A Day Like Any Other, . . . NOT!

Hello friends. After a long hiatus, I am back, but this blog will be a departure from the usual “around the farm” type that you are used to from me. This is a deeply personal account of something that happened to me recently. For those of you that know me well, you know that I am a fairly private person and don’t usually put my personal life out there for the world to see, but this is important, and I feel that it is worth sharing with you.

This past Sunday, May 15th, was a day like any other, and John and I were both going about our chores as usual. It was a beautiful, sunny day, albeit a bit warm. John was up at the building tinkering with one of his cars and he had told me that when he was done, he would help me tend to one of my chickens who had some scarring on her back from another hen. I went down to the house and changed into old sweatpants, my dirty chicken boots, and an old paint-stained, dark blue t-shirt and collected everything that I would need: hydrogen peroxide, spray-on liquid bandage, Blu-Kote veterinary antiseptic, a paper towel, and a cotton ball, and I put them all in my red chicken bucket for easy carrying. At last, he was ready, and we headed down to the coop.

I set up my small tripod stool in the coop run while John sat on the outside for ease of mobility. We were ready to get to work. The time was approximately 4:45.

“O.k., what are we doing here,” John said, looking at everything I had brought with me.

“First take the peroxide and the cotton ball and clean her wounds and then dry it off with the paper towel,” I said, holding my struggling hen, Lacey, while I perched on the tiny stool. She was not at all amused by all the attention being focused on her.

“Now what?” John asked, after that task was completed. He was being a very diligent helper.

“Take the Blu-Kote and spray it on her wounds but be careful with that. That stuff is super messy. It’s always impossible to use it without looking like you dipped your hand in blue ink,” I said. With that done, and a sufficient amount of time with me blowing on it to get it to dry, we moved on. “Now take the liquid spray-on bandage and spray it on top of everything. Hold on, let me put my glasses on so I can see a bit better,” and I went to reach across to my right-side sweatpants pocket to retrieve them.

“Kelly . . . , Kelly did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said? I asked you which one of the chickens did this to Lacey.” John looked bewildered for some reason that I could not figure out. And then, more slowly, “Kelly . . . , I asked you which one of the chickens did this to her?”

I looked around slowly and pointed to Brit, the offending chicken. I felt a sudden sense of frustration as I searched for her name and tried to articulate it, but the words would not come. I looked back at John and then suddenly and without any kind of warning, I fell off the stool, hitting the ground hard, still clutching a terrified chicken in my hands.

“Kelly! You’re making me nervous! Kelly, get up!” John said, his voice rising in concern.

I thought, ‘Oh you silly girl, get up off the ground this minute for Pete’s Sake!,’ and I tried. I tried with all my will and all my might to get up off that ground, but all I could do was flop around. In a half reclining position, I noticed that my right hand had gone to sleep. I tried to massage it with my left to get it to work again but it just hung there like a limp piece of rubber, a useless thing.

“Come on. I’m getting you out of there!” John said, his voice trembling, as he reached through the net of the chicken run and pulled me out as quickly as he could. “Kelly, can you sit up? Come on, try,” he said as he half dragged, half carried me around to the other side of the chicken coop. “I’m calling 9-1-1!” The time was now 4:58.

I lay there, with the afternoon sun caressing my face and my husband speaking urgently into his phone, articulating the situation. A sense of calm came over me, and way in the distance I could hear the sound of a siren, and it was getting closer.

Suddenly, a stocky man in a uniform, with short, cropped blond-gray hair knelt down beside me. “Hi. I’m with Kearney Fire and Rescue. Can you talk to me?”, he had a kind face, and his voice had an urgency to it that I did not understand. And then, he was lifting me into his arms and running with me up the grassy slope towards his truck that was parked in our driveway. I briefly saw John, handing over my daily medication to a woman in a uniform, and then I was placed on a stretcher, strapped down, and on my way for the ride of my life. I remember being very conscious of everything that was happening to me and thinking to myself ‘If I can just calm down, I can make myself understood and everyone would see that they are overreacting,’ but that was not the case.

EMS had already made the decision to take me directly to St. Luke’s in downtown Kansas City on the Plaza, a little further away, but one of the leading hospitals in the country for stroke. When we arrived, the emergency room team was already prepped and waiting for me. There was a lot of activity and people fussing over me and a lot of consternation as to why my left hand was blue (it’s true about that Blu-Kote being messy). A pretty young woman with blond hair tucked up under her cap, said from behind her mask “You are having a stroke. You are having a stroke.” I thought, ‘This can’t be happening. How is this even possible?’, but it was true, and there was nothing I could do but lie there while they inserted I.V.’s into my arms. Strangely, a sense of peace came over me as I lay there trapped inside of the prison that was me, knowing that I was in good hands and that yes, perhaps this is where I needed to be at this moment in time. The time was now 5:49.

I was given a “clot-busting” shot of tPA and showed small signs of improvement shortly after. This was not, however, the ultimate solution. A thrombectomy would be next, and John had to sign a paper to authorize it. The time was now approximately 6:15.

The next thing I knew, I was in an operating room. I had had an Acute Ischemic Stroke, and it had been determined that on the NIHSS (stroke rating scale) I was a 24 out of 42, with severe stroke being categorized between 21-42, so not great. The time was now 6:45.

I could see a large television screen and on that screen were several large views of my brain. I felt a cold sensation at the back of my head and then a slight headache up the left side. What I didn’t know while they were working on me, was that they had gone in through my femoral artery on the right side of my groin and threaded a small tube up my body and into my brain where the clots had lodged and sucked them out. The time was now 7:30.

All of a sudden, I heard the doctor say, “Ah, there, I got it,” and, just like that, I could feel the life returning in my arm. The lock that had muzzled my voice was broken, and for the first time since the “incident”, I could speak. “Thank you,” I said feebly. “It’s amazing what modern medicine can do,” I continued, through slightly slurred speech.

“It is,” said the doctor. “Ten years ago, we didn’t have this technology. We’re making advances all the time. What was your pain level during this procedure?”, he asked.

“Three out of ten,” I said.

“That’s good. Tell me Kelly, what were you doing when it happened?”, he asked.

“I was in the coop with my chickens,” I replied.

“Chickens! You have chickens? So do I and two roosters but they are very little,” he said.

“Well,” I said. “They must be bantams then.”

He let out a resounding laugh and said “Bantams! Yes, that’s right Kelly, they’re bantams! Bantams!” he continued chuckling. He later told John that this interaction was a very positive sign.

A serious looking young woman came over to me and quietly asked, “Would you like to see what was blocking things, your clots?”

I said, “Yes, I’m not squeamish that way,” they were a part of me after all. She lifted her hand up and there they were on a small white piece of gauze, two clots about the size of a quarter of my pinky nail. As I regarded them, I thought, ‘How could something so small bring me to my knees,’ but it surely did. Total time elapsed between stroke onset and the completion of the thrombectomy – 2:45 hours!

I was wheeled to the Neuroscience Intensive Care Unit (NSICU) and there was John, and that’s when I started crying. “I’m so sorry Honey. I’m so sorry I did this to you,” I sobbed. “I would never want to be a burden to you. We are supposed to be having fun in our lives. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, stop that now, you’re not a burden. It’s not your fault,” he said quietly, his eyes shining above his hospital mask as he reached down and hugged me. “I’m just so happy to have you back.” And there you have it folks, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

I was placed under the care of a wonderful team of nurses in the NSICU, Myka, Bailee, and Kirstin, just to name a few, and the care and compassion they showed towards me was truly a gift. What’s more, I started to have a rather miraculous recovery. I steadfastly refused to see myself as a sick person and so, within just a few hours of my procedure, all paralysis was swiftly dissipating. The doctors thought that because of my healthy diet, and my frequent visits to my gym, this most likely could have been a contributing factor to this recovery.

Late into the next night, I was transitioned to a different room in a downgrade unit, and during my two days there, I had many, many visitors, from the emergency room nurse who first saw me when I came in, to my therapists, to the nurses and staff, and to the doctors who did my procedure and the many other doctors and students that followed up and tested me for every conceivable thing under the sun. They all came to take a look at me with strangely bemused and happy smiles on their faces. One young nurse said “You don’t understand Kelly. It is so rare, if ever, that we see someone walk out of here like you.” I have also been placed in a study, studying strokes in patients who are not likely candidates for strokes but have them anyway. Perhaps I can learn something about myself, or hopefully, help someone else in the process.

I am happy to report also that the brave EMS team from Kearney Fire and Rescue will be getting an award for my particular case later this Summer. Their speedy response and quick thinking made everything come together in kind of a perfect storm if you will, saving me to live my best life. I would be remiss also if I did not thank my beloved husband John, for having the good sense to dial 9-1-1, and not trying to drive me instead. They are Heroes all. To every one of you, I am so profoundly and humbly grateful. There are no other words except Thank You.

So, today is Thursday, May 19th. I got home yesterday just three days after the “incident.” John and I are at Watkins Mill State Park which is very close to where we live. He has gone to do his 3.75-mile run around the lake, and I have gone the opposite way around the lake to do my walk/run. It is a glorious day, sunny and warm with a cool breeze. As I begin my walk I am suddenly overcome with emotion. I have a quiet conversation with my God, and I thank Him for how great He is, and for delivering me home. I do not take it for granted.

So, there you are my friends. Some story, isn’t it? You know that May is the National Stroke Awareness Month, and this week was National EMS Appreciation week. Leave it to me, right? I wanted to share this story because there is no shame in dealing with a stroke, or any illness for that matter. I am not weaker because of it. It does not define me now or in my future. It is just a part of my life experience, that is all. If anything, it has made me more Grateful.

If you suspect someone is having a stroke, B.E. F.A.S.T.:

B. (Balance) – Sudden onset of dizziness, discoordination, trouble walking, falls, or clumsiness.

E. (Eyes) – Sudden onset of blurred vision, visual loss, or changes in vision.

F. (Face) – Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the face droop?

A. (Arms) – Ask the person to raise both arms. Does one arm drift downward?

S. (Speech) – Ask the person to say a simple sentence.

T. (Time) – If the person shows any of these symptoms, time is important. Call 9-1-1.

Until next time . . .

K.