I haven’t proofread it yet and made changes so take it for that. I forgot and telling my story to AI. I forgot the part of the actual stay. I went onto other things so I had to come back. This would be chapter 3. I think in reality it’s not a whole chapter, but you know what I mean.
Chapter 4A – The Hospital Stay
The Hell Week That Started It All
You think surviving the stroke was the hard part?
Try surviving the recovery.
Try being half-paralyzed, half-naked, drugged, doped, and humiliated in a room with fluorescent lights while someone asks if you’ve “had a bowel movement today.”
Try being a man who used to sprint mountains — now needing two nurses just to get to the toilet… and one of them might have to wipe your ass.
That’s what they don’t tell you.
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I was lucky in one way: I didn’t need a breathing tube. No trach. No machines to keep me alive.
But they still strapped the CPAP on me — “tests,” they said. More like a money grab. I was breathing fine, but they wanted me to fail so they could sell me something.
I had needles in both arms, tubes in my hands, electrodes on my chest, and was stuck in bed like a broken scarecrow. They kept me in that uncomfortable V-shape — head up, feet up — for days.
Every time I closed my eyes, someone came in.
“Can you feel this?”
“Follow my finger.”
“Can you squeeze my hand?”
Poke.
Jab.
Test.
Repeat.
The food wasn’t awful, but there was no plan — no logic.
No one explained what I should eat, why it mattered, how to rebuild.
Different nurses said different things.
Turns out? The truth is simple: whole foods, nothing processed, healthy fats, proteins, fruits, vegetables, nuts.
Avoid the chemical crap that jacks your hunger and breaks your body.
They weren’t telling me that. I figured it out myself.
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🩺 Then came the walking…
Day four, maybe five. They brought in the gait belt.
Two nurses on either side of me.
I walked 30 feet — maybe less.
Dragged my leg like it was full of cement.
They asked if I wanted a wheelchair to get back.
Hell no. I was wrecked — drenched in sweat, ready to puke — but I walked back.
Not because I had to prove anything.
Because I could tell… this was a moment.
They were happy. Happier than they were supposed to be.
Because they saw it — I wasn’t giving in.
And they hated how much the system forces them to watch people not try.
They asked if I wanted to walk to the bathroom, too. I said yes.
Not because I wanted to — because I had to.
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💩 The Dignity Battle
Here’s the real story — the one no one wants to talk about.
I hadn’t pooped in days.
They kept trying to give me laxatives. I kept saying no.
Why?
Because I didn’t want anyone to have to clean me.
That’s how much pride I still had. That’s how far I was willing to go not to be a burden.
Eventually, I gave in. The nurse said, “You’re one of those guys, huh?”
Yeah. I guess I am.
They helped me to the toilet.
I was 49 years old. Former athlete. Done well with women. Done things.
Now I was sitting there like a baby, IVs in my arms, two gorgeous nurses standing near me.
I said:
“I don’t care if you see my junk. But you should not have to wipe my ass. You don’t get paid enough for that.”
So I made a deal.
My sister went out and bought brown paper towels and flushable wipes.
The nurses got me onto the toilet, helped rig a second bar (since my dominant arm didn’t work), and left the door cracked.
Then I took care of it myself — one-handed.
Cleaned up. Wiped. Managed.
Occupational therapy, my way.
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🧠 The Real Lessons
I started realizing how little most nurses and doctors really know — especially about stroke recovery.
The ones who cared? They told me the truth.
One PT looked me in the eye and said:
“You’ll get out of this what you put into it.”
That became my law.
They said I wouldn’t walk unassisted.
That it would take a miracle.
So I became the miracle.
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Every walk I took felt like hell week — every single day.
I told myself:
“This is your life now. You’re going to do this every day or die trying.”
Sweat pouring.
Ribs cracked from falls.
Fingers dislocated.
Bloody knees.
People stepping over me like I didn’t exist.
But I didn’t quit.
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I started earning their trust.
They’d leave the bathroom door cracked for me.
Let my family crawl into bed.
Let my nieces and nephews blast 70s music.
I was surrounded by people who loved me.
And for the first time, I realized how much I wanted to live.
Not just survive.
Live.
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🧳 I said no to 30-day inpatient rehab.
No insurance. Already spent most of my money.
They told me:
“You’ll probably never walk unassisted.”
But one honest therapist said:
“If you work, you’ll get better.”
So I left.
And I started traveling the world.
Māori healers in New Zealand.
Chinese therapists in Singapore.
Functional movement therapy in Australia.
A massage from a 60-year-old woman in an airport hotel who knew more about stroke recovery than most U.S. doctors.
They all became part of my story.
Because I chose to walk out and rebuild my life.
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✍️ From the Scrapbook: Quotes to Revisit or Post Later
These don’t all belong in the chapter — but they’re gold for future posts, chapters, or standalone reflections:
• “You don’t need a fancy degree to wipe your own ass — just a little dignity and a roll of brown paper towels.”
• “Some nurses were angels. Others were just bodies in scrubs. You learn the difference fast.”
• “If you’re going to die, fine. But don’t die with someone else’s hand on your remote control.”
• “They kept saying ‘you’re lucky to be alive.’ I kept thinking: ‘Then why do I feel like I’m being tortured?’”
• “This wasn’t rehab. It was hell week for the broken. And I passed.”
• “I’ve bled, puked, fallen, forgotten who I was — and kept going. Because no one else was going to carry me out of that @DBongino @PBongino @EvitaDuffy @MichaelDBS
i have to be to my hotel in 12 minutes. I’ve been taking a shower which means I’m gonna be a dirty gross guy sleeping in my car tonight unless family comes through. On their own, which I don’t have much faith in. I this is really chapter 3 or section 3, but I forgot about it and telling my story. I have not proofread this yet so probably gonna be some changes. Never gets it right the first time but I’m too tired and stressed to get out of this hotel.
