An hour before my wife, Phoebe, had a stroke, she had been riding her beautiful mare. She said a swim was next on the agenda. Shortly thereafter, when I didn't hear water splashing, I looked out and saw she wasn't at the pool. When I went to look for her, I found her in the barn. She was seated in the tack room, legs outstretched, eyes closed, and breathing as if she were napping. But she didn't respond when I spoke to her or gently shook her. I called my neighbor, who summoned the EMTs.
In neurology intensive care, an MRI revealed damage to the midbrain area. When I was allowed in the room to see Phoebe, I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me. She was intubated and seemed to have other tubes and monitors attached everywhere. My energetic wife, who was 67 at the time of the stroke in June 2021, looked helpless and vulnerable.
The next weeks were a blur, as I took care of three horses and a senior dog at home and traveled 35 miles to the hospital for visiting hours. In the process, I became an indomitable advocate for my wife. At one point, I had to file a complaint to get her treated as a priority patient so her physical therapy sessions wouldn't be canceled because of other contingencies.
Once Phoebe was stable and responding to physical, occupational, and speech therapy, she was ready to move to a rehabilitation facility. My wife's case manager recommended one facility, but I reached out directly to one I preferred. I explained that the case manager knew my wife only as a compromised patient, but I had decades of experience watching her take on new tasks—from dressage riding to expansive gardening. I knew she had the grit and determination to succeed in recovery, especially if she got the best care available. Very soon after that call, Phoebe was accepted to the facility.
As I'd hoped, Phoebe had the undivided attention of a team of physicians, nurses, and therapists. For three hours every weekday she had sessions with occupational, physical, and speech experts, and I was incorporated into the sessions with the goal of training me to continue the work when my wife was discharged.
The word discharge was terrifying to me. With a sense of walking off a cliff, a friend and I transferred my wife to my car, and we headed home. I had readied our house as best I could for my wife's safety. I stowed throw rugs and installed all sorts of assistive devices. Nothing, however, prepared me for the joy on my wife's face as she returned to the barn and interacted with her beloved horses for the first time in months. They were puzzled by Phoebe's wheelchair but were soon putting their heads down for her to caress. In that moment, I felt a surge of optimism.
That optimism has been challenged by the ups and downs of recovery. It has been physically and mentally exhausting to oversee her care while also doing all the normal work of my home life.-
As I struggle to keep up, which is possible only because I have assembled a small but wonderful crew of helpers, my dear wife is fighting to regain all the abilities many of us take for granted.
I don't know what the future holds. My wife's neurologists say they can't predict how much she will regain and how quickly. I can't contemplate such an uncertain path, so I focus on each day, trying to stimulate my wife to encourage her brain to forge new channels. Every time I am inclined to give up, I remember that however hard it is for me, the mountain she must climb is infinitely higher and steeper.
I recall the sight in the hospital—an unresponsive body supported by a dizzying array of medical equipment—and compare it to the beautiful woman whose humor reemerges at the most unexpected times and who follows her speech therapist to sing along with Alison Krauss’ “Down to the River to Pray.” I am humbled by my wife's inner strength.
Donald Joralemon, PhD, is professor emeritus of anthropology at Smith College. His wife, Phoebe Porter, taught Spanish at Colgate University, the University of New Hampshire, Smith College, and Amherst College. The couple lives on a small farm with horses and dogs in Conway, MA.
