When Life Stopped Me, Writing Found Me

It was a cold wintery November morning in Minnesota. Snow falling, the roads were slick, and I woke early to get my workout in before heading out the door for something important. November 20, 2024 marked my brother’s three year sober-versary. I was planning to meet him to celebrate his sobriety date. It had become a tradition after his first year, and I was honored to be there for him. Regardless of the snowfall and slick roads, nothing was going to stop me from making sure he knew how proud of him I was. Or at least, that’s what I thought. Then, just before 6 a.m. my phone rang.

On the other end of the line was my brother. His voice was calm, but something felt off immediately. My mind started to race. Did he change his mind about our plans? Was he struggling? Was he okay? The conversation went like this. “Trish, I am not able to meet you as planned.” My heart dropped. “okay…what’s going on?” I asked. He paused, “I just got a phone call from Lu, she’s at ER with dad. She thinks he had a stroke.” Everything inside me went quiet. ”Trish, I am on my way to Waconia ER.” “Can I meet you there?”, I asked though I am not sure why I even asked. “Of course”, he replied, “please drive safe, see you soon. I love you.”

I walked downstairs and found my husband. I told him what was happening as calmly as I could, kissed him goodbye, and asked him to pray. Outside it was dark and snowing, just as you would expect on a Minnesota winter morning. Large snowflakes hit the windshield as I drove, the roads icy beneath the tires. As I made my way to the hospital, I prayed the entire drive. Lord please help my dad be okay. Please get me there safely. When I pulled up to the emergency room, I spotted an open parking spot along the street, jumped out of my car, and ran straight through the doors asking to see my dad. The woman at the desk told me my stepmom and brother were already with him, and she would have to check if I could go back. I paced in the waiting room, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm. Finally she came back. “You can come back. They’re transporting him soon, but you can see him before he goes.”

I exhaled. Not a full exhale. More like the kind where you try to brace yourself for the unknown. I walked down the hallway and saw my dad on a stretcher. He was crying. His beautiful icy blue eyes met mine, his silver gray hair resting against the stretcher. He looked scared. Truly scared. In a trembling but clear loud voice he called out, “Trish..Trish…oh I love you so much…I love you…I love you…you’re the best” He reached his arms toward me. I rushed to him, hugging him tightly, kissing his face. As I looked into his eyes, I could see fear taking hold of him. “Dad you're going to be okay” I whispered. “God is with you.” He held onto me, repeating over and over how much he loved me. Then the nurse gently told me they needed to get going. I held onto his arm and hand as the stretcher began to roll away, gripping his hand for as long as I could. Eventually the distance forced our hands to let go. His eyes stayed locked on mine. One last time he called out, “I love you Trish” as the stretcher turned the corner, I said “I love you too dad.”

When I turned the corner of the hallway, my brother looked at me seriously and with a stern voice he said “Trish, talk to the doctor, she’ll explain everything.” The doctor told me my dad was having a stroke and they needed to transport him to another hospital for an emergency thrombectomy in an effort to stop it. I looked at my brother and step mom and said “Let’s go!” We ran to my brothers car and drove through the snow to the next hospital about 35 minutes away. I sat in the backseat with my stepmom as my brother drove. Everything felt still. The world outside kept moving, but inside that car it felt like time had stopped. I couldn't cry. I couldn’t think. I sat there frozen in shock. Finally, I reached over and grabbed my stepmom’s hand and began praying out loud.

We arrived safely to the hospital and waited. Time felt different in that waiting room. The clock clicked but my mind couldn’t process anything except the waiting. Every devastating thought tried to take hold of my mind, and when it became too much, I just stared into space with nothing to grasp onto, only my husband’s hand, hope, and faith.

Nothing to grasp ont0, only HOPE and faith.

After hours of waiting in the quiet, in the confused, the neurosurgeon walked in and pulled up a chair. My stomach dropped before he even said a word. “The thrombectomy wasn’t successful” he said. The stroke had caused severe damage to the left side of my dad’s brain. He had lost speech and mobility on his right side.

We walked back to the ICU, first my stepmom, followed by my older brother and his wife, and finally my husband and me, hand in hand. My heart was racing. I was scared, nervous, and yet somehow excited to see my dad. When we entered the room he was talking, but the words didn’t make sense. Sounds and phrases tumbled out, slurred together into something only he seemed to understand. He couldn’t say our names. And in that moment, a thought hit me that nearly brought me to my knees: Does he even know who I am? I have always been a daddy’s girl. The idea that the stroke might have taken our connection was unbearable, heartbreaking and soul crushing. But almost instantly, something stronger rose up inside of me. A fight. A determination that we would not let this be the end of his story. That we would do everything in our power to help him find his way back.

Over the next several weeks, I watched my dad fight his way back. He spent time in ICU, several more days in the hospital, and then 23 days in inpatient rehabilitation at Courage Kenny. I stayed by his side as much as I could. I fed him, slept next to him, talked to him, even when we couldn’t understand each other, prayed over him, and advocated fiercely for his care. I watched him re-learn everything, from how to eat, how to feed himself, how to dress, how to use his right hand again, how to walk, and how to try to communicate.

There were celebrations over the smallest of victories. Tears over the hardest of days. Moments of frustration, fear, and exhaustion. And there were moments when my dad wanted to give up. But, he kept fighting.

My dad had been an entrepreneur his entire life, owning his own barber shop for 50 years. He played tennis with his buddies weekly and lived a fully independent life. In the blink of an eye, everything changed.

On December 16, we were able to bring my dad home. I will never forget this day. He was so happy. Joy radiated from him as he tried to thank the nurses who helped care for him. His words were limited, but his gratitude was unmistakable. All he wanted was love, healing, and to be home with his wife. And all I wanted was for my dad to get his life fully restored.

During that time, I gave everything I had to help care for him. I was still working long hours, still showing up for my kids’ activities, and still trying to keep life moving forward. From the outside I looked like I had everything under control, and perhaps even like a superwoman. But I didn’t. Eventually it all came crashing down.

I found myself in my therapist’’s office sobbing uncontrollably, the kind of ugly cry that comes from somewhere deep within your soul. Everything I had been holding together finally broke open. My therapist gently explained to me that what I was experiencing was trauma. Then she gave me two options. I could keep pushing through at the pace I was going and crash even harder. Or I could take time to process what had happened and begin to heal. Then she said something that terrified me, “Trisha, you need to take a medical leave.” I cried even harder. Me, a medical leave? No. Not me.

I’ve always been the strong one. The dependable one. The one who people go to for help. The one who keeps everything moving forward. But deep down, I knew she was right. So I did something that felt incredibly scary. And incredibly brave. I took a three week mental health leave. And in the quiet that followed, something unexpected happened. Writing found me.

Writing found me.

I began journaling in the stillness of those days, losing track of time as I wrote page after page. Sometimes it was handwritten entries in my journal. Other times I opened my laptop and simply let my fingers dance and move across the keyboard. It felt as though the words had been waiting for me.

With each word written, something inside me began to heal. The pain, the fear, the trauma, slowly finding release through stories, poetry, and reflection. Amidst the hardest season of my life, a gift I had lost was found. I love to write. Sometimes I wonder if this gift was meant for my own healing or it was meant to be shared.

Those questions still creep into my mind. But what I know to be true is this. Writing helped me live again. It helped me dream again. It helped me rediscover who I am and express love to the people who matter most to me. And now through stories, poems, and reflections, it allows me to share life lessons with others.

Self doubt still lurks in the shadows. But I am choosing to lean into the joy writing brings me and trust that maybe, just maybe, these words might help someone else too. So as I take this leap of faith with what I’m calling. The Dish with Trish, remember this: Some of the most beautiful gifts in life are discovered in the seasons that nearly break us.

Some of the most beautiful gifts in life are discovered in the seasons that nearly break us.

Thanks for joining me on the ride.

Live Elevated. Lead with Purpose.