Pop 89: Hold My Hand

By Madonna Hamel

While the gales whip off the ocean, cross the Island where I’m stationed with my sisters, next to a hospital bed, the same grey clouds make their way to Val Marie, SK where snow steadily falls. I look at a picture of the village. It’s unrecognizable, nothing makes sense. And then I think, that’s what my brother says as he recovers from a stroke. “You know how the new cars have those compass bubbles on the dash and they swirl around when you turn a corner?” He says. “My head is always like that.” Or, “Trying to find the curser on my computer is like trying to read a needle.” Or, “I can’t comprehend things in time and space. I mean, you can tell me it’s Monday, but I don’t know what that means.” Or, “I didn’t see you when you put that cup down. I still can’t see that cup. And I’ve no idea what’s in it.” 

We three nurse sisters, the ones he alternately refers to as guards, have been here since March 5th. And in that time the world has shifted. I would not be doing as well as my brother, with his ability to both ride through his feelings and keep his sense of humour. In fact, it seems as though his brain is alight with even more metaphors, one-liners and poetic insights. And it’s as if a new cast of engaging and world-savvy old-fella characters were set loose on his brain-stage and are improvising like front-line professionals, with the bravery and precision of ancient thespians and cavalry.  

When he isn’t making us laugh, Doug fields his emotions as they arise. And there’s plenty, so it’s important to remind him that this is “normal” for the next phase of the whole stroke process. Confusion, overwhelm, fear, anger, grief, tears, frustration, gratitude, and deep love visit all day long until, mercifully, exhaustion brings sleep.  

And if all this wasn’t confusing enough, there’s the side effects of all the new medications. Doug brother doesn’t normally take meds, but he is humbled by this blow and knows that blood thinners and blockers will be with him for the rest of his life. Still, the lists of side effects are daunting and can make discernment as to what’s causing his mood swings, dizziness, headaches etc. 

Never has the slogan “one day at a time” meant more. A single day is plenty, is overflowing with new information. Our job as nurse-guards is to say: Yep, they said that would happen. Yep that’s part of the healing process. Yep, you’re way better today, yesterday you couldn’t see that. Yep, every day you’re further out of the woods. Yep, the doc said sleep is the best medicine right now. Yep, I’ll hold your hand.

A week after the stroke my brother went into Afib. We called the ambulance, held his hands. NOTE: Hand holding lowers heart rate. The paramedics on the island all hold other jobs, so everyone knows everyone else. When they arrived my brother recognized the EMT as his neighbour who sells him meat. We took the ambulance across the water, back to Campbell River and the hospital. It was in emerge where a team of docs realized it was his heart that probably caused the stroke. It wasn’t until later that I understood that when they called Code Blue over the intercom it was for my brother.

And so another three days in the hospital. My sisters and I stayed at the bottom of the hill in a hotel across from the ferry terminal. Our oldest sister sent us money for a couple of hearty dinners. Every night we ate in the restaurant and hobbled back upstairs to bed. I can’t say my sleeps were any better, even though our brother was in the hospital, we hated to leave him in such a state, with no hand to tether him to earth. Once, forgetting he was patched and wired up to a machine sending his vitals to the nurse’s station, he planned to join us for supper or go with us to buy him a pair of headphones. 

At one point when we went for a walk, I conceded to his desire to visit the tiny church across the street from the hospital, and a sweet, hunched man who introduced himself as pastor Don, asked if we could pray together and we all held hands while he asked for Doug’s speedy recovery. When we got back to the hospital the head nurse informed us they’d lost contact with Doug, kind of like when a space shuttle goes behind the moon, I guess. Anyway, after that, she limited the number of sisters in the room to one at a time.

Now that the meds have been recalibrated we are back on the island with more confidence. Yep, there will still be moments of Afib, but as long as you’re on your blood thinners you’ll be alright, we remind him. Yep, you do all the right things, you have taken care of your body all your adult life. Yep, you were getting check ups, educating yourself, doing your best to listen to your body, believing you could stay on top of it, but, like my ex in Illinois, who was diagnosed with three different ailments in the last year and entered emerge the same day Doug did: I know seventy year olds who’ve never taken a pill and fifty year olds who’ve been on meds most of their adult lives, a lot of this is habits, but a lot is also the equipment we were given by Nature, God and our ancestors.  

While he might never get an answer to the question “Why did this happen?” the question “What do I do with this, now?” does come with answers. There’s no shame in being human, humbling as it is. Holding his hand, I am humbled by my brother’s brave humour.