We are happily to a place where, on a daily basis, there is less critical information to report. Tears of dread and sadness have been replaced with tears of joys as MacKenzie's days are filled with 3-5 hours of intense and focused therapies. This very morning, for example, I watched with emotion as her left leg moved back & forth and up & down in her first pool therapy session. It is truly amazing how even the smallest of movement, the slightest of step, is now revered as monumental victory -- not in a "celebrating mediocrity" sort of way, but in a way in which "every small stage and step is important." She is winning.

A couple of weeks ago, Kenz and I talked at length about how candid we would be comfortable being in regard to our (and I use the word "our" deliberately) recovery process. She told me that it was important that we told our story so the next family that went through this process might find hope within their strife; that they will know what to expect about how to recover from a stroke of this magnitude.

We are now at a place where Kenz is stable enough that the amazing nursing staff will let her sleep through the night without interruption. They wake her shortly after 7 to check vitals and to move her from the bed to a wheelchair. She has breakfast of some of her favorites: oatmeal with bananas and a little brown sugar, and a hot cup of modest coffee (which tastes much better now since they no longer have to add a gob of thickener to it!)

After breakfast, we dress for our first therapy session. Today, that happened to be pool therapy. I mentioned above that we are *both* in therapy; today, I learned how to help her get into a bathing suit. After we wriggled and laughed our way getting her into the suit, she said: "Congratulations, Dr. Aitken! Today you just earned your 'Dressing an invalid in a bathing suit' merit badge!" We both bust out laughing! Laughter is one of our best coping mechanisms getting us through the day to day.

So here is an interesting thing that has happened since we lost complete control of normalcy three weeks ago. We gained a much deeper sense of gratitude, of patience, and of appreciation of the little things. We are grateful, for example, of how much our community of family and friends have rallied to our need; of how much grace our employers have shown us as we get back on our feet; of how well cared for we are in this temporary place we call home; and of how well our health insurance seems to be covering her care.

We've gained a deeper respect of patience; everything takes 10-20 times longer now: getting out of bed, eating, brushing teeth, getting dressed. But that is OK...because she is here with us; we know it could have been much, much worse. As MacKenzie whispered to me about a week after the stroke: "well, at least I'm not dead."

She couldn't be more right. Things absolutely could be worse -- and we certainly are counting our rich blessings each and every day. I can absolutely guarantee, for instance, that we'd never have had the number of heart-to-heart conversations we've had (nearly daily) where we've had the opportunity to speak very candidly to one another about deep aspects of life. In an odd way, the stroke allowed us to have become evermore connected as husband and wife....and that, I believe, has been the most surprising and most cherished thing of all.