FanStory.com - Fighting Backby davisr (Rhonda)

Background
This book is a compilation of people's stories of survival. I put it together to help people speak about the unspeakable, to share their journeys to help others.

Have you ever seen someone literally fighting back from the jaws of death?

I always thought the saying figurative -- having that fighting spirit inside-- a behind the scenes sort of thing, but it's not always that subtle. Sometimes you can watch it unfold in front of you.

I observed it the day after my husband, Wayne, had an Ischemic stroke, which means a vessel in the brain is blocked by a blood clot.

It's the most common type, and he had it in the most common place - the frontal lobe. All commonality after that disappeared. He's spent the last 2 1/2 weeks defying all the odds.

There's a scale score on stroke severity, 1- 42, with 42 being the worst, but I never asked what his score was. To be honest, I didn't know the scale existed before this event.

The medical professionals batted around the words, severe, massive, and major artery occlusion like verbal ping pong balls. They were scary enough without any numbers attached. The message I got was Wayne had a very grim outlook in spite of surviving a surgery called thrombectomy.

Yes, he was sleeping in a bed beside me. I could feel and touch him. The sounds of beeping machines, and his rasping breathing, convinced me he was still alive. But what was ahead of us? What had just rocked our world?

With promptings, he would squeeze my hand with his good right one. The left lay useless at his side.

The night crept on with little change, but by morning, he began to struggle to breathe on his own. He had very limited response to any of us besides slight hand squeezing and muttering. Concerned, the ICU team and Neurologists were considering putting him on life support.

Before doing so, they took him in for a CT scan to see if there was any further damage. I breathed in-- breathed out-- prayed -- waited. A myriad of emotions and memories overwhelmed me. What would I do??

A few minutes later, Wayne returned, but not the way he'd left. He was wide awake. Those luminous blue eyes, ones I feared I'd never see lit up again, were alive with fury. He was thrashing around in his bed, ripping out IV tubes, electronic attachments of all kinds and trying to get out of the bed. It took three large men and me to try and hold him back.

He repeatedly screamed, "Let me up! Let me up!"

One of the men holding him was his burly son, Mike. The very one who had saved his life less than 24 hours earlier. Wayne balled up his fist and punched him in the ribs, shouting, "Boy, either help me up or shoot me."

Mike helped him up. Me? I smothered laughter as sobs. I don't think I fooled anyone. You see, his screaming was beautiful in my eyes. It was clear speech and the thrashing was done with both sides of his body -- a body that had been almost completely paralyzed on the left. It was moving and it was fighting.

That, my friends, I would call a miracle.

And, how did it happen?

Many of you already know. You were a blessed part of the process. His miracle came from the Grace of God, prayers and support of friends, skill of the surgical team, and an unconquerable will to survive.