My Unplanned $32,000 Hospital Stay

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know I’m a creature of habit. Late in the evening, after the dust of the day has settled, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll find me parked in my recliner with the TV on, unwinding. It’s a simple routine, and it usually goes off without a hitch.

Until one night back in December of 2025.

I was kicked back in the chair when my left arm and hand started to tingle a bit. It felt just like it had fallen asleep—nothing to write home about, or so I thought. But then I went to change the channel. I was trying to navigate from one YouTube channel to another, and suddenly, the remote just wasn’t working.

Except it was working. The remote was fine; my brain was the issue.

It wasn’t that my hand was paralyzed; it was that I suddenly had zero earthly idea how a remote control operated. The logic behind the buttons had completely evaporated from my mind. As the moments ticked by, things took a turn for the scarier. I tried to speak to explain what was happening, but the words wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t convey the loss of control I was feeling—I could only sit there, mumble, and look, well… a little more stupid than usual.

After a couple of agonizing minutes, the fog cleared. Everything faded back to my normal. I was definitely spooked, but since the whole episode went away, I did what a lot of hard-headed folks do: I didn’t address it right then. I swallowed a couple of aspirins, called it a night, and went to bed.

When the Warning Shots Become the Real Thing

For a few days, everything was quiet. But on the night of December 17th, I was sitting at the kitchen table when the ghost returned.

First, my left hand went completely numb. Then the numbness started crawling up my left forearm. Next thing I knew, it had hit my left jaw and my tongue. Trying to form a coherent, lucid thought was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. The certainty and assurance I usually had in doing basic tasks was completely gone.

The only thought I managed to pull together with any clarity was telling Mom to call 911.

She made the call, and before long, the ambulance and the local volunteer fire department from over in Samantha pulled up. I’ve lived in this community for years, so I knew the guys who walked through the door. It was a strange situation to be on the receiving end of emergency care, but having familiar faces there helped. They evaluated me, and when I told them I thought I was having a stroke, they kind of concurred.

Into the ambulance I went. But let me take a quick pause to address something here: that was my very first ambulance ride, and for as big as those rigs are—and as astronomically much as they charge you for the pleasure—you’d think the ride would offer a little luxury.

I’ve driven Highway 43 all my life, and I’ve always thought it was a reasonably smooth stretch of pavement. Apparently not. That ambulance found every single blooming pothole, rut, and bump between my house and the hospital. The driver wasn’t running lights and sirens, nor was she in any big fire-department hurry, but I swear she had a special radar built into the dashboard designed specifically to locate and hit every dip in Tuscaloosa County. Brother, she did not miss a single one.

High-Tech Carts and Unwanted Inspections

When we finally rattled into DCH Hospital, they wheeled me straight back. They immediately kicked off the full evaluation routine: blood work, EKGs, and a steady stream of scans.

Then came the “robot.”

They rolled in this tall, motorized cart equipped with a video monitor and a camera so I could talk to a specialist. Now, keep in mind, I’m sitting there, actively suffering through what I believe is a stroke, unable to form my thoughts properly, and the doctor appearing on this screen had a very thick foreign accent. To top it off, the tech steering the robot cart also had a thick accent. So there I was, half-addled, trying to decipher a conversation that sounded like an international conference call while my brain was short-circuiting. It was a bit confusing, to say the least.

After about five hours in the ER treatment room getting thoroughly checked out, they gave me the initial good news: I hadn’t suffered a massive, life-altering stroke. But they needed to keep digging to figure out the root cause.

They moved me up to a private room on the 5th floor. It was no Ritz-Carlton, but it wasn’t bad—it had a nice view overlooking the South parking deck. But hospital admissions always come with quirks. As the nurse was checking me in and running through my medications and history, she asked to check my crotch area for red spots.

Now, I drew the line right then and there!

There was absolutely no reason for her to be doing that when I was in there with them thinking I was having a stroke. I flat-out refused. Some boundaries just need to be maintained, hospital gown or not!

So, What Actually Happened? (The “Mini-Stroke” Breakdown)

I ended up spending three days in that 5th-floor room while they ran brain scans, CAT scans, and every other test they could think of. In the end, the doctor came in and gave me the official diagnosis: I had suffered a TIA, short for a Transient Ischemic Attack—more commonly known as a mini-stroke.

What is a Mini-Stroke (TIA)?

• The Cause: A TIA happens when blood flow to a part of the brain is temporarily blocked, usually by a small blood clot or a buildup of plaque in the blood vessels.
• The Difference: Unlike a full-blown stroke, which permanently damages brain tissue, a TIA is temporary. In my case, the debris that clogged the blood vessel broke loose on its own and moved along, restoring blood flow before permanent structural damage was done.
• The Warning: Doctors often call a TIA a “warning stroke.” It’s your body’s way of telling you that the plumbing has a clog that needs monitoring and medical management before a bigger blockage happens down the road.

I checked out of the hospital just in time for Christmas and made it home safely. I’ve been taking it easy and following doctor’s orders ever since, and thankfully, I haven’t had another episode like that night in December.

The Road Back and The “Sticker Shock”

While I escaped permanent brain damage, I haven’t walked away completely scot-free. I’ve had to deal with a few minor balance issues, and my left leg has picked up a noticeable weakness. It’s required a bit of a learning curve for everyday stuff.

For instance, when I go to hop on the riding lawnmower now, I can’t just swing my leg over like I used to. I have to make sure I’m holding onto the steering wheel with a firm grip and use extra care just to get seated. When it comes time to put my left foot on the clutch pedal, my leg won’t just lift on its own. I literally have to reach down, grab my left leg with both hands, and manually lift it onto the pedal. Once it’s placed there, it works fine—it’s just the lifting and placement part that’s stubborn.

It’s the exact same story getting into the car. I can slide into the driver’s seat fine, and my right leg behaves, but when it’s time to pull that left leg inside, I have to physically reach down, pick it up, and haul it into the floorboard. It’s slowly getting better day by day, but it’s still a real pain in the neck to deal with.

And then, a few weeks later, the second shock arrived: the medical bills.

Remember that pothole-filled ambulance ride? $1,400 out of pocket before the insurance even bothered to look at it. The total hospital bill came out to a whopping $32,000+ before insurance adjustments. My favorite line item on the invoice was an $85 charge for a bottle of chewable aspirin!

Now, on the financial side of things, I will say that after all the paperwork was processed, my insurance did finally step up and pay for everything. In the end, my out-of-pocket expense for the whole ordeal was zero. But the initial sticker shock of an eighty-five dollar bottle of aspirin is still enough to make a guy stroke out all over again!

The Final Straw

As if lying in a hospital room worrying about your brain wasn’t enough, my job decided to add its own special touch to the experience.

While I was still lying in that hospital bed, my team leader called. He didn’t call to ask how I was feeling or wish me well. No, he called to ask when I was going to be back at work because I needed to get stuff done for the team. Shortly after that, Human Resources called me to demand a definite checkout date. They gave me an ultimatum: either get right back to work or declare short-term disability. The catch? Going on short-term disability would have cut my salary by 50%.

That whole circus was a huge eye-opener. The stress, the pressure, and the complete lack of care from management were all adding up—and frankly, it was contributing directly to the causes that put me in that hospital bed in the first place. I was just plain sick of it and everything else that went with it. That experience became one of the main reasons I decided to hang up my hat and retire. Life is simply too short to spend it stressed out for a company that treats a stroke as a scheduling inconvenience.

All jokes aside, I’m sitting here today grateful. Grateful for Mom calling 911, grateful for the Samantha volunteer firefighters, grateful for the care I got at DCH (minus the unwanted inspection attempt), and glad to be back on the mower—even if I have to lift my own leg to press the clutch.

Listen to your bodies, folks. If the remote control suddenly looks like ancient hieroglyphics to you, don’t just take an aspirin and go to bed like I did. Get it checked out.