14 years since my strokes

Today marks the 14th anniversary of the day my world went silent.

I was already in a hospital bed, recovering from a first stroke, when the "massive one" struck. In an instant, the right side of my body surrendered to paralysis. I remember the desperation of trying to reach the call button—a simple plastic switch that might as well have been on the moon for all my arm could move. I lay there in the quiet for an hour before a nurse finally walked in.

Later, through a fog of shock, I heard Heather’s voice. She told me the truth: it was a "really bad" stroke. I couldn't speak to ask questions; I could only cry.

When she told me my parents and my oldest brother, Dan, were on their way, the fear deepened. My mind raced—Dan was supposed to be in Hawaii; my parents were hours away in Twin Falls. If they were all suddenly standing in my hospital room, there was only one logical conclusion: they were coming to say goodbye.

I remember my two middle brothers leaning in to hug me, followed by my parents and Dan. As their arms wrapped around me, I kept crying, convinced I was looking at them for the last time.

But, as Mark Twain famously quipped, "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."

The stroke claimed 20% of my brain, leaving a permanent silence where there used to be a connection. But it didn't claim my life. Through the grueling years of therapy that followed, I learned what it meant to fight for every inch of progress.

Today, I look back with profound gratitude for Heather, my brothers, and the friends who stayed by my side when I couldn't even find the words to ask them

Fourteen years later, I will never take my life for granted.

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