Inside the Hospital
- anartistslament
- 7 days ago
- 3 min read
Stroke Series — Part 2
By the time we arrived at the hospital, I felt almost normal.
That was one of the strangest parts of the entire experience. I was awake, talking, walking, even getting hungry because we hadn’t had breakfast yet. It didn’t feel like a medical emergency. It felt like maybe we had overreacted.
The doctors began a series of neurological strength tests. They had me squeeze their hands, push against resistance, pull against resistance, raise my legs, push with my legs, smile as wide as I could, puff out my cheeks, and move my tongue side to side. Different doctors repeated the same tests at different times, carefully checking whether anything had changed.
Somewhere in between, they took blood and sent me for a chest X-ray and a CT scan.
The chest X-ray was normal — which felt like a small victory.
Then the CT scan results came back.
There was blood on my brain.
That was the moment everything shifted from maybe this is nothing to this is real.
Because there was visible bleeding, they needed to keep me for observation to make sure it didn’t increase. If the bleeding grew, I would be transferred to a larger hospital in Granada for possible brain surgery to drain it.
That possibility lingered quietly in the background.
I was first placed in a critical care room and later moved to an observation bay. Hospitals are not designed for rest. Nurses came in at all hours to check vital signs. Machines beeped. Lights flicked on and off. People moved in and out constantly. Time felt both slow and strangely compressed.
My husband stayed with me as long as he could that first day, until visiting hours ended. That night, he went home to rest and returned the next morning with a care package — pajamas, clean clothes, chargers… and my iPad.
He is my safety net.
Friday morning, they repeated the CT scan to confirm that the bleeding had not increased. The scan showed there was still blood present, but it had not grown — which meant things were stable. After that confirmation, I was moved from the observation area into a semi-private hospital room with a roommate.
Over the weekend, no new tests were scheduled, and I didn’t see a doctor for a couple of days. It felt strange, but also reassuring. Nothing was getting worse.
One unexpected bright spot was the food. The hospital accommodated my gluten-free and pistachio-free diet beautifully. I had things like paella with shrimp, mussels, chicken, and ham; grilled fish with vegetables; soups; chicken dishes; fruit; salads; and traditional Andalusian breakfasts with tomato and olive oil. It was not at all what I expected hospital food to be.
Monday brought more tests — an MRI and an echocardiogram. During the MRI, they placed a cage-like frame over my head to keep it still. I couldn’t help laughing to myself, thinking I looked like Hannibal Lecter. The machine pulsed with loud rhythms and tones, and even through earplugs and headphones, I could feel the frequencies in different parts of my head. Some of the sounds reminded me of songs I knew, so I started singing them silently in my head while the machine did its work.
The echocardiogram showed that my heart looked good.
Later, they fitted me with a portable heart monitor that I had to wear overnight.
Physically, I felt mostly fine.
Mentally, though, part of me still struggled to believe any of this was actually happening.
The hardest part wasn’t pain or fear.
It was being in the hospital when I felt like I should be up, living my normal life.
My body had other plans.
It kept saying quietly but firmly:
Not today. You need to rest.
Next: The Moment I Picked Up My iPad
Related Posts
Stroke Series — Part 3: The Moment I Picked Up My iPad
Stroke Series — Part 4: The First Week Home
Comments