Stroke. That's a word one never wants to hear. Its a bad word, a scary word. A word that brings consequences. A word that changes lives. That word was used today on my father. He has had, it is thought, a "small" stroke. I find that word "small" to be no consolation at all.

I got a call from my mom sometime this afternoon, I'm not really sure what time it was. I was at home, eating lunch. Maybe about 130, or so. She said that my dad was sick, he was vomiting in the car and he was listless. She wanted to come quickly, they were in the parking lot of Walmart. I hung up and ran to the car. There was no such thing as a stop sign. It took me about ten minutes to get there. She wouldn't call the ambulance. I got to Walmart and drove my parents' car to the hospital all the while asking my dad questions, trying to keep him awake. He answered them, somewhat. He vomited some more. I have a natural gag reflex when I'm any where near vomit. I had to do my best not to join him.

I got to the hospital and ran to the doors, went in, ran to the desk and told the attendent I needed help right away. My dad. In the car. Sick. Hurry. Two nurses came out. When they saw he had gotten sick on himself the went back and got gloves. One of the got a wheelchair. Another nurse came out. They had to work carefully and together to get him out of the car. One pulled while the other pushed. His right side seemed to be affected. They got him the ER.

He could talk, but not he was out of it. He didn't have much strength on his right side.

He improved, a bit. He can move his right side, he can smile, lift his arms, and push his feet. His speech seems to be a bit slurred.

They admitted him, of course, but there aren't any beds available. He will be spending the night in the ER as they wait for a bed. The nurse sent us home. There isn't anything we can do right now, but wait and pray at home.