The numbers on the screen don't mean anything to Moby, but two hundred and twenty-one over one hundred and sixty, my husband is actively stroking. I have never seen it firsthand, but my mother educated me for years after watching her mother die from repeat strokes. It never dawned on me those constant reminders of visual clues would come in handy-the slurred speech, facial distortion, motor function loss-I knew but hoped I was wrong. I wish now I was oblivious to the reality we're about to face, but I'm not. I'm all too aware of just how bad this truly is.
In an instant, there's a flurry of people and alarms going off on the machines tracking my husband's heart. They quickly transfer him to a bed and start an IV. With only one of us allowed to go back to the room, my dad turns to leave.
