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eighty-six f

The Unexpected

A t age sixty-one, life was good. While most people my age looked toward retirement, I looked toward a life of working, sharing, and giving. It all came crashing down one December morning in 2005.

I’d just returned from visiting my friend Suzi in New Jersey. By the time I’d unpacked and made a salad, I felt nauseous and exhausted. I threw out the salad and climbed into bed. Had I caught the flu on the flight home?

When I woke the next morning, I felt like vomiting. I tried getting out of bed, but my legs had turned to rubber bands and wouldn’t support me.

I managed to crawl to the living room and dialed my friend Shelley.

“I’ll be right over. Don’t move,” she said.

I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

Shelley let herself in with a key I kept hidden outside. She took one look at me. “I think you’ve had a stroke.”

She called 9-1-1.

“You’re crazy,” I mumbled.

She held a mirror in front of my face. My mouth drooped on the left side. I realized my left arm felt invisible. I knew these were signs of a stroke, but how could it have happened? I’d always tried to eat healthy food, exercise, and take vitamins even in the worse days of my addiction.

The EMTs arrived within minutes. As they loaded me onto a stretcher, I turned to Shelley. “Get my hairbrush and my makeup.”

My words sounded unintelligible, even to me.

My memory blurs when I try to recall the early moments in the hospital. What I do remember is the neurologist explaining that my carotid artery on one side was 90 percent blocked. He recommended surgery to remove the blockage and prescribed a strong cholesterol medication to prevent a reoccurrence.

Shelley went back to my condo for a few things, including my little blue Bible. The cover was worn and the pages frayed, but the book had saved me in Kenya. I prayed it would save me again.

She sat at my bedside and read words of hope and healing. I received comfort from Jeremiah 17:14: “Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved, for thou art my praise.”

My voice slurred, so I prayed silently while Shelley prayed aloud. “Dear God, give Ava the strength to know in her heart that you are there for her every minute of every day. May the Holy Spirit live within her and guide her to full recovery. Amen.”

I couldn’t believe the outpouring of prayers and good wishes from my church and my friends. Phone calls occupied my morning, and visitors kept me busy from afternoon through early evening. In the moments I spent alone, I had time to reflect on how my life had morphed from an abused young woman and addict to a sober, independent mature woman: from a down-and-out dancer to a successful nail technician. I’d given my life over to Christ and in return, I was free from my past. I prayed God would see fit to give me a future.

I spent six days in the hospital before I was ready for surgery. Slowly, I regained control of my legs and left arm. Each day my mouth drooped less.

My surgery was successful. Rest and physical therapy restored all movement and brain function. Within a few weeks, I returned to work and to church.

I’d had several brushes with death over the years but none as profound as my stroke. When you’re young, you feel invincible. When you’re sixty-one, you realize death has its hand out waiting for you. Without my friends, the phenomenal hospital staff, prayers, and my faith in God, I wouldn’t have survived. Time and life had become precious commodities.