Fae Friday: Gratitude to the Angels of Mercy, Gods of Healing–and Elvis

Warning: scary stuff. Two weeks ago I awoke at 6:30 A.M. and thought to sneak in another hour and half of ZZZZZZs. Something was wrong, though. My right hand was limp like a jellyfish, and I couldn’t move it or my right foot. Realizing I was having a stroke, I grabbed the phone and with great effort—as my brain was not working right—managed to call 911 and tell them what was happening. 911 stayed on the phone with me until the paramedics arrived. Paramedics wanted me off the phone, but I quickly called my son, who was out of state with his son’s school trip. Soon after that, my speech deteriorated until what I tried to say came out like a garbled reptilian alien.

Luckily the emergency room administered tPA, and soon I could move my hand again and SAY WORDS. It was beautiful to say words. Because of danger from potential bleeding due to the tPA, the hospital wanted to fly me 57 miles away to the area hospital where heart patients go. Unfortunately, the stormy weather precluded the helicopter taking off, and I was piled into an ambulance and raced down. Meanwhile, my son was rushing back to Florida, after calling a couple of friends and relatives and telling them where I’d be. I found out later that the hospital had talked to him, which is how he knew. Comfortingly, soon after I arrived at the new emergency room, my friend since 5^th grade and her husband plus several nieces were by my side.

You can imagine the hospital stay—doctors, nurses, monitors, oxygen, tests every couple of hours, new medicines, CAT scans, and the dreaded MRI. The last time I got an MRI the trauma was so great I spilled hot tea water on myself and spent months with third degree burns. So an MRI was the last thing I wanted. However, it might get me sent home. Thanks to headphones with Elvis music and a wonderful MRI tech who patted my calf the entire time while her boss ran the test, I spent eleven minutes in the MRI capsule without freaking out. She also put a strange pair of glasses on me that performed an optical trick so it looked as if I were peering out the end of the capsule instead of up into the dark middle. I know that because I opened my eyes for a split second during the eleven minutes. That night I got to go home.

I don’t know if anyone else has this weirdness after such an incident, but I still can’t sleep in my bed. It’s like a trauma aftermath or PTSD. Luckily, I have a comfortable recliner. A lucky aspect is that I have managed to get all my Wytchfae books back up on Amazon and a new poetry book up as well–Frost Fyre. There’s no time to waste, and why put stuff off?

To all involved, including family and friends, Elvis, and to the tender universe, my gratitude and thanks for seeing me through. Blessings to you!

Flossie