post that on this day in 1969, H.R. Pufnstuf debuted, & started a 1967 ABC documentary on Bear Bryant & the left side of my body went heavy & numb. I was having an ischemic stroke. All strokes are major, some larger & in my case smaller than others. Sorta like the St. Louis Browns were once upon a time in the major leagues, they just won the smallest amount of games.

I was torn between the typical male response of this will pass & in a prayer that will probably, finally (I’ve pushed the membership envelope this summer) get me tossed from the Southern Baptist Convention, I told God I was not ready to meet Him. I still planned on meeting someday, just not this day.

Fifty seven years ago H.R. showed up & I thought I might be checking out in the next 57 seconds. Seeing faces that I was certain I wouldn’t see again, my family, my grandchildren, other people’s grandchildren, other men’s wives & other women’s husbands, two ugly offensive lineman & a slightly more handsome tight end & a couple of unmarried types, I woke Miss Julie up to dial those three digits no one wants to dial.

Over the next 30 hours, I rode over curvy Missionary Ridge at 50 mph with sirens blaring & was met by 6 people at the ER entrance. I covered all the alphabet, CT for a scan, CC-3,  a critical care room that doesn’t even have a tv so you know you’re in trouble, IV, BP where I set a personal best of 224/130 & MRI where I conquered claustrophobia in 8 minutes by alternating every starting lineup I could think of (the 1974 baseball Cardinals & football’s ‘75 Cardinals & ‘76 Colts on repeat) interrupted by “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” when I couldn’t remember an infielder or wide receiver or sixth man.

And then, ST & I had to fill in blanks & repeat words. And there were medicos squeezing & raising & pushing & pulling my hands, & legs & feet & I touched my finger to my nose & followed a finger with my eyes & checked my peripheral vision so I should be well versed at my next sobriety checkpoint. Which brought on PT & OT & the same up & down & push & pull & then I needed to visit the restroom. So the 3 of us went, me lifting a stumbling left leg down the hall that felt like my bones had been replaced by a couple of 80 pound bags of wet concrete & they, one holding my hand & pushing my IV machine & the other with her hand clasped around the back of my shorts, humbling. And the humbling continued as they stayed with backs turned & an offer to turn the sink on while I completed my reason for the journey.

A return brought more humbling as both my boys & their wives were in room 10 of the CDU, the clinical decision unit. And there we waited through blood sugar checks & BP checks & vital signs & bloodwork until I made them go home to rest.

And my emotions crumbled as I thought about the humbling, the stumbling down the hall, the numbing of my left leg & arm & side of the face, weighing the “other than this stroke you’re in spectacular shape for a guy your age” against “recovery should be full but this might be as good as it ever gets” against my newfound super power of my left hand. My six million dollar man bionic moment as items feel weightless in my left hand because there is finally an excuse for all the misfires of my brain. A full 24 ounce water bottle feels like a feather. I want this to pass quickly but it’s still kinda cool.

And then the countless texts & calls & messages & checking ins. And since dinner, a message from an athlete that set a personal best today & I was thrilled to be notified less than 10 minutes after it was accomplished & I cried. And a message from another athlete hoping to see me tomorrow. And I cried. Cried because I missed a race & a face & because I’ll miss tomorrow & another face & cried because part of a task was accomplished. I wear a bracelet with a word & two acronyms as a reminder of what I feel is my mission. In at least two lives, two faces, mission not complete but on the right path.

I got a call from a son. I got a video call from my other son & granddaughter before cheer practice. And I cried seeing that sweet little face, & that bearded face, & because I heard that voice. And I fielded a call on Miss Julie’s phone from someone we share Sundays with…and I cried because it was humbling.

I’m sure I’ll be humbled more, I’m sure I’ll cry on Thursday when I return to work & see some faces. We’re (we’re because it’s a family thing & family doesn’t always mean blood or the same last name) all in for a journey & there’ll be more stumbling, more crumbling & more numbing of my left side from face to toes before all is said & done. To quote Hickory High coach Norman Dale when the Huskers were down late, “…my team is on the floor”. That’s how I feel with all those faces under the “We’re” column.

I’ll leave you with this one. Last Wednesday, I looked at my “Untitled” file. Thirty seven efforts & none worth posting since late July proving writers block doesn’t mean one isn’t writing, it means one is writing nothing that’s any good. Anyway, I asked God if the writing was worth it? Was anybody reading the writing? & if He’d provide some inspiration, I’d offer the perspiration & let’s go. On Thursday, four new faces, 3 from the Netherlands & I hadn’t posted anything since July 23rd. And then this nearly 1,000 word opus appears. Be careful what you pray for…