CaptainBlowdri

Today felt like a checkpoint — and the news was good.

Since arriving at the acute rehab facility, the doctors, nurses, and staff have been getting to know Dad, assessing his capacities, and quietly building a picture of where he is and where he’s headed. Today, they had their first full team meeting — a powwow of everyone involved in his care — to put all of that together and share it with us.

The verdict? He’s doing well. Right on track. Progressing. Several of the staff noted they can really see him moving forward. The doctor walked us through what to expect, the case manager provided resources for what life after acute rehab might look like, and we got a glimpse of what’s coming — next week they’re going to ramp things up significantly. Physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy — all of it kicking into higher gear. More pressure, bigger leaps. That’s exactly what we want to hear.

But honestly, we already had a sense of it before any of the doctors said a word.

Before the meetings, we were up with dad just hanging out — and he was talking. A lot. Words are starting to flow better, and he’s stringing together shorter sentences in a way that feels noticeably different from even just a few days ago. Communication feels a little easier, thoughts finding their way out more often. We all noticed it. It was one of those mornings where you look around the room, and everyone is quietly smiling because they see it too.

I even told him I might have to get the duct tape out if he keeps this up.

That’s a good problem to have, Dad.

Eighteen days ago dad arrived at the hospital by ambulance. Today, he left by choice — on his way to the next chapter of his recovery.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, I called the rehab facility to find out what to bring for Dad. That’s when they told me — he was being transported this evening around 7 pm. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I walked straight into the hospital and told him the news.

“Hey, you get to move.”

There was some relief from him too, but I’m not sure he fully understood in that moment what it meant — that he was actually leaving the hospital. We spent about an hour together, just hanging out and chatting, and then I headed out.

I came back to the rehab around 7:15 and had actually beaten him there. His wife arrived about five minutes later, and then we waited. When Dad finally came through, we cheered him on. The transport team took him up, and a few minutes later, the woman at the front desk looked at us and said, “You guys can go up.”

His wife had come prepared — flowers, a suitcase full of his comfy clothes, all kinds of good stuff to make it feel like his space. When we got to the room, it was just the family — his wife, my brother, his girlfriend’s daughter, and me. The room was empty, no roommate yet, and the whole place felt brighter and more relaxed than the hospital. A different energy entirely.

Dad was overwhelmed — understandably so. New place, new faces, questions coming at him from every direction about medications and care. I was glad to be there. I answered what needed to be answered, helped take some of the weight off, and got him settled. Showed him how to use the call button for the nurses. And then we all said goodnight.

Goodbye chaos. Hello, next steps.

The recovery journey continues — and tonight it continues somewhere new.

Today felt like one of those days where progress didn’t whisper — it spoke clearly.

Physical therapy came, and Dad did something that made me take a deep breath and sigh.

For a good stretch — close to 100 feet — he walked completely on his own. No hands on him. No steadying. Just his own legs carrying him forward.

That’s a major win.

You could see the determination. You could feel the shift. These aren’t just exercises anymore — they’re steps toward getting his life back.

There was another moment that felt just as powerful, even if it was quieter. Jeanie asked him his name.

“Leon.”

It came out immediately. No hesitation. Almost like a reflex. Clear. Confident. That’s his name. That’s who he is. And today, he claimed it without effort.

I was also able to speak with the doctor. She said he’s medically cleared to move to the next stage of recovery. That’s big. It means his body is stable enough. It means the team sees progress. It means forward motion.

Now we wait.

Insurance authorization. Paperwork. Transfer coordination. All the administrative gears have to turn before he can be admitted to the next facility. So for the moment, it’s a waiting game.

But today reminded us of something important: the work is working.

Step by step.
Word by word.
Dad is moving forward.

Some conversations you know are coming. You just never know how to start them — or end them.

When a parent is in the hospital for close to two weeks, certain topics can’t stay on the back burner any longer. The kinds of conversations that belong to the later chapters of a parent’s life. The ones that make the room feel smaller and the air a little heavier. We had those conversations today.

They weren’t easy. Emotions came up — because of course they did. But I’ve always believed you can either ignore the hard stuff or call it what it is and allow space for whatever comes up. We chose the latter. The conversations went well. Not perfectly, not without some discomfort — but well.

Uncertainty isn’t always a place where comfort hangs out. But practicing — being willing to sit in those uncertain spaces — builds the muscle and allows uncertainty to have a softer invitation each time.

Then, as I was leaving Dad’s room, something unexpected happened.

The man in the other bed — someone I had walked past a dozen times without ever really speaking to — looked up at me as I was walking out and said, “You’re an awesome son.” He told me it had been inspiring to listen to me talk with my dad. He must have heard everything.

Then he mentioned something that made my heart smile. He said dad’s speech is getting better — that just a few days ago he couldn’t understand him, but now he can.

He shook my hand. He had tears in his eyes.

Sometimes the people who see us most clearly are the ones we never expected to be watching.

Today was a short visit, but it packed a punch.

His wife and I arrived this morning, and Dad was happy to see us — you could feel it in the room right away. Then, not long after we got there, he said it. Loudly. Proudly.

“LEON.”

He knows his name. The tricky part is that when you ask him directly, retrieving it is hard. But today nobody asked — it just came out, full volume, full confidence. That’s the thing about this recovery — the knowledge is in there, it’s the pathway to it that’s still being rebuilt. It has to be a little frustrating, knowing what you know but feeling like someone else is driving your lips. But today those lips said Leon, and they said it as they meant it.

We kept the visit short because we had something important to do — tour a rehabilitation center to see if it could be the right next step for dad. Things are moving. It takes time to gather the right information and make the best choice for what comes next. But we’re moving, and that’s what matters.

Today felt like a day of looking forward.

His wife and I arrived at the hospital together this morning. Dad’s nurse today took the time to walk us through some of the care details, including how IVs work and what to look for. It was the kind of hands-on knowledge that makes you feel more equipped and less in the dark. He’s been at it for years, and it showed — good energy, easy to talk to.

Around mid-morning, his doctor came in and gave us a solid update on the path forward — antibiotics, next steps, and what the coming days might look like. It was one of the more comprehensive conversations we’ve had, and it felt good to have a clearer picture.

On the planning side, we’re actively exploring rehab facility options for Dad’s next chapter after the hospital. There are a few things to sort through and evaluate, but it’s encouraging that we’re at the point where that conversation is even happening. We want to make sure wherever he lands is the right fit — he deserves nothing less.

Eleven days in, and the focus is starting to shift — from stabilizing to what comes next. That feels like progress.

Ten days in, and Dad keeps finding ways to surprise us. The little moments are always there — but only if you’re paying attention.

When I arrived around noon, dad and I were talking, and he dropped the word “trepidation” into the conversation, just like that. Dad smiled in disbelief — whoa — and then I told him that might have been the biggest word I’d heard him say since the stroke happened. For anyone keeping score at home, that is not a small word. That is a man whose brain is working hard and finding its way back.

His physical therapist came in, and it was a solid session. She noted that dad is having a little bit of difficulty on his right side, and she gave us something practical we can do — stand on his right side and talk to him from there. It helps the brain start remapping and building those connections back. She also said something that stuck — “I like Leon, I’m going to try to make him a priority.” She’s there through Thursday and plans to keep working with him. That kind of investment from the people caring for him means everything.

And then Dad got up and walked around the nurses’ station. A real walk — with a walker, and his physical therapist right there alongside him. Not a few steps — around the whole station. Ten days ago he was on a ventilator. Today he took a lap.

On the medical side, the infectious disease doctor came in to weigh in on the results from the TEE procedure. The results were negative, which is great news. Out of caution, though, because of a previous positive culture, they’re going to monitor him for 14 days — seven of which are still remaining. The important part — she said this doesn’t necessarily mean he has to stay in the hospital. That decision now rests with his doctor. The door to the next chapter is starting to open

Today dad had a day to himself — no visitors, just rest. And as it turns out, it was exactly the right kind of day for some important things to happen quietly in the background.

Early this morning, the cardiologist called to walk me through a procedure she wanted to do — a TEE, a transesophageal echocardiogram, which gives doctors a detailed look at the heart from the inside. She was sharp, thorough, and clearly someone who really knows how to read imaging results. After all the back and forth getting cardiology engaged over the past several days, it felt good to finally have someone on the phone who was completely on top of it. Dad is in good hands.

The procedure was scheduled for around 10 am, and she said to expect a call around 11 with results.

Then early afternoon, the call came.

No infection in the valve. No infection in the heart. Everything looks good.

After nine days, and more than a few deep breaths waiting on cardiology to get involved, that one was the exhale we had all been waiting for. Another step in the right direction.

Today was a shorter visit, but one of the richest yet.

Three of Dad’s Air Force squadron buddies came to see him. One flew in, one drove up from Southern California, and one came down from Northern California. These are men who have known each other for over 50 years. When they walked into that room, the smile on Dad’s face said everything. No words needed — just that big smile.

I’d never met two of them in person before. They probably saw me as a baby, but I have no memory of that. Watching them gathered around his bed, talking to him, being with him — seeing Captain Blow Dry in the middle of his people — that was something I won’t forget.

After they left, we got to meet his new doctor on the 9th floor — a good chance to connect with the team now taking care of him.

Dad is working hard at talking, but it takes a lot out of him — it genuinely wears him down. He’s pushing through it, though — which is exactly who he is.

And then there was the moment of the day. Dad was trying to tell my brother “I love you” — and what came out instead was “F*** you.” My brother and his girlfriend’s daughter, April, were there for it and said it was absolutely hilarious. From here on out, anytime you hear “F*** you” — just know it might actually be “I love you.”

On the way out, we ran into one of his former ICU nurses down on the first floor as we were leaving — she may have been heading back from lunch. She was genuinely interested in how he was doing, wanting to know how he was progressing. Just another sign of the good people and great nurses who have shown up for Dad throughout this journey.

Tonight was an evening visit, arriving a little after 5 to find things already in motion — dad was being moved up to the 9th floor into a new room. One of the nurses who had been caring for him was exceptional — a real communicator, the kind that makes you feel like your person is truly being looked after. Those people matter more than they probably know.

The move went smoothly, and the new room team did their intake assessment as he settled in.

But the moment of the night happened once we got settled into the new room.

I’ve been intentional about not handing dad easy answers — I want to work his brain, push him to find things on his own. Tonight I noticed he was struggling to recall his own name. And honestly, when you think about it, how often does a 75-year-old actually get called by his real name? He’s dad, papa, lil brother, captain blow dry — the list goes on. But his name is Leon. So instead of giving it to him, I told him to pay close attention to what the nurses and people around him were calling him, and see if it sounded right. Then I walked away from it. And it got me thinking — we take our own name for granted, but how many names are you actually called in a lifetime? Dad, papa, lil brother, captain blow dry, honey, buddy, boss — the list is probably longer than any of us realize. The name on your birth certificate might actually be the one you hear the least. And here’s a little gem worth sitting with — Leon spelled backward is Noel. And Noel, rooted in the Latin word natalis, means birth. A man working hard to rediscover himself, just weeks after Christmas and six days after a stroke, and his name spelled backward means birth. If that’s not a sign, we don’t know what is.

Twenty or thirty minutes later, he heard a nurse call his name. He turned and looked right at me and said — “Leon.” I gave him a high five on the spot. He loved it so much he said it again, then held his hands out and said, “high fives.” So I smacked him another one. That moment was everything.

After the room transition and assessments wrapped up, I realized he hadn’t eaten since I arrived. I asked the team about dinner and got him taken care of. He had apple juice first — and he went after it like it was a cold corona after a long day of yard work in July. Then came the real event: sugar-free, dairy-free orange sherbet. His first ice cream since the stroke. He ate it like it was New Year’s Eve 1999 and the world was ending at midnight.

Full heart!!!