(Originally posted August 9, 2009)

I watched strangers bustle around my husband, preparing to wheel him away from me. I stood quietly in the far corner while all the wires and tubes that connected him to the machinery in the room were gathered up and matter-of-factly plopped on his chest. One nurse released the brakes on his bed, while another took hold of the bar at the back and steered him through the doorway. Once they were clear, I moved to the threshold of that room and watched them move down the hallway and around a corner. When they were out of sight, I became aware that I wasn't alone; a nurse was collecting J.J.'s belongings from around the room. As she began to fold his pants, a scrap of paper fluttered out of the fabric and seemed to hang suspended in mid-air. I clutched it before it could hit the floor and turned it over. It was the receipt from the previous night's takeout dinner.

J.J. is a packrat of the highest order. I can't begin to count the number of times I've picked up receipts just like this one from his desk, from the kitchen counter, from the bathroom sink and unceremoniously tossed them in the garbage. But on this night, I tucked this receipt into my own wallet. As I did, I thought, "Is this the last shred of the life we used to have?"

J.J. doesn't remember very much from the first couple of weeks after his stroke. He remembers next to nothing about the first few days. I've been trying to give him the blow-by-blow of the first 48 hours, leading to recollections like this one.

In many ways we've come so far since that night. In other ways, I'm still there, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Over a third of stroke survivors have another stroke within two years. One in three. Is it just me, or is this just a staggering percentage to consider?

I'm so proud of J.J. He's done so much to make sure this never happens again, and that he'll be here with me for as long as possible. But it's so hard not to worry when...