My father suffered his first stroke while on a business trip in Moscow. He vaguely remembered struggling to walk down the hall of his hotel to try and find help. Bystanders snickered at what they thought was just another American who couldn’t handle his Vodka.
Years later, he was lying in a Ft. Lauderdale hospital bed recovering from yet another one. I walked into his room just as the specialists were trying to determine the extent of any possible brain damage. He was in the middle of recounting a grand story about one of his crazy, life adventures; the nurse obviously deeply concerned about the mental state of this (crazy?) old man.
I think he was at the point in the tale where he had to pay for gas for his boat with gold. I tapped on the doctor’s shoulder and whispered, “Just so you know, this stuff is actually true..he’s had quite a life.”
My dad really was Indiana Jones; the world adventurer, the brash Westerner who got into scrapes and took risks, the guy who met with success and failure regularly and was always plotting his next big “thing”..
And yet here he was now, just another wrinkly, old man in a blue gown flirting with a pretty nurse.
No matter what was going on in his brain, clearly, he was still in the game.