For Dad
Art was devastated when he received the call from his mother. He was on his way to the hospital in minutes. His father, the person he loved above all others, was in the Emergency Department with a possible stroke. Things, at present, were touch and go.
He ran from the parking garage to Emergency. His mother was standing in the waiting area, more pacing than simply standing.
"Mom!" he called, as he walked quickly to her.
She turned, obviously crying, and hugged him tightly.
"Is he...," he began.
"His blood pressure is stable enough they took him for an MRI. He should be back in twenty minutes or so."
"What happened?"
"He was in the classroom. The kids said he grabbed his head and collapsed. When the ambulance arrived, he was unconscious. He still hasn't come around."
"What have the doctors said?" he asked.
"His right arm and leg are flaccid. That indicates either a stroke or bleeding in the brain."
"Is he going to make it?"
"They don't know yet, honey."
Jackson 'Jack' Taylor was a model husband, father, friend, and educator. Everyone loved the man, but no one more than his wife and son. Jack loved them the same way. They were a devoted, loving family.
Art and his mother, Denise, stood together, away from the foot traffic, and waited. The nurse came to bring them to speak with the doctor about fifteen minutes later.
"Dr. Henderson, this is my son Arthur," Denise informed him.
"Arthur," he said offering his hand. They shook hands. "The MRI shows that he's had a large bleed in the left side of his brain. The neurosurgeon is on her way here now. Once he's stable enough, I suspect she'll take him to the OR to evacuate the blood and fix the bleeder."
"How much damage has been done?" Denise asked.
"It's too early to tell. The left side of the brain controls the right side of the body. At present, his right arm and leg are paralyzed, likely his entire right side from the neck down. It also affected the temporal lobe which is where we get our ability to speak. We know those areas are injured, but until he wakes up, we won't know the extent of the injury."
"So, if they're just injured, they can repair themselves?" Art asked, hopefully.
"It's not that easy. Some of those brain cells are likely gone forever. We have to wait and see."
"Any idea when he'll wake up?" she asked.
"Mrs. Taylor, it's a question of if he'll wake up, not when. I'm sorry. I just don't have the answers you want. Hopefully, after the neurosurgeon does her magic, we'll know more."
"Can we see him?" Art asked.
"Sure. When people are unconscious, we don't know what they hear or understand. Don't say anything in front of him you don't want him to hear."
He walked them to the bedside. There were tubes and wires everywhere. The place was a beehive of activity. A woman of about thirty walked in and up to his bed. She wore a long white coat and people moved out of her way as she approached. She shined a penlight in his eyes, looked in his ears, looked at his head and neck, then pulled out a stethoscope. She listened to both sides of his neck and both temples. She never listened to his heart or lungs. She raised both arms about a foot then dropped them before doing the same thing with his legs. Using a reflex hammer, she tapped on his arms, wrists, knees, and ankles. Then she grabbed his left triceps and pinched hard while looking at his face. As a final insult, she ground her knuckle into his breastbone.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Art asked, angrily.
She didn't even acknowledge him as she started giving orders to the nurses. After several minutes she walked to Denise and Art.
"A neuro exam on an unconscious patient looks brutal, but it's necessary. I've seen the MRI and just given orders to take him to the operating room. I'm going to have to open his skull to repair what I can."
"You're the neurosurgeon?" Denise asked.
"Yes, Jen Prater, sorry. It's risky at best. There's a lot that can go wrong, but it's his only chance."
"When are you taking him?" Art asked.
"As soon as they can get us an operating room. Probably an hour or two. I'll be frank. He may die on the table. He might survive and never regain consciousness. He's already paralyzed on the right side and that's likely permanent. He'll probably never be able to speak. He may not be able to read or write. He could get an infection and die from that."
"What's the chance for a full recovery?" Denise asked.
"That isn't going to happen. Nearly half of his brain is affected. I'm sorry. I wish I had more to offer."
In just over an hour, he was wheeled to the operating room. His wife and son waited quietly in the surgery waiting area. In late afternoon, a woman walked up to them.
"Are you Mrs. Taylor?"
"Yes," she replied apprehensively.
"Mrs. Taylor, I think most of the students and teachers from Central High are outside the hospital. Could you come and talk to them?"
"I'd start crying. Art, will you go?"
"Sure. I'll be back shortly," he said, then followed the woman.
She showed him to the door and the mass of worried faces.
"He must be a very loved man," she said.
"He is."
"See if you can get them to leave. They're making it difficult for people to park and get into the building."
"I'll do my best," he said, and stepped out the door. "Thank you all for coming," he shouted, quieting the crowd. "I'm Arthur Taylor. Jack is my father. He's in the operating room. A blood vessel burst in his brain and destroyed a lot of tissue."
"Is he going to be ok?" someone shouted.
"We don't know yet. I really appreciate that you all came, but we're blocking traffic and making it hard for people to get into the hospital. Some of you take out paper and something to write with. I'm going to give you my Facebook info. I'll post updates there." He called out the info and people started to disperse. The school principal walked up to him.
"Hi Art."
"Hi Mr. Stanley. Dad was still in a coma when they took him to the operating room. If he survives, the surgeon suspects he'll be paralyzed on the right side and may not be able to speak."
"I'm sorry. His students called 911 as soon as he collapsed. Your dad is a fixture at Central. If there's anything any of you need, just say the word."
"Thanks. We will."
Stanley turned and left, taking the last few stragglers with him. Art went back to his mother.
"Any word?"
"Not yet," she replied.
A short time later, Art opened his Facebook. There were already over a hundred messages. He showed his mother, and they began reading. Most were students wishing him well and a quick recovery. Art wrote a note.
