By David Scherer Water
It started three weeks ago. I started to feel ... funny. I was making lots of typos and had vertigo. On a whim, I saent an email to my doctor’s receptionist — didn’t notice the extra "a" until I hit send. It made me laugh. Then I stopped laughing. They could get me in that day.
My doctor reminds me of Deangelo Vickers — Will Ferrell’s character from "The Office" — not just in looks, but in his love for the Southwest. For a dozen years, our interactions have ranged from casual to boring. My blood work is always nothing, and so we never have much to discuss. This time, however, after years of nothing, something.
He can order tests, and we’d get answers in three to five weeks, but short of that, it might be worth my time to head over to the emergency room since, over at the hospital, they could get me a CT or MRI pronto. I didn’t spend too long weighing the option.
As I approach the tower of Saint Pete’s, I recall that a whopping 3,000 people are employed here — 10 times more than worked at the brewery during its peak. I always wanted to cover this medical factory castle. Here’s my big chance.
Walking, I notice a jelly-like quality to my left leg. My face is numb, cheek or fingertips — I can’t tell. I’ve been forgetting things and saying stupid things, and I’m famously stupid — but this is different. My girlfriend meets me at the hospital. We’re waiting in the waiting area for a space to open up in the pre-waiting area. Eventually, we’ll get into the waiting room.
Once past all the waiting, thank God she’s fluent in the language of medicine. I’m so lucky to have a translator, navigator, and advocate at my side. I’m not even offended when doctors speak to her in the third person about me (like they’re chatting about some broken piece of equipment).
Hours pass, and it gets late. At least I’m lying in a wheeled bed. Now, I love fluorescent lighting as much as the next guy, but this is the industrial-strength stuff — overhead, unrelenting, drilling straight into my retinas at midnight. I joke, “If I’m not having a stroke, I soon will,” or at least go blind from the titillating seventy thousand lumens of blue fluorescence, peeling the skin from my face in these wee hours. They’re pumping me up with an IV of antibiotics since they think I might have bacterial pneumonia. I don’t.
David Scherer Water on a gurney at Providence St. Peter Hospital in Olympia on Oct. 20, 2025.
Courtesy of David Scherer Water
They seem to enjoy rolling me around. Honestly, I love it. We’re heading headfirst to my third scan of the night. At a stop, I pull out my health insurance ID card. In small font are some large numbers: my “personal maximum allowable out-of-pocket payout” is a figure higher than the balance of my checking account but lower than the cost of a Tesla Cybertruck. I decide I’ll have enough time to learn how to boost cybertrucks before a bill arrives. I shove my financial worries onto the back burner.
When the results come in, it seems unbelievable, but there’s the sobering proof: an MRI showing brain damage from stroke with lights gone off in parts of the thalamus — a white oval set in a gray blob. I blame the lighting. Nobody laughs — tough room. My girlfriend is nervous. There’s a bigger concern. No one knows why I had a stroke, myself included. I only have vague mystical guesses.
A parade of doctors rolls through, each singing different versions of, “You get a lot of exercise, you don’t smoke, you’re not overweight, have low cholesterol, you’re not really that old (52), normal blood pressure, don’t eat processed foods, don’t eat before 10 or after 5, don’t snack between meals, don’t overeat ... David, you’re not giving us anything to blame … which makes our job a lot harder.” The risk markers may be absent, but I assure them, it’s the lighting.
All the best writers go through periods when their creative output stops. Almost always it’s due to drug addiction (or rehab attempts to stop one). Having never smoked a cigarette or drank a beer, I’m a long way from drug addiction, and I’ve always worried I’d never be a formidable writer until I participated in the cycle. Opportunity has finally come my way — I’ve had a stroke.
I can’t type my full name without looking — too many typos. And I don’t have a sense yet how long before the angry union workers inside my left hand call off their strike. Or if. Or if something new emerges. Although doctors tell me it’s a mild stroke, nothing feels mild about this.
Is every medical problem a spiritual one?
I just won the synagogue’s Volunteer of the Year award. Things have been taking off with my band. This column is doing great. I don’t need an intervention. I’m not at a crossroads. My inner magician sends an owl: your body is smart. My inner cow sends a horse: strokes make room, clearing out all your blood-clot clutter. My inner door paints a window: every crisis in your life has offered a lesson. Sometimes understanding those lessons takes more time than you want. You’ll find it.
They found something. A pingpong ball in my left lung. Everyone is worried. I’m feeling it. The worry, not the ball. I don’t recall ever inhaling one. It’s my second night. I think sleep deprivation could be a bigger health risk. With so many checks on my blood pressure, blood draws, and this not-nurse janitor (orderly?), I joke we should become blood brothers. He tells me he just watched the Coen brothers’ breakout "Blood Simple" — says it’s important to understand the history of modern independent film. He rolls me to a new room on the ninth floor, The Stroke Ward.
During the few minutes of sleep between subsequent checks and alarms, I’m dreaming about towers with hideouts built into the sides of cliffs, waterfalls, and lighting fireworks inside chimneys.
It’s gray predawn, a view of fog from the gigantic window, and a new doctor bursts in with loud afternoon vibes. I tell him about my dreams. He tells me a second time that he’s a neurologist, not a psychologist. I apologize: “My inner fog and what’s out that window pair well. Normally, I’d track that.” Still, maybe the dreams offer some clues? Readers, you crack the code.
There is a call button on my bed. I’m hesitant to use it since I’m able to get in and out of the bed easily — also bored, eager to have a reason to stand, and much more comfortable just walking over to the front desk. However, the joke’s on me: the button is broken. I learn this the hard way when a nurse runs in asking why I’m calling. “I didn’t press it, I promise.” The button triggers two minutes later. Boy crying wolf. She’s back. “What?” I beg her to believe me. She’s not buying it. “They told me you’re a joker,” she says. I explain that I joke about local culture, not panic buttons. It’s her professional duty to disbelieve.
A second nurse gets involved, stays in my room watching, and the first one goes back to the desk. An eternity passes. Then she’s back, now madder — but not at me. I’m exonerated. She puts a FALL RISK bracelet on my wrist. She resets the system by unplugging and replugging. That fixes it, and the bracelet fixes me.
An hour later, a new problem: an alert, a small speaker in the headboard of the bed, inches from my ears, barking the warning, “Brake not set! Brake not set! BRAKE NOT SET!” endlessly. I get down on the floor and look under the bed. I yank on it with all my might and it doesn’t budge. The brake is so obviously set. The foot pedal is visibly locked. I’m not using that cursed call button. I violate my bracelet and walk to the front desk pretending to be someone’s healthy nephew. The nurse tells me to try unplugging it. Is there nothing that unplugging doesn’t fix? Maybe that’s the lesson: my stroke, a great unplugging, a system reboot. Is my brake set? Would’ve been hilarious if the bed rolled itself down 18 flights Naked Gun-style.
I won’t make the joke about how if you ever have a question, just lay yourself down on the bed and fall asleep — because sure enough, the moment you fall asleep, the nurse will wake you up.
Stroke of genius
I’ve always appreciated authors who had the courage to publish unedited first drafts. Maybe they had strokes?
The neurologist is showing me the dark patch on the MRI — the part that allows my fingers to type words on a keyboard. Stunning. Numerous typos. Frustrating. Did that part of my brain need to go dark in order for… a new light? He says maybe so and he says he reads my column. I promise to put him in, but he asks to remain unnamed.
A surgeon is here to review the next big thing. There’s some debate about how to crack open my lungs. One doctor wants to go in from the side, but this one is making a compelling argument for sending a robot-guided camcorder into my lungs following a CT-guided map of my bronchiole passages. Oh, technology. They want to collect a sample from the pingpong ball — which they’re now calling The Consolidation. I push back and insist we call it The Pearl.
I’m minutes away from my first intubation. They’ll stop my breathing for seven minutes, but that seems way too short. I encourage the surgeon to take more time, assuring him I can hold my breath for hours. He insists that I’ll be out cold. There’s nothing to worry about. Riiiight. I ask him not to forget to restart things when he’s done. The anesthesiologist walks in wearing a beekeeper outfit.
We’re rolling down the hall again. I’m dictating my final thoughts in case I don’t wake up, but the nurse wants to take away my phone. Bye! (One missing hour later...) Like nothing happened, I wake up gasping like a beached castaway. I frantically gesture to the nurse, pantomime shaking pen on paper. She hands me a clipboard.
I scribble:
God has earth under his fingernails.
He wants us to use the planets as an interstellar slingshot.
There’s no astrology, only astronomy.
And love.
Destiny.
We’ll start it all, builders of the great Network.
Our logo, folded equilaterals, like the Star of David.
Folded lakes.
Life’s foundation.
Jesus hasn’t been born, only a prophecy.
Meditation is one front, The Network is the other.
Mercury first (saves us from the sun), a traveler-talker.
Jupiter is the final stage.
They’re all counting on us.
Then I pause to look up at the nurse who has been dutifully reading my Dr. Bronner’s gibberish. She looks utterly horrified, like I’m writing pornography. I blink. My mouth is open. My throat hurts. I can’t speak. Why? I remember. I pull it together, draw a line and write: “CANCER?” She says they won’t know for a while longer. She steps out of the room, presumably to fetch a psychiatrist.
I’ve never done drugs or been hit by a train, but now I know both. It was no small dose of Propofol. Or maybe a lifetime of sobriety set me up for it to hit me a lot harder.
The biopsy results are clear: negative for cancer. A financially and physically expensive relief. I’m still reeling from the beekeeper’s chemicals, like a bad punk band playing in my head — an endless loop blaring: “Die! Die! Die!” In the interest of living, I’ll limit future trips into that land of funny business. I think we’ve all had enough of my drugged-up Carl Sagan / Isaac Asimov derivative mishegas. Even if it means never knowing why I had a stroke. I really don’t want any more dances with anesthesia. It’s the devil.
Nothing more to report. They still don’t know why I had a stroke. And no shortage of upcoming expensive tests. So starts our next chapter: Lessons from The Great Reboot. Stay tuned.
David Scherer Water has health insurance, but he will still have thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket medical costs. To discover more of his work or support him, become a paid subscriber by following this link.
chrispc2u
I just had my brain MRI and we don’t know yet either. Thanks for the perspective. Nice snapshot getting rolled by the convex mirror. Good luck with your outcome.
Friday, November 7, 2025 Report this
jimlazar
David, you have clearly neglected your vices, and are paying the price of that neglect. Like a sinking ship, with no freight to throw overboard.*
If you'd done a minor in recreational chemistry in college, like many in my generation, your body would have been ready for the chemistry set they unleashed on you.
Congratulations on your diagnoses, treatments, and continuing recovery.
Our medical care is expensive, in part, because of the amazing things we've learned to do, including your scans, blood work, biopsy, and more. It's also expensive because the CEO of Providence gets paid $5,154,374 per year (well, that's for 2023 -- probably got a raise by now).
The question you didn't answer is whether they cured you and you can type again, or just consumed a zillion dollars of your insurance, and whatever you've got yourself, simply to tell you that you're doomed to be a klutz from here on out.
* Borrowed without permission from Mark Twain. https://quoteinvestigator.com/2011/04/24/sinking-vessel/
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
debpattin
When I tried to follow 'this link', shown above as "To discover more of his work or support him, become a paid subscriber by following this link."
I received this error:
"Not Found. The requested URL was not found on this server."
I don't know if this is because I have already paid in the past to subscribe to The JOLT, or if that link is to subscribe directly to David's work.
Someone please let me know, as I would like to help him out.
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
CommonSenseSenior
David, loved that you did this particular column. Loved that you shared your personal experience, your fears and confusion and frustration. Great that you had an advocate with you (girlfriend), the ER 5 hr wait with 50 patients in waiting room experience I have had..complete with older man freezing in only a hospital gown falling from his wheelchair, woman in only underpants but naked otherwise curled up crying and sobbing, many parents clutching coughing obviously sick little ones, our county needs another hospital in a major way. And no parking anywhere near the ER door. Neighbors relate similar experiences. Scary time for you, my heartfelt hug. Keep us posted.
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
Snevets
Thank you for sharing your scary experience so far and for allowing your girlfriend to be your health advocate ( so important) I look forward to hearing more.
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
MakingSenseOfOlympia
I don't think the JOLT "office" is open on the weekend, but if you paste this into your browser, you'll find my Subsatck: https://davidschererwater.substack.com/
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
LindaD
jimlazar is right! You've neglected your vices. You have to prepare early for these things. We should run a contest - longest hospital wait. I just spent 12 hours in a hallway with a friend at Good Sam Puyallup. Yes, we need another hospital or maybe emergent care facilities to take the pressure off the hospitals.
Or you get lucky and they misdiagnose you and put you in the nutjob waiting room. Where people are screaming and clawing at the doors to the rooms trying to get out. Yes, St. Petes has two emergency rooms. The regular one and the nutjob one. You know you've got the wrong door when two armed guards rush you with metal detector wands. When you realize the place is stripped down. And, of course, the screaming.
Where you have to convince a shrink on Zoom that you're not nuts, this is medical. A little time in that place and you're just happy to get out. And you'll forget why you went to the hospital in the first place. See? All better now!
Saturday, November 8, 2025 Report this
DRamsey2
Great story! Your stroke induced "Carl Sagan derivative" writing is more entertaining and thought provoking than the news stories I usually consume. I have not read your column before, but the title of this article really pulled me in and I am glad. I am sorry you are having medical issues, but thank you for sharing your experiences with the public. Your description of time spent at St Peters is both horrifying and darkly funny. Sadly, day-to-day life is a bit like that for lots of us. The switch to standard time, with darkness falling suddenly at 4:30 pm, is discombobulating. The politics of the day, with the "shut-down" government and all, strains belief. We all worry about unexpected illnesses and the unimaginable changes they would bring to our lives. Your column shows us we can survive even strokes and mysterious masses with our personalities still intact, and that is strangely reassuring. i am so happy to discover a new-to-me local writer, and will buy your books! I wish you a speedy recovery and a swift return to typo-free writing.
Sunday, November 9, 2025 Report this
PissAnt
I'm glad your OK for now. I've been enjoying your writting. Please keep it up. I'm sorry you are going through this.
Monday, November 10, 2025 Report this
SecondOtter
I am puzzled by your not eating before 10. I understand the not after 5 PM, but you need fuel in the tank first thing in the morning.
As for Providence Hospital? Welllllllll my neighbor worked there as an RN. When she and others insisted that the hospital was infested with rats they were either shushed up and just disbelieved. It took a rat running right past the CEO in the ''cafeteria" to convince him that, you know, that looks like a rat." And I felt sorry for the rat, the food at the hospital cafeteria was dreadfully bad.
I spent a year there one freezing cold snowy night, complaining of chest pain and a racing heart. They took some blood, did an EKG on me (later on, charging my insurance over 4 THOUSAND dollars that took less time than it took to type this) and then stuck me on a dilapidated gurney in the hallway. I spent six hours looking at probably the very same florescent lights as yours. It was so cold I was shivering. Blanket? Blanket? Pfft, this is a Catholic hospital. You need to do some redemptive suffering. In retrospect, they probably would have charged for a blanket. Then someone came out, said I was fine, here, take some these two pills of potassium (chachinggg... insurance gets billed $60) and go home.
I won't even go into the colonoscopy they did on me at that same hospital. I hemorraged for two days afterwards and when my spouse reported it, they were told, it was just a hemorroid bleeding. That's no hemorroid, I lost almost four units of blood in 16 hours.
And, this past year, Providence has closed their Physical Therapy clinic and their Sports Medicine Clinic. To add to that, they had FIVE cardiologists leave for better hospitals.
Nope. I'll go to my veterinarian before I ever set foot in Providence Hospital.
Sunday, November 16, 2025 Report this
Olywelcomesall
David, hope your reboot and recovery is going well. Appreciate the good humor and telling your story of how a stroke appears, shifts things around and gets diagnosed. You’re brilliant even when parts of your body go on strike.
I look forward to subscribing to your substack (the link at the end the column works now) and I visited Last Word Books downtown and bought some of your books. Great reads! I encourage everyone to buy a few! Heck get the whole works!
Wednesday, November 19, 2025 Report this