An Open Heart Story — One Family’s Experience With Stroke

April 25th marked the 18th anniversary of "the proposal"- the night my sweetheart proposed to me.  With ocasions such as these I am especially grateful because "they almost didn't happen."  This story first appeared in AliveUtah.com. 

By Amyanne Rigby

The seven of us approach this Valentine’s with open and grateful hearts. We were all changed and will be forever by that February night one year ago.

I knew my husband had an open heart. I just didn’t know he had a hole in it. Ours is a love story dating back to our sophomore year in geometry at Cedar High School. It was the early 90′s. We had been friends/buddies. We hung out while running track and cross country together. So, I surprised myself one day when I looked across the classroom and saw his lips — they looked so kissable. Me, the girl who threw the football around with guys, kissing one?

Our relationship progressed and I married my best friend in 1995. Together we pursued our educations, graduated, grew up, moved, changed jobs, had five children, and remained best friends. We had experienced the normal “bumps” in the road as most young couples do, but then one cold February night out story changed.

For the first time since our baby was born, I was out for the evening enjoying book group with the “girls.” Daddy was home holding down the fort — homework, tub time, jammies, stories, a little wrestling I’m sure. This Daddy time was precious. It had been a tumultuous past 13 months. We had purchased a business in Woods Cross the previous February and I had spent the entire pregnancy solo during the week. He would leave early Monday mornings and work incredibly long days and sleep on the couch at the office then return to us on Friday, if we were lucky. After the birth of our baby, we relocated the business to Cedar City, but were left with no employees. I became his assistant and learned some “details” of the company and brought our baby and 3-year-old daughter to work with us. It was difficult but “doable.”

Thursday night

When I returned home that night, he said he felt weird. We talked about it momentarily. Our infant son was already fast asleep so I went upstairs to tuck in the big boys and go through hand-me-downs with our daughter. She was a late napper and not ready for sleep yet.

Coming downstairs, she joined daddy for a snuggle on the couch, and I went to get my own jammies on and brush my teeth. Shortly afterwards, Emma came and said, “Mommy, Daddy needs you.” I kept brushing my teeth thinking, “Of course, Daddy always needs Mommy.” She came back in immediately and stated with urgency, “Mommy, Daddy needs you now.” It was 9:30 p.m.

I went to my husband and saw the fear in his eyes as he tried to speak — it was gibberish, nonsense language. Something was terribly wrong. He would go in and out of making sense and motioned for me to help him walk around the room. I helped support his 6’3” frame.

What is amazing at this point is that I knew what was happening. I normally am not an observant person. Details are simply not my forte. However, recently I had been prompted to pay attention to information about strokes — in doctor’s offices, on the internet, television commercials etc. I remembered the questions to ask him and the symptoms for which to look. This was a surreal moment — panic and calmness rolled into one. With all five of our little ones now asleep, the only thing I could think to do was to call our neighbor who was a doctor. I had not spoken with him in months, but ironically he had called that morning to ask my husband some hunting questions. His cell number was on caller ID. I pushed the buttons.

This good man had just walked in his door from a late night at the hospital. I tried to explain what was happening. He was at our door in 30 seconds. He confirmed my thoughts. “Your husband is having a stroke and we need to get him to the hospital.” He was calm and collected. He instructed me to find someone to stay with the children and then to meet him there. He became the “first” in a long line of angels who would help us through this journey.

The ER stands up and takes notice when a staff doctor walks in the back door ignoring all of the usual ER red tape, takes a patient to a bed and announces, “This man is having a stroke.” The question that everyone was thinking but no one was saying out loud echoed, “Why is a seemingly healthy 35-year-old man having a stroke?”

Early Friday Morning:

Our stay at Valley View Medical Center was less than 12 hours and is a blur. I called our parents on the way to the hospital after having a neighbor come to stay with the kids. Soon my husband’s parents were in the car and on their way to Cedar City from Highland, Utah. My mother headed to relieve the neighbor and join our children. She would bring me the baby when he awoke to eat. My dad and his brother were soon at the hospital to give Travis a blessing and me the moral support I needed.

The fear in my heart was unimaginable, but as I looked at my hubby’s bright blue eyes, I knew I had to smile and reassure him that everything was going to be fine. He had a CT Scan, and an MRI that night. When he wasn’t looking, I cried, prayed silently and was given tissue and pats on the back.

His parents arrived in time for the admitting process. They got us settled and then left to relieve my mom and get some sleep. I was left alone with my sweetheart and our 12 week old son. I sat by my husband in his bed offering what comfort I could. Before closing his eyes, he looked at me and asked in broken words, “Amy what is my name?” He fell asleep but sleep would not come to me as my mind raced in fear and my heart ached in love.

Our oldest sons came that morning before school to see Daddy — a bear hug moment. He could not speak but motioned for our oldest son to pray. Close friends and family offered their support. A short while later, we were informed by a brusque doctor that he had two black spots; bleeds on his brain. Thankfully, our neighbor and Chief of Staff intervened and the decision was made that Travis needed to be put on life flight to Intermountain Regional Care Center in Murray. The cause of the stroke needed to be found.

Friday

Everyone sprung into action as our three sons were picked up from Elementary School and bags and the suburban were packed for the road. Because I was a nursing mother, I was unable to make the flight with my sweetheart. His mother went in my stead. His Father drove me and our five little ones to Highland where aunts and cousins were waiting to care for them. It was a long quiet ride as tears fell freely from both his father’s and my eyes. I found comfort in looking out the windows towards the mountains where my hubby loved to explore and was always looking for deer. He arrived at the hospital to be greeted by his two sisters and brother.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was overjoyed to be with him again. When I entered the door to his room holding our baby, sentences fell from his lips. I looked up to see the doctor wiping away tears. He had not spoken a single sensible word since arriving. The sight of our son ignited his speech. At this point, the neurologist made the decision to move him to ICU in the neurological unit where he would have the “best of the best” care.

We made the move. NICU was less friendly than the regular room and less welcoming to our son, but the staff became flexible to our situation. Our baby provided a great source of comfort to us both and especially to my husband. He loves being a dad. He is devoted and he is present in the lives of our five beautiful children. In fact, he kept holding up his five fingers and counting them. He did not want to forget his five kids. That day more tests were run. I remember standing in the hallway before his second MRI shivering. He looked up and said to me, “You’re cold. I am so sorry. I should be taking care of you.” Even at his worst moment, he was thinking of me — someone else. This is so indicative of my husband’s character.

Another CT, an echocardiogram, lots of blood work, two different neurologists, nurses, noise, quiet and fear. The minutes crept by as we tried to keep conversation light and encouraging. I slept little that night. In fact, you are not allowed to sleep in the ICU — you should see the lawn furniture they provide. Gratefully, my brother-in-law offered to stay and help me with the baby and keep Travis company while I caught a few winks. Every hour a nurse came to check his vitals and his reflexes. I held my breath every time and let out a sigh of relief when he was able to touch his nose and raise his arms.

In the makeshift waiting room I curled up on a bench while clutching my baby’s car seat with one hand. A large Polynesian family gathered to wait for news about somebody’s uncle’s cousins. I prayed for quiet. None was to be found, but my eyes found sleep anyway. My few moments of sleep were interrupted by nurses’ voices on the intercom — stroke, stroke…

Saturday

The next day, just as he was about to undergo another more invasive test, we were informed by the neurologist that a hole in his heart was found through which the blood clot traveled and that it had been verified that this was indeed the cause of his stroke. Relief. Finally answers, but also more questions. The cardiologist would not be able to see us for some time.

He was stronger this day and his speech was returning. Our 20 years of communicating paid off as we played our own sort of “guesstures” game in order to help him find the words.

Phone calls and visitors arrived nonstop. My older sister traveled from Idaho to be with us. I was so relieved to hand her our baby. Travis started to joke around and tease. I found comfort in his teasing — a typical interlude between the two of us. Our love brought us great strength.

When the cardiologist arrived, I was cuddled on the bed with him while our sisters visited. The doctor seemed caught off guard by this and jokingly asked if he should come back later. He gave us lots of information and we asked lots of questions. The nuts and bolts of the scenario: The hole in his heart was present since birth. It was between the two chambers in his heart that failed to close. In fact, one in four people have this same type of hole. Treatment: 10 years ago they would have had to perform open heart surgery; five years ago Travis would have had to have another stroke before they would have repaired it, but today we were told they could fix the hole Monday by simply going up through a vein in his leg and placing an Amplatzer PFO Occluder in his heart. He could be discharged a few short hours later. AMAZING!!

Sunday

More visitors: I sneaked our 10-year-old into see Dad. A medicine the hospital could not provide. A speech therapist came. She diagnosed Travis with a form of Aphasia. His speech was less broken now — they said the brain was rerouting itself. He still could not find words and especially had a hard time with multiple syllable words. He insisted on practicing. The ICU white board became our game board as I wrote words and he said them. He was especially determined to say our second son’s name — it had three syllables.

Monday

We waited and waited. Finally, the surgery was performed and a 20 mm hub shaped somewhat like a mesh umbrella was placed in my hubby’s heart. The cardiologist told us it was the biggest hole he had seen in any patient. After nearly four hours of making sure his vitals were stable, he was discharged. We were told his heart was fine — now just go home and get over the stroke…

The Recovery:

Not nearly as easy as they made it sound. The hard part: my husband is young and a very highly functioning stroke victim; there is not a lot of information and support for young stroke victims in our area. I Google a lot — information please!

Typing a one sentence email was a crowning moment for Travis. Speaking in front of a crowd was another milestone. We mark the months off like birthdays since the stroke. This month: February — one year.

The effects from his stroke may seem minor or termed residual if you were looking them up in a textbook. But to me, the wife of this wonderful man and mother to his five children, they are ever present in our daily lives.

The seven of us approach this Valentine’s with open and grateful hearts. We were all changed and will be forever by that February night one year ago. Touched by such generosity and care from others, our hearts have been carved with understanding, greater love, and deeper appreciation for the “minutes” of life we are granted to share with those we love. We are a team of seven, led by a man who is ever courageous and forever ours. 

God heard us giggle again-

There is something about witnessing the sun dip into the ocean’s horizon as the waves crash against the sand that restores a certain rhythm to your heart. We toted our fabulous five to the beaches of Oahu and found this incredible melody. Our Birthday boys (Seleck and Stockton born April 22^nd) boogie boarded, snorkeled, swam with sea turtles, and laughed and laughed... Emma and Madsen found treasures cast in by the tide, built sand castles, and wrote in the sand with long gnarled sticks. And our baby, Maleck, a synonym for courage and strength, chased the waves while the sand tickled his tiny toes. He did not taste this memory– he slurped it. Together we gazed at them admiring their strength and tenacity for life. This past year, they have been our anchor, our rhythm. We will treasure this memory– always... the memory where we to giggled again and absorbed God’s beauty wishing never to forget and always remembering to be grateful.


(On February 26, 2009 my husband had a stroke at age 35... it took us quite some time to giggle again.)

Today narks my 15th year of being a mom.  On April 22, 1998 we welcomed our first and oldest child Seleck to our home.  His younger brother Stockton joined our family as his 2nd birthday present.  Yep Stock was born just two short years later on April 22, 2000.  Tonight as we gathered around the table to sing "Happy Birthday" to this handsome duo with our "fab 5" and grandma and grandpa, I was reminded what being a mom was all about.

My kids have  taught me about God.  When our oldest was only two we had just been to take dad his lunch.  Daddy was having a rather frustrating work day and our son could tell.  While I was driving he said, we should say  a prayer for daddy.   He is said.  I pulled over and I had my first spiritual freezer moment with my son.    Somehow I had thought our number five child would be mellow and easy going type.  What was I thinking.   Most days he bosses me around.   “Mommy, play catch!”  “Mommy shoot the ball.” “Dance mommy dance1”  These are just a few of his favorite phrases.  So I was completely caught off guard when this the loudest monkey in my zoo  started to sing  “I Love to See the Temple.”

One of my favorite things to do with my "fab 5"  who range in the age from 15 to 4 is visit small towns in Southern Utah and learn about the history of its settlers.  I especally love it when that historyintertwines with our own family history.  Such is the case with this piece on Santa Clara Utah.  The Leo Reber I speak of is my husband's great grandfather.  So when we were done with our eight baseball games and track meet for the weekend, we took a moment to wander through the streets of historic downtown Santa Clara:

The blossoms decorate the orchard trees on a late april afternoon, in Santa Clara. The beauty is only to outdone by the scent that fills the air. It is absolutely breathtaking.

Walking down the streets of Historic Downtown, this quaint little village sings of its Swiss Heritage. The homes are well marked, and the histories are noted on plaques in the front yards. Names such as Frei, Gubler, Graff, Stucki, Hafen, Tobler, and Reber line the sidewalks. It is like stepping back in time.

George and Bertha Graff home - The edifice is an example of the adobe contructed vernacular architecture, a common style during Utah's settlement era. It was referred to as a hall and parlor house- two rooms wide and one room deep. This home was built by George and his cousin Albert in 1906 for George's wife Bertha. Completion of this home was deterred due to the fact that George ran out of the bricks needed to complete the project. Not to be blocked by this obstacle, George made his own bricks from the red sand and clay from his yard. Bertha and George were the only residents to ever live here.

Santa Clara Granaries - Unsuccessful at raising cattle because they fell prey to the local Paiute Indians, Santa Clara became a produce and peddling center. To store the fruits and vegetables, some homes had roots cellars but most had a separate granary. The granaries look like detached miniature homes and could be found to the rear of almost every house in Santa Clara. While grains were stored in the warmer upper section of the granary, the fruits and vegetables were stored in the basement or ground level where the temperature was cooler.

John George and Susette Bosshard Hafen Home- Built in 1881 this 1 ½ Victorian eclectic cross-wing home was constructed of adobe bricks that were made from the backyard's own clay and sand. This home housed Santa Clara's 1st Post office and Merchandise cooperative.

Frederick and Anna Reber house- an example of Greek revival double-cell architecture this home was built in 1870 and perhaps more than any other home touched the broadest collection of local human history. It saw a constant succession of renters throughout the early part of the 20th century. It was here many called "home" as they awaited the return of a loved one from WWII.

Heritage Square- To the east of the historic Relief Society house, this square pays tribute to the pioneers of this settlement. In 1861, LDS prophet Brigham Young called a total of 309 missionaries consisting of 87 Swiss people living throughout Northern Utah to go to Santa Clara to raise cotton and grapes. George Carlyle said of the Switzers, "they are honest people... they are not philosophers or tribunes; but frank honest landsmen". This square memorializes this spirit.

Spring time in Santa Clara means planting season. Before I-15 became the preferred route, this small town community was lined with fruit stands as part of "Old" Highway 91. It was indeed a must stop for its fruit and produce production. Infact, in March of 1953, David H. Mann, Field editor, of the Utah Farmer profiled a local resident, Leo Reber. He was of the opinion that one of the most productive pieces of land in the southern end of Utah was Leo Reber's farm in Santa Clara.

Reber is noted for his enthusiasm for the land. He loved the way the soil responded to his "playing in the dirt." He was successful in his planting of alfalfa, barley, wheat, sweet corn, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, radishes, turnips, string beans, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, cantaloupes and melons. Reber was convinced of the then new tactic of pruning. He found it produced higher yields and better colored fruits. Reber was master peach grower. He produced five different kinds in his orchards.

Reber's products particularly his sweet corn, radishes, and green onions never wanted for buyers. He sold locally and as far south as Las Vegas and to the north as far as Salt Lake. His "fruit stand" alone brought many to once "little" town of Santa Clara.
The day's end is marked as the spring sun dips behind the mountains. Walking through the alfalfa of Leo Reber's Farm (now owned by granddaughter Valene and husband Mark Walter) the soil has been tilled in time for the spring crop and the peach trees are in the process of being pruned. A baby calf, born no less than 10 minutes ago stands for the first time. It is Santa Clara spring time. Leo Reber’s great, great-grandchildren scamper about giggling and growing while preserving Reber's Pioneer legacy. He didn't just plant crops..

"Behold the work of the old, let your heritage not be lost, but bequeath it as a memory, treasure and blessing. Gather the lost and the hidden and preserve it for thy children."- Christian Metz

It seems like baseball season just ended.  I didn't think I would be ready for it, but sure enough I hear the ball hit the bat and smell that red dirt and a flutter of excitement hits me.  I grew up a stone's throw from a little league baseball park..  The spring weather changes and memories from my youth engulf me... and they all seem to surround one man...

I looked out the window to see that a group of neighborhood boys had congregated in our backyard for a friendly game of baseball.  I smiled as I saw the boys made a staircase- the youngest 6 to the oldest 12.  It made me smile to see the oldest boy was Bill Kringlen’s son,  my own Little League Baseball coach.
The sight took me back a few years to my own front yard.  I grew up in the original part of town in family of 7 kids.  We didn’t have much to boast of in those days.  Boats and 4 wheelers were far removed from our own existence.  But we did have baseball.  And our front yard was our own diamond.  I marvel now how my mother never complained at the permanently imprinted baselines in her grass.  First and third bases were formed by cracks in the sidewalk and second base was the spot on the lawn that was worn through with dirt.  The home run line was marked by our line of lilac trees.  This field always hosted a ball game on even the hottest summer days.  The players again came in a staircase of sizes.
Bill Kringlen’s Rotary baseball was as good as religion in our home.  He brought to our lives discipline and hard work.  We knew that to miss a practice was the cardinal sin.  Dedication was imprinted upon our list of must have values and no matter what you never quit.
He also taught us baseball at its best.  Fly balls, grounders, and  the infield creep were fundamentals engrained  upon our memories as well as the proper technique needed to hit the ball.   We were more than fortunate that this bachelor chose our little clan as one of the many that he would serve as not only coach to but also as surrogate uncle.  His love of baseball combined with his love of youth  created the perfect duet.
It’s spring time in Cedar City the ball fields are dotted with local little league teams clamoring to play ball.  There will be wind, rain, and a few rays of sunshine and most definitely there will be baseball.  Choose a favorite team and follow it.  There will definitely be a “Rotary” coach or two out there.
I will be cheering for Cedar National’s Outlaw Trucking .  My boys will be to every game and practice come rain or shine because that is the “Kringlen way.”  I’ll cheer my boys on at the plate or as they attempt to “turn two” and out of the corner of my eye I will be looking for Kringlen in his blue bronco with his dog named Reggie who I am sure is up there watching and shouting “play ball.”

Another memoir:   My "fab five"  write a little bit of something in my heart everyday.  I love being a mom!

Some say heaven is a quiet place where we jump from cloud to cloud and lazily lay about day dreaming, but I know that heaven is a place of lizards, snakes and horny toads, of fishing, hunt and shooting BB guns.  The Pittsburgh Steelers are sure to win every super bowl and there are more piles of dirt to dig in and rummage though than one could possibly dream.  Cardboard boxes easily become forts with creativity and duct tape.  Hunting snakes and catching potato bugs leave day dreaming a thing of the past.

It's a place where laughter lights the sky and dandelions decorate every mother's hand.  Fielding grounders and shooting hoops pass the time and the clouds are a little bit dusty from the dirt on little boys' shoes.  Camping in tents replace the greatest palaces, and heavenly Father is sure to spare a minute for a little bit of wrestling.

I know this is what Heaven must be like because I have had a little bit of heaven with me for eight years.  Seleck's chocolate brown eyes and chestnut hair shadow the freckles on his face which surely must be angel kisses.  The moment you were born changed my life forever.  I know Heavenly Father loves me because he sent you to our home.   What a blessing  you have been to your dad and I.  Your example of faith and desire to serve our Father in Heaven touch my heart daily.  I know you are a choice favored and brave spirit and the step you take today will lead you home.  Thank you for letting me be your mom and for showing me that love is truly a verb.

Congratulations on making your first most important choice and when we meet in heaven lets jump on a few clouds, hit a few fly balls, chase lizards and eat lots of popcorn.

Madsen's baptism

Personal histories can bore most audiences if you focus on the mundane and monotonous.  Instead, think of the sounds associated with that person or unique physical characteristics.  Also, it helps to focus on particular memories and then try to weave it altogether.


September 3, 2010
Madsen’s baptism


Freckled face, toothless grin, smiling eyes, a magical smile,  and a heart  to captivate the masses.  You are Madsen born in the 11th hour, born to lead.  Marvelous, mischievous, Mad Man,  magnificent, mannerly, a present day Moroni.
At birth, lots of  black hair – beautiful skin.  After four months of straight crying, you found your hand and you have been happy ever since- a pure joy.  Delighting the world with your bright smile, you calm hearts.
 As Daddy’s right hand man,  you toddled at his side and chased after your brothers always trying to be bigger than you were.  You hoped baby sister was neither boy nor girl but a bunny rabbit.  At age five,  you tickled my face with your dimpled hands comforting my broken  heart.  You are a healer.
Your determination is only out sung by your disposition.  A quiet stillness echoes from your bright blue eyes humming the melody of your amazing heart. Today, you held my hand as we exited your third grade class.  Your hand fits perfectly in mine-  once it was  enveloped in baby fat, now it is a small boy’s hand, tomorrow it will be a man’s like your father’s.
One day my hand will be wrinkled and worn and it will hold yours on a final day.  I will look into your eyes and you will give me a final wink and I will be forever grateful  for my Madsen the  marvelous man who was my mountain – with a  foundation always  firm and stead fast.

         I love family history!  In fact, most would probably say I am a family history nerd.  I prefer the term guru.  However, I love it most when I can involve my kids in the process.  For instance, the following post was written by my then 9 year old after he interviewed his 95 year old great grandfather.

      The life of my grandfather, Max Dickson Weaver, was a lot different than yours or mine.  He grew up going to school in a covered wagon,   running to catch a train, and then finally a Model T Ford.  The cost of gas in those days was 15 cents a gallon. 

            Max was born March 15, 1917.  He was one of   seven kids.  There were six boys and one girl.  He grew up on a farm in Layton, Utah.   He loved it when his mother Sophia churned ice cream.  He scooped himself a giant bowl. He didn’t have much time for playing baseball like I do.  Instead he had to milk the cows, herd the cows, do his chores and pull the weeds in the crops.  Unlike me, he played cowboys and Indians instead of the Wii.  When my grandfather talks of the days of the depression, he cries.  My grandpa was very poor.

            My grandpa went to Utah State University.  He worked a janitor to pay for his schooling.  It was a trade.  He did not even have enough money to go to the dances they had back then. 

            My grandpa joined the ROTC so he could have warm clothes.  For joining, they gave him 2pairs of pants, high top boots, and a utility jacket.  My grandpa slept on the back porch of some friends’ home during his college days. 

            He met his wife at a dance. The janitors were allowed to go to the dance free since they were just going to clean it up after the dance.  At one of the dances, my grandma, Ruth Stoddard Kimball looked over and saw Max.  She went home and told her mom, “I’ve met the guy I’d like to marry.”  Once grandpa started going to the dances, his dance card was always full. 

            One day Ruth’s mother’s visiting teacher came over and told Ruth’s mom that if Max asked her daughter to marry him she would say yes!  That put Ruth’s mother in a new competition.  One day a man came over to Ruth and said that his son   had a brand new automobile and that he would like to be your boyfriend.  Ruth responded,   “I’m sorry for your son, but I’ve got Max.”  Once Max walked over to Ruth’s house (it was a 17 block walk) and said, “I’ve got no automobile, no money to take you for a treat, but would walk to the dance with me?”  Ruth responded, “I’ll walk anywhere with you, Max!”

            They were later married in the Logan temple on December 20,   1938.  My   grandpa served in WWII in the Philippines.  Max and Ruth had 4 boys and 2 girls.  Their names are Kimball, Kurt, Katherine, Scott Ruth Kay, and Wynn.  Max worked as a school teacher teaching art.  He taught at Helper High School, Logan High, Cypress High, CSU and BYU.  My grandpa   is 95 and still paints to this day.

            Here are some of the qualities I admire about my grandpa.  He was always willing to do what he was asked, he was hard working, he was never lazy, and he is a great painter.