A sea of sadness and hope.

It is so difficult to know where to begin. I suppose with intention. My intention for writing this blog is to keep those loved ones aware of Phil's condition and as a therapeutic outlet. Being married to a poet, musician, and writer can be intimidating when it comes to writing -- (I usually go the photography route for expression) but know this blog is critical right now. I want to keep everyone in the loop, and promise to try to update this blog. I am unable to answer any phone calls, from anyone. I can receive emails and appreciate any email, comments, etc... (more on this later in the post).

First of all, I am filled with so many things. Gratitude. Fear. Hope. Devastation. Sadness. Confusion. A baby. Pure love. Longing. Grasping. Sadness. These circle around minute by minute. When tragedy and trauma strike -- one's mind wants to settle -- anywhere, somewhere, please? The mystery of Phil's condition, his possible chance for life in any recognizable form, and being on the brink of birthing our shared child is almost too much to bear in moments.

It has been exactly 75 hours (as I write this) since the moment Phil suffered from a substantial stroke. I am acutely aware of this threshold of time. These first three days are the most critical (after the first 6 or so hours). Not having ever witnesses a stroke or known anyone who has suffered from one has created quite a steep (like Himalayan mountain steep) learning curve for me over the past three days.

Phil has had a diversion, or ischemic stroke, which began in his main artery on the left side of his neck into and quite far into his head/brain. The artery is still closed and may or may not ever open again. This particular variety often strikes younger, healthier folks. It's more mechanical versus a slow clotting due to high cholesterol, unhealthy eating or lifestyle -- it's a fluke. A complete random incident. The neurologist Dr. Aguilar at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, AZ (where Phil lies right now) has explained it can happen at any moment, for instance while brushing your teeth, turning your head sideways, sneezing. Who knew?

Right now Phil is still in an Intensive Care Unit room. He has been stepped down from "intensive status" to intermediate. This is good news but I am very eager to get him moved to a regular hospital room. I have learned at this hospital every floor you go up, the closer you are to release. He is on the 2nd of five floors now. Not only is intensive care highly intimidating with its zillion machines -- the grief in the waiting room is becoming almost unbearable for me. Meanwhile the grief also teaches me so much and offers great hope for me that Phil really will be ok. Of course I know our life from that initial stroke moment on is never going to be the same. I have no idea in what shape or form it may take. Today I noticed Phil had a new neighbor in the ICU, a beautiful Mexican woman, most likely a mother. She is on life support. The entire waiting room has been filled with her family and friends. It has been flooded with three, four, then ten, twenty, twenty five souls -- kids, young adults, men, and grandmothers. Today it was actually comforting to hear their group sobbing and grieving -- and I actually wanted to be held by them. I knew that they understand how I feel. This power of pure grief -- it's intense.

The most troubling part of Phil's stroke has been his loss of language, speech, and expression. He is able to form some words -- and sometimes speak in fluent flowing sentences. Most often though it's coming out like poetic gibberish -- it's fascinating and completely frightening all at the same time. He wants me to understand so badly. The speech therapist has mentioned this is a GOOD thing. He recognizes it makes no sense. It is exhausting for him and I to forge this road. We usually end in a shrug and just hold hands. For someone like Phil who is as accurate with language, speech, and is such a brilliant writer and poet -- this is horrible. My deep hope is that he can regain, develop new neural pathways, and begin again. Can you even imagine not being able to speak or express – especially if you were Phil?

His body is slowly coming back to life. His left side is in good shape (the stroke was on the left side of his brain -- therefore right body is affected more) but his right side is weakened. Initially the right side was completely limp – little by little some strength is resuming. He is such a willful person though -- my hope is that this will save his life.

I have been trying to get him to hold his shakuhachi flute every day and blow a sound. The first day was not so good, quite devastatingly sad, the silence and awkwardness. Today a little sound came out! I am committed to pushing him to hold this comfortable friend and try every day, every single day. I know in my heart this is a lifeline to his recovery. I hope the brilliant master will play again. I play him music on the iPod daily as well. Music, music, music, music. I know the power for healing therein.

I am exhausted right now. It is 3am. Nighttime is the worst for me. I am trying so hard to eat during the day (I have no appetite at all - I eat solely for this baby in my belly), come back to my breath, and live both in the trauma and relax in any way all day long. I then crash on a random bed (hotel, generous distant friend) by night. But then it happens. I wake up with such heartbreak, fear, anxiety and utter grief in the middle of the night. My guardian angel mother who has agreed to be by my side has to rub my back or feet or head or else I completely lose it.

To all of those amazing friends and family: shakuhachi, Portland, Missouri, New York and worldwide every ounce of your praying, metta, meditating, music creation, and love are my buoy in a sea of unknown. A sea of sadness and hope. I am unable to actually speak to nearly anyone unless they are right in front of me; it’s too overwhelming right now. Every email, sentiment, and creative gesture of help are so deeply appreciated and needed. I am going to need more than I ever imagined possible on every level of my life. I know so many people want to help – believe me I want your help! This isn’t a short-term quick fix band-aid situation. We are going to need your help for weeks, months, and years ahead. Phil has actually taught me this lesson. To be patient and try to move through the crises stage, that’s when, the deep, deep help can unfold.

Phil and I have been in the desert in Arizona on vacation for the past two weeks. I just found his last piece of poetry that he scribbled on a dinner napkin at a retreat where we cuddled up in the Dragoon Mountains in southern Arizona. The mountains there are filled with a special and sacred plant, the agave. Enjoy his words.

agave

At the end of its life
the long-lived agave
shoots up a single stalk
many times its leaves’ height,
sometimes fifteen feet in the air.

At the tip of the slender stalk appears
a giant waxy bloom,
its frilly flourish a strange contrast
to the standing army of leaves below.

The whole thing quickly dies, becomes
a woody skeleton, a wreck,
a desert ghost,
the distant memory of something
that endured a life for the sake of a day.

By Phil James