I stood in my bedroom doorway and looked my daughter in the eyes. I had something important to tell her, but I couldn’t find the words. Even the simplest ones wouldn’t come. Ten years later, I still remember how it felt to look at my own daughter and have no way to tell her what I needed her to know.
I’ve never been that scared.
On Nov. 2, 2016, I’d left work early to pick up my youngest from school. My teeth chattered as I walked out of the building — literally chattered. At home, I climbed into bed fully dressed, jacket and all. Two of my daughters were home, and neither could drive.
As the afternoon wore on, they wanted to call an ambulance. I refused because the Cubs and Indians had Game 6 that night, and I had somehow decided the hospital could wait.
ICYMI: I Learned to Accept Baldness in History Class. It Wasn’t on the Syllabus.
My oldest called my middle daughter at the assisted living home where she worked. She came over and told me we were going to the hospital. I asked for two more innings. I’d already sent two texts to my then-wife; the first was in English, the second, as far as I’m concerned, was in Klingon.
My middle daughter pulled the sheets off the bed: “We’re going to the hospital … NOW!”
She later told me I’d guided her to the hospital in Weston by a back road she’d never taken. I remember standing in the doorway without words, but I had to take her word that the directions I gave her were accurate.
I missed Games 6 and 7 because I was out of it. The Cubs won their first championship in 108 years in a 10-inning game, and the guy who’d tried to bargain for two more innings couldn’t tell you what happened.
My daughters filled in parts of the ER visit, including a spinal tap and a young doctor who suspected a tick bite. When the doctors found a staph infection, my daughter gave that young doctor a look.
“Tick bite, huh?”
I remember coming to during an ice bath. My fever had reached 104.5°F and stayed there for two days. I had MRSA and sepsis, and a neurologist told me I’d had a stroke in about the same tone you’d use to tell somebody where you’d left the mail.
I still wonder how close I came. In one study of 2,660 ICU patients with sepsis and a brain blood vessel disorder such as a stroke, about 72% survived through 28 days after discharge. The study included different diagnoses and a much older group, with a median age of about 71.
My daughter, who was taking classes at UW-Stevens Point, spent the night in my hospital room and spoke up for me when I couldn’t. After a week in the hospital, I went home with a PICC line and spent two months getting antibiotics from a pump the size and shape of a baseball. Doctors called the drug, vancomycin, an “antibiotic of last resort.” Twice a day, I tucked it into a vest pocket. Apparently, baseball was going to get its innings one way or another.
My dad had died a few weeks earlier. I’d told my daughters and siblings to keep my mom in the dark until I got home. I drove to Altoona that Saturday and told her myself. She looked at me with those laser eyes only a mother has, told me she loved me, and said she’d wring my neck if I ever kept something like that from her again.
A few months later, two of my daughters texted from the road after visiting my mom, Grandma Curly. They knew I was waiting up for them, so they texted me to go to bed. I sent back a typo I’d left in because it made me laugh.
They called me immediately, scared I was having another stroke. I felt about an inch tall.
In the 10 years since, I’ve tried to say the good things out loud while people are here to hear them. It became important to me to never hold back my words of love and support because I nearly died that week.
The anniversary came and went, and I’m still struggling with the emotions and fear. Girls, I love you, and I’m glad you called, even though I missed the bloody World Series!
