“On?”
“Yeah. Like, they assumed I was high off my ass or something. I guess because of my age? Like, they didn’t think it could be something real. I told them I don’t take drugs, and at first, they didn’t believe me.”
“Were your eyes still—”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure that the stroke was over by the time they all got to the house. But I still wanted to go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“I don’t understand. So, you didn’t lose, like, movement in half of your body or something?”
Matt shakes his head. “No. I was in the hospital for four days. First day was mostly just in the ER doing testing and waiting for a room. They thought it was something called a TIA—I forget what it stands for, but it’s even smaller than a mini-stroke. It passes quickly, and it doesn’t do any permanent damage.”
“Well, that sounds like the best case scenario, I guess, right?”
“It would have been, but a few—maybe two—days later, they finally gave me the MRI. So, a TIA stroke is really fast and leaves nothing on the brain—no scarring, nothing. But a regular strokeleaves a dark spot on your brain stem. When they took the MRI, they took pictures of my brain stem.”
“Was there a dark spot?”
“No,” Matt says. “There were two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah. Which means it probably wasn’t my first stroke.”
“Holy shit, Matt. How could you—”
“Maybe in my sleep? I might have had a smaller one and not known it.”
“Did they say what caused it?” I ask.
“Well, it’s a clot, right? A clot that gets lodged in your brain and stops the blood flow.”
“Isn’t that associated with high cholesterol or something? Do you have artery problems or anything like that?”
He shakes his head. “No. They tested all that. Said I have no plaque buildup in my arteries. They think it was from smoking.”
“Oh,” I say. “Shit.”
“So, they made me quit. Like right there on the spot. Put me on the patch, and that was it.”
“I didn’t know you still smoked.”
“Yeah. I take it you don’t?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore, no. I quit once I started working with kids.”
“Well, better for you. I guess I’m not much of a role model.” He glances at Brett on the couch. “And I have no idea what they put in cigarettes these days, but they’re definitely more toxic than they were when we were younger. Like, there were moments when even I could smell how nasty I was. My hands, my clothes, the stench would just stick to me. Also, there were times that my head would just pound.”
“How much wereyou smoking?”
“Too much, obviously.”
“A pack a day?”
“More,” he admits.
“Wow.”
“So now, like all of a sudden, I feel like my skin’s a different color. Less yellow. Healthier, maybe. And I can taste things in a way that I haven’t been able to in years.”
