One month ago today, John made me scallops wrapped in bacon for lunch.

I got up to go into the kitchen to get something to drink, and I heard him yell, “Oh-Ooh!!!.”

When I came back into the living room, he was grasping at his right arm. Suddenly, he couldn’t speak. He was staring off at nothing.

At first, I thought he was joking. I thought he was going to say something like, “Oh no, I guess you can’t go back to work. I guess we have a pool injury.”

I kept saying, “Stop it. Stop it. You’re scaring me. I’m going to call 911.”

And then I did.

As I was on the phone with 911, John started to fall to the ground as he lost feeling in the right side of his body. By the time the EMTs arrived, he had no feeling at all on his right side. As they prepared him for transport, I kissed his head and told him I loved him: repeated that he was going to be ok, that I was right here – all while thinking that this might be it.

They took him to Marlborough Hospital, and thankfully, we were within the window where they could give him the clot-busting medication that helped reverse the paralysis. From there, he was life-flighted to UMass Memorial in Worcester, where they confirmed that he had suffered a stroke. He was taken in for a thrombectomy to remove the clot from the left side of his brain.

That was one month ago.

It has been the craziest and most emotional months of our lives.

Every day is different. Unpredictable. Scary. Happy. Unknown. Up and down, like a roller coaster: an emotional tidal wave. Sometimes I wake up and find John crying. Some nights end with him falling asleep and then me crying by myself.

And then there are days like last Friday.

My mom came to visit and practiced some of John’s homework with him and brought us brownies. We took a break, did some more homework, and then went to see Spider-Man.

After the movie, John wrote down that he wanted to go to Poke Bowl.

So we went.

Together, we told the people behind the counter what he wanted in his bowl. Then we sat there and ate, passing a little notepad back and forth and talking in our own private language.

And for a little while, it was just a normal day.

We were still us.

I know there are going to continue to be highs and lows. There are still days when, if I let myself think too far into the future, I can feel a panic attack coming. I’m learning conscious breathing. I’m looking into finding a yoga class a couple of times a week. And I’ve loaded John’s iPad with more apps and exercises that make working his brain feel a little more like playing and a little less like therapy.

Saturday brought another good day. His niece and great-nephews came to visit, and John got to spend some time holding a baby — one of his absolute favorite things to do. He saw his brother from another mother, Roberto, who was visiting from Florida, and spent time with his other brother, Kevin.

While they we’re visiting, I snuck out and bought myself a secondhand kick bag, because apparently sometimes self-care means yoga and deep breathing, and sometimes it means having something you’re allowed to punch.

I still don’t know what every day is going to look like.

I’m not planning trips. I don’t know when we’ll be able to run away for a weekend or spend a carefree day at the beach together again. Right now, looking too far ahead is sometimes just too much.

So we keep looking for the next thing that might help.

John has an appointment scheduled with a new neurologist at MGH. We’re also looking into working with a local speech therapist who specializes in music therapy and has many years of experience, to see whether a different approach might help unlock more speech.

One month later, there is still so much we don’t know.

But I have hope.

John has hope.

And most importantly, we still have each other.