Yesterday my dad had what they're calling a stroke. He arrived in the ER unable to answer simple questions, his attempts to speak, indiscernible. Though unaffected physically, his speech aphasia remains some 32 hours later. Making slight improvements, then waning once more.
According to Wikipedia: "Aphasia is an inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain regions... The difficulties of people with aphasia can range from occasional trouble finding words, to losing the ability to speak, read, or write; intelligence, however, is unaffected."
I'm not sure how to process this, but these thoughts are the beginning.
It's so odd to see my Dad, the word man, without his words, yet still trying to speak. Sometimes giving up with a shrug or tossing up his hands, yet not overly flustered. That he remains content, is both mystery and relief.
We often think we know how we'll feel about certain things, but I'd never really stopped to think about how it'd feel to be with Dad without his words. Speaking, writing, reading... these have been his greatest pursuits, his greatest joys. The crossword and the word jumble his daily challenge.
Now it's his words that are jumbled and we are left to work out the clues of gesture and incomplete utterance. Can we discern the full thought he leaves dangling or decipher the nonsense syllables? And how the random full sentence becomes a moment of celebration!
I am so connected to this word man. Even in my youth when my heart rebelled against our intersecting downs and acrosses, the words were woven in ways I could not see. His fascination with words planted in me. A gracefully ascending DNA of sounds, rhythm, syntax, imagery, poetry, and prose.
Will he ever again toss a newly minted page of verse my way? Shaky handwriting adorning blue-lined paper. Phrases crossed out, re-rewritten once, even twice...
"Try this one out. What do you think?"
Well, Dad... right now I think I miss your words.
