I dont want to be a gork, I say from my hospital bed, clutching the arm of Josh, my youngest. At 42, his curls are going gray.

He squeezes my hand.

I have been in the emergency room for hours while the medical team waits and watches. Earlier, they informed me that another stroke was likely imminent, maybe only hours away. They said strokes often cascade, coming one after another, knocking out more of the brain, causing greater incapacitation, culminating in death.

I leak tears. My fear is primal.

Zac, my middle son, also gray, attempts to decipher my sounds. He patiently teaches me the word, sounding it out slowly: Stroke.

We practice repeatedly.

Orion, my oldest, with silver patches in his beard, is texting, keeping everyone updated with my news.

I notice all my boys gray hair as if for the first time. My sons have done the role switch, and now they are the caregivers.

I do not like it.

How unfair that this stroke took out language, I attempt to say. Why couldnt the stroke have blocked my knowledge of particle physics? I couldve lived without particle physics, I try to joke, but everything is coming out garbled. I want to convince my sons (and myself) that there is nothing to be worried about.

Isnt it ironic that I finished an essay about aging the day before my brain exploded? This is what Id hoped to say, but those arent the words that leave my mouth. Inside my mind, I speak in coherent, clear sentences.

The iron essay is orange, I say, believing Im offering lightheartedness. Hmm? Zac cocks his head. Would you like some water? He hands me a cup.

I imagine my strange combinations of words horrify my sons.

Orion smooths the blanket.

In the hallway, quick steps and loud voices billow the curtain that serves as the door of my emergency room cubicle. The air smells crowded and stale.

Ironic! I almost shout, exhilarated that Ive gotten out the correct word.

Zac and Orion leave to get food, air and a break.

I dont want to be a gork, I repeat to Josh.

He smiles indulgently, perhaps a tad patronizing, and says, I dont think thats a word.

Google it, I order. How does the word Google come out sounding clear and understandable?

Josh looks at his cellphone and then smiles. Who knew that gork was a real word?

Ive always imagined my eventual death as slow some kind of terminal illness with everyone gathered by my bed, me calmly dispensing love and wisdom, having all the time to say all that we need to say to each other.

I dont want you to lose your future, I think Im announcing, but Im not. Josh looks blank. I want him and his brothers to know that if I end up unable to care for myself, they must send me to a home.

You must not spend your future taking care of me, I try again, but it comes out as, You shouldnt spend taking me.

Sorry, Josh says again. I dont understand.

Orion and Zac return to my bedside. They also have no idea what I am trying to say.