The Real O.G.'s.

To process everything from the past weeks, I just need to start writing. I want to be able to remember this, so this was that day, from my perspective.

5/31/25

Saturday morning, I woke up around 7 am, which is pretty early for me, but I was working the 9 am-10 pm shift, so I wanted the extra time to make sure I had all of my stuff and enough food to get me through the shift. I didn’t talk to my dad, I saw him dragging/stomping his feet to the kitchen, but this wasn’t unusual for a Saturday morning. There was no way any of us could have known; nothing was unusual. 

At work, things proceeded as normal. I work with adults with disabilities, helping them with everyday life tasks. The 13-hour shift is always a long one, but the clients at this particular house always made it easy for me. I took them to the food bank and ran some errands; everything was pretty standard. I spoke with my clients, and around 3:45 pm, my mom told me to call her. She was angry, but not at me; she was angry at my dad. She started explaining that he was lying on the floor, not getting up when she was yelling at him. I got this feeling… There aren’t enough words in this language to describe it; I just felt that this was important and urgent.

“Nope, call 911.” When she started to protest, “No, Mom, not a joke, if he’s not responding, call 911.” Then I heard the wretched doot-doot-doot of the line hanging up, silence. Once she hung up, there wasn’t a thing I could do but wait. Around 4 pm, I still hadn’t heard back from my mom. One of my clients wanted to run an errand, so we left the house. On our way to the store, my mom called.

She was crying but explained that the ambulance was there, they were taking him, and she was already blaming herself. I told her to take deep breaths, and she tried unsuccessfully. Immediately after I got off the phone, I called Sophie, my best friend. She answered almost immediately, and I tried my best to explain the situation my mom, and the ambulance. Once I said, “It’s an SOS, Soph,” she knew what she needed to do. Immediately over the phone, I heard, “Yeah, we gotta go, Jax,” She had been at her younger brother’s graduation party. “We’re on our way to your house.” Within about 10-15 mins, Sophie was giving me updates and didn’t leave my mom’s side. At this point, I arrived at the store, and the client went in without me. I called the “on-call” phone for work, and my friend Kadence answered. I’ve known Kadence for about four years now; we used to work together in the mall the summer before I left for school. The things we’ve both been through since then could fill a bookshelf. The odds of her being the one to answer feel cosmic to me. She told me once I got the clients back home, I could leave, and she’d figure out the rest.

When I finally did get home, it was about 5:45 pm, and my dad was in a helicopter on its way to the University of Iowa. Sophie meets me outside, and for the first time, but not the last, I just let myself cry. How could he do this to us? How could he make us go through this again?

Sophie stayed with the kids… I say kids; they’re 15 and 17 years old, and they very well could have handled themselves, but Sophie being there meant that they weren’t going to stay barricaded in their rooms for the night. While my mom and I drove to the hospital, they made dinner. 

The emergency waiting room was busy and cramped; this waiting area was the most stressful for me because we had no idea what was going on until a doctor came into the waiting room to take us to a hallway. This doctor explained that the same spot of his first stroke was hit again; this time, much more was affected. They explained that surgery was probably going to be necessary, but we were able to see him. He wasn’t awake, and he had feeding and breathing tubes, monitors, and IVs… He didn’t look like himself, and his head looked misshapen. 

We waited in the room with him for the doctors, which became a recurring theme throughout this whole situation. When they did finally come in, they explained that the stroke was causing swelling and pressure buildup in his brain. They told us that their idea was to perform a craniotomy, which removes part of his skull to allow room for swelling, and that they needed to do it now, but they needed my mom’s consent to proceed. When they left the room, they told us they would be back to take him to surgery as soon as the operating room was ready—more waiting. 

We talked to my dad and told him he had to fight and be strong. There were a couple of different times when his body would seize up; it was terrifying to see him like that. Once the doctors took him back, another nurse took us to the SNICU family lounge. I couldn’t think or eat; my phone was going to die, and all we could do was wait. 

When he was done with surgery, the doctor came to us in the lounge to tell us how it went. He said that it seemed to be working, and his life was no longer in danger. He said that now is the critical time to see what we can recover. 

After surgery, we saw him again. He was still sleeping, but we held his hand and told him to keep fighting. At that point, it was about 2 am, and we had a 20-30 minute drive ahead of us. A lot of processing took place at this time, but not much we could have discussed. We finally got home, and sleep seemed impossible. Regardless, Mirtazapine did its job, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.