Sofia helped orchestrate a weekend getaway for me in exchange for her going to a two day concert.  I was going to have a full weekend away in Seattle–I would get to be alone, explore the city, and reflect on everything that had happened since we moved to Washington.  It started off so well.  I took public transit up to the city, had an incredible meal at a Vietnamese restaurant, then hung out at a brewery in an alley.  

After a restful night where I didn’t have to wake up to toddlers crying, I walked over to a fancy coffee shop.  I spent a couple hours at a coffee shop writting and researching public transit and adjusting to the new world that I found myself in. I wrote about the future—and the promise it seemed to hold with all the recent changes.  The move.  The promotion.  The house.  When I wrapped up, I dropped off my laptop at the friends’ house I was staying at and wandered to brunch.  

It had been so long since I ate alone at a restaurant.  It was amazing.  This brunch location was filled with millennials late on the Saturday morning.  Sitting alone I was able to skip the line and sit at the bar.  I drank a hard cider and watched the cooks do their thing as I ate.  It was a great meal.  I paid by scanning a QR code and paying online–something that seems to be going mainstream in the pandemic but the first time I ever did it.  When I left, I started back toward my friends’ house with a full belly.  I was thinking about taking a nap before heading to the Link and going downtown in the afternoon to seek out authentic Chinese food and fulfill a fancy bar recommendation I had received years ago..

I put in my earbuds, turned on some ambient music, and walked back.  The music cut out two blocks out from the house.  I was getting a call.  I pulled out my phone and saw that it was my wife.  I assumed she just put the kids down for a nap and wanted to talk.  I answered.  And, honestly, that is the last moment that I felt normal.  That I didn’t feel scared.

As I listened to her fumble through incoherent words, then nearly scream “I DON KNEW WATS APPENIN,” my world broke. I got her to mumble a few words that made it sound like she couldn’t feel her right arm.   I know the signs of a stroke—I’ve had enough cholesterol issues myself to learn what to look out for.  I told her to hang up and dial 911.  I immediately realized she would struggle to talk with the operator. So I dialed as well.  Seattle dispatch quickly sent me down to Tacoma dispatch.  Once I described what was happening, I was told that my wife was on the line of the woman next to my operator.  I clarified everything and they disconnected telling me dispatch was on their way.

I was back at the house when they disconnected.  Suddenly I realized how isolated I was.  I had taken public transit up.  No one was home.  I was an hour out–if I had a car.  I called Sarah.  No answer.  I called Kristen.  No answer.  I called Paul.  He answered, confused.  I choked out the words that I never imagined I would have to say: “Sofie’s having a stroke.  I need help.”  He told me he would figure it out and call me back.  I packed my bag as quickly as I could, filled my water bottle, and tried to make myself puke so I wouldn’t puke in someone’s car.  It didn’t work.

Paul called me back.  He said his wife would be there within ten minutes to pick me up and that Meg, a friend much closer to our house, was en route to be with Sofia.  I thanked him, hung up, and called Sofia.  The paramedics were with her.  I heard them kind of annoyed, telling me they were trying to get her to calm down.  Not wanting to make the situation worse, I told her what was happening, told her that I loved her, and told her I’d be there soon.

Kristen arrived much faster than expected.  She flew down I-5.  She was amazing at getting me to calm down.  I called my dad on the way down as well.  Between the two of them, I was able to center myself and prepare for what was ahead.  When we got close, we heard that the paramedics had not taken her–they called it a panic attack and left.  I’ll never forgive those faceless paramedics.  My wife had a phantom right arm and speech dispashia and they thought it was a fucking panic attack?! Fuck you.  I don’t care that she is 29–those are stroke symptoms and you don’t take chances with that.

She was taking a shower when we arrived.  We hugged for a very long time.  She tried to talk to me.  If she focused really hard, she could get some words out, but they were heavily slurred.  She often burst into tears when she couldn’t get a word out or couldn’t get her point across.  After less than a minute with her, I walked back into the living room and told Kristen that I would need her to help watch the kids–I had to take Sofia to the ER.  She expected it and was ready.  She was amazing.  And when Sofia came out, she got to see how bad it was.

We went to the urgent care next to the hospital.  I explained what happened to the woman at the front desk.  She immediately called a nurse over for triage.  When I told her what was going on, they told us to go across the street to the emergency room.  We crossed the street and checked in.  We were pulled back into the ER within minutes.  I was able to get past the “COVID No Visitors” rule by telling them she needed someone to help her communicate with nurses and doctors.  

The next four hours were a flurry of nurses, doctors, blood tests, CT Scans, and an MRI.  At the end, the doctor confirmed that my wife, at 29, had a stroke.  No matter how minor, the reality that something like that could happen was terrifying.  As they prepared a room for Sofia, I had to leave–the no visitors rule was much stricter outside the ER.  

I went home, relieved Kristen, put the kids to sleep, and started making calls and texts.  I updated everyone.  I updated the friends who helped me in my time of need.  I called my sister and my parents.   Then, knowing that I had put it off too long, I took a deep breath and called Sofia’s family.  That was probably the most difficult phone call I ever had to make.  They were all sitting together when I called.  I did my best to explain the severity of what had happened but also explain that she was okay.  Being able to tell them that her speech was normalizing helped soften to the blow—for them.

It didn’t for me.  In hours since she called, I had played out a hundred versions in my mind.  Ones where she was gone and I had two boys who have never been to daycare.  Ones where she spent months in rehab.  Ones where she was paralyzed.  And it wasn’t stopping.  As the calls ended and I was finally alone, the thoughts of her having a secondary stroke overnight hit me hard.  I put my phone on as loud as I could before I went to bed.

Sunday was strange.  Just me and the boys.  All day.  Mommy in the hospital down the street–except neither of them could understand that.  It was so lonely.  All I had to do was hold it together.  And I did. I walked the boys around in their stroller.  We went to the coffee shop with the kid section.  We walked by the hospital and waved to mommy through a window that we couldn’t see through—but at least she saw us.

She got out on Monday–after 48 hours in the hospital.  Our routine went back to normal.  We made dinner together.  We went for walks together.  But there are small things.  She had to wear a heart monitor for two weeks.  She questions herself when she stumbles over a word.  Her right hand gets tired far easier than ever before.  And I am still holding it together–frozen by the fear of losing her.

I am just so relieved that I didn’t lose her.

 I woke up, lumbared to the bathroom, turned on the shower, sat on the toilet, and looked at my phone.  I swiped away the news notifications and was left with an email.  “Vehicle Security Alarm was triggered from your White 2019 Outback at 12:34 AM MDT on 09/30/2021.”  That feeling: still trying to shake off the morning haze and mentally preparing for another day of working from home slammed up against a brick wall.

I think I knew in that moment.  But I went through the motions.  I turned off the shower.  I went back into my room.  I got dressed.  I went to the back window.  Nothing.  But I’ve only lived here three weeks–can I normally see the car out the back window?  I went out the back door, through the backyard, and out the back gate.  The emptiness was shocking–allowing that air of doubt when I first read the email to solidify into a brick in my stomach. 

My car has been stolen.

Without any blatant evidence, I turned around and went back inside.  I told myself that my primary goal was to keep it together.  Back inside, I pulled out my phone and opened Subaru Starlink.  No–that was the wrong one.  That’s what I use in the car.  I exited the app and looked for the other one.  MySubaru.  When it opened, I was presented with four options.  Lock.  Unlock.  Locate Vehicle.  Horn and Lights.

I pressed on the Locate Vehicle option.  In a few seconds, a map came up with a location just over a mile away.  I went back into my bedroom and quietly got a pen and sticky notes.  I could hear my kids starting to make sounds through the baby monitor and Sofia was starting to stir.  I went back to the kitchen and wrote down the crossroads.  I pressed the “Locate Vehicle” option again.  It hadn’t moved.  I paused–preparing to call 911.  With the household starting to wake, I imagined my wife walking into the kitchen while I talked to the 911 operator.  What a horrible way to find out.  No–it had to be me.  And now.  

Bringing someone into your reality is a jarring experience.  I will never forget the story my dad told about the death of his oldest sister.  From the first call he received from the hospital, letting him know about the crash, to the moment he arrived and heard the news, more than an hour had passed.  Although that barely softens the blow, he had an hour to come to terms with the possibilities before reality solidified.  When he called his father–nothing would soften the blow.  Although nothing can compare to that experience, it has helped me understand how different ways of receiving information affect how we react.

I woke Sofia softly.  She muttered something about getting the kids.  I told her it would have to wait.  I told her I needed her help.  I nearly choked up when she flashed me a confused look.  And….I told her.  It could see it in her eyes–she was hoping I would tell her it was joke.  A bad joke.  I told her I needed to call the police on her phone so I could continue to track the car on my phone.  She bolted up, got dressed and joined me.

I’ve called 911 a few times in my life.  Once on my former brother-in-law.  Once when I witnessed a nasty fight.  But I never had to call them for myself.  As I dialed, I prepared myself for the frustration of having to wait awhile.  911 dispatch has been strained through the pandemic–I knew that much.  But they answered in seconds.  Just as expected: “911: What’s your emergency?”

I told them I just woke up and that my car was stolen.  Almost after the fact, I said I was tracking in.  The call lasted a few minutes.  I told them where it was.  She said she was creating a call to go out.  As the call ended, she told me to call back if the location of the call changed.

I called back three times over the next 30 minutes.

Whoever had my car was wandering around the city.

I started work as normal at 7:15–the earliest I am allowed to clock in.  Almost immediately, a call came through.  It was a police officer telling me that he found my car–with several people in it.  I told him it was my only car and he told me he would swing by to pick me up in a few minutes.  I locked my terminal and abandoned the idea of actually clocking in until things were more settled. 

As Sofia went about the normal breakfast routine, I got properly dressed  and updated her on what was happening.  The officer arrived a few minutes later.  He was pleasant.  He told me that they were smoking “stimulants” in the vehicle and that a pipe and tin foil was found.  Although it wasn’t confirmed, meth is my assumption with those descriptors. 

He was blunt in a way that made me suspect he had lots of practice.  “No one is being arrested.”  No one was found in the driver’s seat.  The rest of them had enough sense (or practice) to say they didn’t know that the car was stolen.  Since there was no way to prove who had stolen the vehicle, there was no way to arrest anybody.  Plus the paraphernalia wasn’t found on anybody.

There were three police cars and three officers at the scene.  The officer asked if I wanted to stay in the car until they finished releasing the people they had detained.  I said no–honestly, I knew I had to get back to work.  The car looked fine aside from the flat tire that they were trying to fix when they were caught. And it was.  The two real issues were the smell and what was missing.

Everything was missing.  Two car seats.  A double stroller.  The dash cam.  The portable phone charger.  The cash.  The masks.  My COVID Vaccine Card.  Even most of the baby toys and books were gone. The cops helped me change out the tire then asked me if I had any questions.  I asked if there was anything else I needed to do aside from deal with insurance.  They sounded like they deal with this far too often.  “Welcome to Tacoma” was their parting remark.

As we parted ways, I rolled down the windows and threw some items that were not mine out of the way.  I kept spotting things that were wrong.  The cigarettes in the car door.  The steering wheel had been lowered.  The music was turned up to the max.  The presets to my radio stations had been changed.  That was when the distinct feeling of violation crept in.  

I drove carefully home–all too aware that I no longer had any license plates (they had been removed).  Unwilling to put the car right back in the spot where it was stolen, I parked the car in front of the house on the street.  I locked it five times and went inside to tell Sofia the bad news.  Without the stroller or the car seats, the next few days would be difficult.  After I updated her, I logged into work–a full hour later than normal.

In the hours and days that passed since then, most everything is back to normal.  We have car seats.  The car was professionally cleaned by “sunshine cleaners.”  Insurance covered nearly everything.  As the event falls into my rear view mirror, I know I am lucky that this didn’t cost me a fortune or make me loss my job since I was late to work.  I was lucky.  

But that feeling of violation is persistent.  I bought security cameras.  I often check on the cars when I wake up in the middle of the night.  I am far more paranoid than I ever have been.  I understand why people buy guns—but I also understand enough about escalating situations to know that is a terrible idea.  In the end, this whole event has just made me more acutely aware of the homelessness epidemic and addiction epidemics that have run rampant during the pandemic.  I live in the right place—a place where the people and our government want to do something about it.