On June 13, Stu Shiffman was taken by ambulance to Harborview Medical Center having suffered a stroke. Most of you know all this.

As of this date, December 13, six months later, Stu remains in a medical facility. This is astonishing in some ways, I know. He has survived numerous set-backs, has undergone surgeries, has been treated with a ridiculous number of drugs. He is alive. And he is well.

As I write this, on a rainy December night in Seattle, my heart is so full. Today when asked in a conference what the goal was for Stu, I said without hesitating "to come home". That sounds simple, but there have been so many days when I could not have said it without at least a little pause. And i was not playing to an audience, not saying hopeful stuff. I believe it and know it. Oh, and the response was simply "good". There was no hesitation, no doubt, no attempt to suggest this was unrealistic or a bad idea. Nope. Stu will come home, of that I am sure.

Stu has improved so damn much, especially in these last seven to ten days, it's remarkable. One doctor at Kindred Hospital had said to me/us, more than once, that he saw this a lot: that one day, a patient who'd had a stroke just sort of "woke up" and then, as he put it, there was no stopping them. Stu is there, he is back, he is totally recognizably Stu Shiffman.

I'm not raising false hope, believe me. I of all people know what's ahead. There are still measurable, tough things to get through to improve on, to hope for. Stu still is not speaking. Words are still an issue, not just because he's still dealing with a trach but there is just stuff that isn't back (yet). But through it all, as most of you know, he's been aware and has understood what has been said to him. It's more than that now. He's responding. He's right there, he's responding instantly. He gets not only what is being said, but he is, through facial gesture, smiles, hand gestures, nods and shrugs, able to express himself and able to express complex thoughts and ideas. Don't worry, I'm not imagining things. I ask, all the time, "do you mean this?" and if not, we keep trying. But I'm getting things like "no, not yet" and "it's okay for now". I've talked with him about everything from his memory (which appears truly intact except for the obvious, the trauma of the stroke) and while I don't know what he remembers of the last six months, so far, I haven't pressed because, well, who cares? And well, I am happy if he does not remember and never wants to. I have told him repeatedly that any time he wants me to tell him, I will, but I've also said, making a face, that I'd be really happy not to tell him because, hell, it's icky.

Stu still tires easily. No really, you exclaim. Big honking surprise. Yeah, exactly. Sleep is still a huge factor in healing a brain injury. But there are changes, there are things that were commonplace that are gone, totally gone. Like the constant hiccups he dealt with. The near total weakness in his right hand and arm (still not all the way back, but he's got a grip.) Almost daily, I tell him something I see, something I witness that he is doing that he wasn't doing last week, or even yesterday. No joke. Some of these things are deeply personal between us, some are obvious to every nurse, therapist, CNA on staff at Seattle Medicine and Rehab.

You know what I want to say here. Thank you. To every single person who has sent an email, who has visited, who has fed me, and run errands for me. Who has been chez roscoe and kept it from collapsing on itself. To everyone who's sent a card, said a prayer, sent money for the taxi fund. To everyone who's come by to see me, or Stu. Who's brought food, drink, flowers, paper towels, salads and monsters. To the stalwarts - Tom and Luke, Lauryn and Loren, Jane and Elizabeth, Astrid and Richard in far off Connecticut. To Gary. You know why. Oh. My. Gods. You have helped save a life and at least one sanity.

It's far from over. Stu is still on heavy medications for his wonky heart rate and still needs a ventilator. However, we will be testing his ability to be off it - with his express permission only, with me there every second, because while his breathing is vastly better, he still has this funky funny little tendency to stop breathing on occasion. Not sleep apnea, central apnea. His body is still healing and dealing. This could be one of those "brain finds a different pathway". No one is giving up.

He is off antibiotics and his vital signs are as good as can be. He can speak for himself in nods and gestures, and I am learning to STFU because he can answer for himself in many cases. He is tolerating therapy, he is tolerating showers and visits and conferences at his bedside. Then he sacks out for several hours. He still has issues with coughing, although the need for suctioning, due to heavy secretions, is down from several times a day to once, maybe twice. Some depends on the weather - Stu is always dealing with congestion, always. No, he's not standing up yet, but that's in the works. He's been in bed a long long time, but he has lots of strength and this is Stu. He does everything asked of him. He wants to be back. He's shown an astonishing patience and lack of frustration. I tell him often that in part that's because he has helped me through years and years of whining frustration when I'm tired and i don't wanna be. He gets that. He knows I will never lose patience with him. I have sworn to him that I won't, and I cannot see that this is an issue. I love this guy. I'm so lucky. And I tell him that every day. We know that this is the hardest things he has ever been through. He knows I'm here for life. He knows that I am not scared. Worried? Hell yes. But not scared for the future.

What else can I tell you? I'm sure I'm missing a lot. How am I? I hurt. Lots. But my heart is so buoyed by what I see every day. I probably spend too much time making bad jokes and working to make him smile every day, but here's the thing. I get different smiles. Lots of different ones. Grins, sweet smiles, sardonic looks and more. He's getting all sorts of jokes and funny stuff. And it's not wishful thinking. Stu gets the "red shirt on Dec. 21" bit (if you don't, ask a friend who knows something about Star Trek.) I recently reread "The Slan of Baker Street" to Stu. This was a one-shot fanzine put together by Stu's longtime friend Taral Wayne, and while I'd showed it to him before, and had read stuff to him before, this time, oh he so got it. I watched his face, watched when he closed his eyes, savoring something sweet (oh thanks, Hooper) and something so nice (thanks again, Taral) and this time saw and liked the cartoons (thanks Steve, and Kurt, and Sheryl and...oh man, sorry guys, I'm getting way tired.) But he got the love and he got the jokes, and he got the appreciation. He knows you're there.

Six months folks. Six months.