A Year of Hell--Where I've Been Lately

Hey, beautiful people. It's been a minute.

My apologies for being M.I.A. this past year. It hasn't been easy. In fact, it's been the most challenging time of my life.

I've lost my career.

I've lost friends I deeply care for.

And I lost my Dad except, not quite.

Last July, my Dad had a massive stroke. I found him immobile and soaked in his urine on the balcony of his condo. 

His right arm was hanging off the armrest of the patio chair he was in. Blood ran down like a waterfall, pooling at the base. And when I asked him questions, he "saluted" to me and laid his head back in the chair to fall asleep. He couldn't speak. 

Somehow, I sprang into action. I called the paramedics, and Dad was rushed to one hospital, then air-flown via helicopter to another.

As I drove to Daytona, doing 90mph on I-95 South, I felt numb yet every emotion simultaneously.

Upon arriving, Dad was sent to immediate and emergency surgery. An embolectomy was performed to clear the blood clot that stopped the blood from circulating in his brain.

The surgery was a success. My Dad was saved.

It was another two months until he returned home. But he didn't come home the same. Not even close. He lost the use of the entire right side of his body. And his ability to speak.

I've spent the past year as a caregiver. Making meals, refilling his medicine, and changing his diapers.

To say that this has been challenging would be the understatement of the century. It has been the most brutal year of my life. 

I had to dig deep. Stranded. Hurt. Alone. 

The career I loved was gone. But, unfortunately, so were the people I wanted to vent to. 

Funny enough, someone I wanted to vent to about the situation with my Dad was my Dad. I couldn't do that either.

I'm writing this to all of you, not for pity or sympathy. I don't want it. 

What I want, instead, is for you to remember this: 

When you think you can't endure, you can.

When you think you're tapped out, you're not.

When you think you won't make it, you will. 

Something oddly beautiful happens when you go through pain. 

When you don't run away from the suffering, you take it. You take its best shots. You take the hardest hits. You take the beatdown...

And then, when it's over?

You get back up.

That is hauntingly beautiful. And it's a choice. One that we all can make.

Three months ago, I thought I had cracked. I thought I had reached my limit and my breaking point.

And then I channeled it all into my new venture.

THIS.

New and improved. Three months, every day. I worked when I was awake and when I should've been asleep.

My therapy is helping all of you. 

I'm sorry for disappearing. I'm back now.

Expect more of these emails from me. 

Unsubscribe if you want. Or, stick around and see what's to come. 

I look forward to giving myself back to all of you.

Chris Teutsch

P.S. SO Sorry about all those emails last night. I don't know what the heck happened.