Iris Underwood: Honest Living: Evidence of love

Like most women my age, I usually awake before daylight and aim for the bathroom. Therefore, Aug. 11 seemed business as usual. 

Yet, something bizarre happened when I lifted my head to glance the red numbers of my digital clock atop the bookshelf that holds my personal journals. 

(By the way, this bookshelf is the first piece of furniture I bought in January 1970 as a married woman.)

The numbers of the clock spun in a blur. The room spun. 

When I attempted to arise, I fell back onto my pillow, overwhelmed with nausea. 

This wasn’t my first encounter with what I thought was vertigo, therefore I knew to keep my head down and crawl to the bathroom. 

Nausea persisted. I thought my brain would burst from retching. 

Therefore, I called my sister who lives in Kentucky. She might be awake and could call 911 for me, and notify my daughters of my crisis.

She was, and she did. My local paramedics arrived in minutes. I crawled down the steps to the stretcher.

Long story short (pardon the cliché), my two daughters flew in from California to assume the role of caregivers my two days in a hospital and thereafter.

Tests proved my brain suffered a mild stroke. 

Thankfully, no paralysis. No speech impairment. 

Nonetheless, due to my compromised memory, I needed help navigating a battery of appointments with specialists to better determine my prognosis and necessary treatments. 

My youngest daughter packed for the long haul of my care, including her back lab, Lily. Meanwhile, my two daughters collaborated with one another and me.

After my middle daughter vacated the guest room, her sister and Lily took occupancy. She unpacked numerous pairs of her shoes, neatly lined up beside the chifforobe. 

Various walking and running shoes, enough for me and my four sisters.

Tests proved my cognitive ability normal. Yet, if I hadn’t developed the habit of keeping lists, an action log of my daily activity, and appointments on a paper calendar, I could be embarrassingly forgetful.

Meanwhile, my daughter and Lily made friends with my neighbors on their walks. Occasionally, I joined them for their adventures, particularly the trails in Addison Oaks Park.  

Day by day, several pairs of my daughter’s shoes migrated to the shoe space by the kitchen door leading to the garage. 

Throughout August, September and into October, my daughter’s shoes greeted me every morning for breakfast. 

They said “good-night” every evening when I locked the kitchen door and switched off the lights at bedtime. 

Week by week, my daughter and I visited doctors, enjoyed a few Panera lunches afterward. 

However, our favorite eatery, the Lakeville Yacht Club, is close by my home. There, we forgot the challenge at hand, the reason for this interruption in our lives. 

After months of the most gorgeous Michigan summer weather, the time came for my daughter’s departure for California.

Dear Reader, I’ve called her several times a day as she treks across the U.S. She’s presently in Aspen, Colorado, one of her favorite places. 

What I miss most is her collection of shoes by my kitchen door. 

Evidence of her presence. Her love.