After a few puzzling weeks, Dad's neurologist is assuming Dad had a small stroke. His flailing limbs, sometimes slurred speech, and sensitivity to light and touch all point to some level of stroke activity. There is no proof of this, because nothing new showed up on the brain scan; however the doc thinks the stroke occurred in the same area of the brain as Dad's 2007 stroke. Damage upon damage doesn't reveal any new event. But, Dad's new symptoms are very much indicative of stroke activity, not Parkinson's.
We are moving forward on this premise. So, the doc is playing with meds, and Dad is receiving PT, to the point that he can. He has good days and bad days. He's unhappy with so many things, but loves having visitors and eating peach ice cream from the rehab bistro. His brain is fairly clear, which almost makes it more difficult - he understands what's happened to him. And he hates it.
I hate it too. I pray all the time that Dad will remember God loves him and still has a plan. I've told Dad several times that he is not his body - his declining body is just his EARTH SUIT. It's not really who he is, but Dad never seems convinced. He's a Navy guy from the Greatest Generation. Strength and productive work are everything.
We're going day by day here, thanking God for small pleasures, like cozy slip-free socks, kind therapists, and Sr. Immaculata, who tells Dad she doesn't care if he's shaky and tremor-y. "Once you're on your feet," she tells him, "we'll do the jitterbug."
I'm getting a picture of that.
|The religion teacher and Dad just before Christmas|