And so it begins...

Five years ago today, I was pregnant with baby number 3. I was planning on spending May 10, the first anniversary of my mom's death, at Woodfield - a place I had avoided for a year. Mother's day was coming up, my mom's birthday was May 16. Al walked in the door at 1:30 a.m. He had been sitting at Lutheran General in the e.r. with our friend Bruce. We talked about Bruce, and then I rolled back over and went to sleep.

Half an hour later, I heard a thump. Al had fallen out of bed. "Al, Al," I called. No reply. I almost left him sleeping on the floor, but then I felt bad, so I got up. When I crossed to his side of the floor, I nudged him to wake him up, "Al?" As soon as I touched him I knew something was wrong, his body was dead weight. I stopped being gentle, "Al?! Al?!" I got up off the floor and turned on the light. Al was curled in a fetal position, staring at me. His eyes were empty. He tried to move his mouth, but nothing came out. I ran to the phone and called 911. I was yelling into the phone like those crazy people you hear on the tapes they play on the news. In my mind, I knew that I was out of control, but I could not stop.

As I talked, I watched in horror as Al worked himself up on the bed, much like a toddler would do trying to wriggle up on something tall. The fire station is two blocks away, so the paramedics were at our house instantaneously. I let them in and they rushed upstairs. Tristan was in our bed, so they went to her first. Al had worked himself away from the bed and was across the room. He looked like he had cerebral palsy, his arms were all twisted. His eyes were confused, and his voice was nothing but grunts, though he seemed like he thought he was communicating something.

When the paramedics arrived, I called Tim, and he came to pick up the girls as Al was walking down the stairs guided by the paramedics. As I said good bye to him in the ambulance, he still could not talk, and his body was not his own. I jumped in the car and drove to Condell, praying all the way, but not really knowing what to pray. I wanted my mom, but she was gone. I called Tammy, and she got all of the aunts and they came out and stayed with me. They stayed with me when Al called me Melanie, when he had seizures, when he tried to take out his IVs and fought to get out of bed.

Eventually, he was transferred to Lutheran and the next 8 or 9 days were like a dream. He couldn't feed find his mouth with a spoon. My aunt lynn slept at the hospital almost every night so I could sleep for a few hours at aunt betty's, and Al wouldn't have to be restrained. When she wasn't there, others from church filled in. When he looked at pictures of himself with T and Saige, he said "Those are the kids, and that is the dad." He played Kerplunk with B and Sky, and they had to keep reminding him, "It's not your turn, Uncle Al." Friends came and we were all scared. Scared that someone our age could be like this. Scared what the future would be for us. All I did was laugh so that I wouldn't cry.

And here we are five years later - Al paints like he always did. Baby number 3 is named Gairette Reg Morgan Louria - a name that is testimony to a faithful God. He has some residual effects, but the girls have a dad, and I have a husband. We all have a God who is gracious. Oh, that I would feel that way regardless of what May represents - May 6, stroke day. May 10, Mom's death day. May 11, Mother's Day. May 16, Mom's birthday - or what the future brings.