It started with the Tooth Fairy.
"I don't believe in the Tooth Fairy," my oldest said when he was 8. "I think it's just your parents."
He was watching me as he spoke and I could hear the question lurking behind his statement.
I looked everywhere but at him. "Well," I began, unsure exactly what to say next. I was willing to throw the Tooth Fairy under the bus, to strip her of her magical powers and own up, if I knew it would satisfy him. But I feared the avalanche of scrutiny outting her would spark.
Before I could decide how best to respond, he asked me flat out, "Is the Tooth Fairy real?"
Once he asked me directly, I could not lie. I gave up the Tooth Fairy.
And then I hauled ass out of his room before the flames of doubt could spread to Santa.
But just a month before Christmas, he went to his dad and asked the big question. And his dad was honest.
He waited until one night, right before bed, to break the news to me. I was prattling on about Christmas when he finally said, "Mom, I know Santa's not real. Dad told me it's you guys."
My heart broke.
I knew, at some point, this day would come, that eventually my boys would get older and no longer believe. But I wasn't ready for it at 8. I wasn't ready for this shred of innocence to be stripped away. They have the rest of their lives to question, to analyze, to sit with the reality of life.
I want them to be critical thinkers.
But I also want them to be believers, to be able to shake off logic now and then and simply bask in the wonder, beauty, and magic of feeling something.
While they are little boys, that means the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.
When they are men, I hope that will mean love, humanity, and life itself.
And even magic.
Because we all need a little magic in our lives.
No matter how old we are.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Let Me Down Gently
"Bye, Mom," my son says suddenly, because he is 8 and doesn't yet know that you don't just end a phone call so abruptly. You ease into it. Let me down gently, little boy.
"Wait," I say before he can hang up. "Last night I found one of your hippos in my bed."
"I know," he says matter-of-factly. "I left it there for you."
"For me?" I'm touched.
"Yeah," he says. "I don't need it anymore."
"Oh," I say.
Oh.
* * * * *
Originally, there was only one hippo. It sat in the corner of his crib, unnoticed, until the middle of one night when I stood outside of his room debating going in and just FINDING THE DAMN PACIFIER FOR HIM so that we could all sleep. But after a few minutes, he grew quiet. The next morning, he was holding the hippo close and chewing on its ear. The pacifier had been replaced by something he could find HIMSELF in the middle of the night.
Score.
However, even as his first birthday came and went, my son had terrible reflux, which meant there was not a single item belonging to either him or me that had not, at one time, been bathed in spit up.
So I ordered a back-up hippo. For when the primary hippo needed to be washed.
The second hippo was stashed in my closet, and the rule was that the primary hippo stayed in the crib (with an exception made for getting shots because everyone knows that rules don't count when you're getting shots).
This worked out well until I took a job working weekends. My very first day of work, I came home to find my son sitting on the living room floor with both hippos next to him.
"Buppos!" he giggled, holding them both out to me as if to say, "Can you even believe how much MORE awesome life is with TWO hippos, Mama?"
My husband shrugged. "He saw the other hippo in the closet."
So I ordered a third hippo.
"Buppos," my son would grin, stuffing the ear of one into his mouth and tucking the other under his arm while I gagged at the thought of chewing on cloth.
"Buppos," he would say quietly, settling onto my lap and into the crook of my arm in his warm, fuzzy footed pajamas as I read him bedtime stories and sang to him.
"Buppos," he would cry, his cheeks flush with fever as I tried to explain that we had only one hippo right now, that the other two were in the wash because he had thrown up all over them.
They were his buppos until, one day, they weren't. He called them hippos.
"Oh," I thought.
Oh.
* * * * *
A few days after leaving his hippo for me, he pulls me upstairs and climbs onto my bed, this big boy who is 8 and now has opinions about his hair and his clothes, who plays sports and asks me if it's true that grown ups use their tongues when they kiss. It's a beautiful thing, watching him get big, watching him become himself.
But it's a painful thing, too. I'm rarely Mama anymore. One day, when I wasn't even paying attention, I morphed into Mom.
How long before he stops wanting to sleep in my bed when he's scared?
How long before he stops letting me pull him onto my lap?
How long before he stops kissing me goodnight?
He has scooted over to the far side of the bed, the side I don't sleep on. He looks up at me.
"Mom," he says. "Can you get my hippos?"
I get him the hippos and climb onto the bed. He snuggles in, quiet for a bit, and I lie there smelling his sweet head.
Finally, he says, "I missed you in the summer. And I was sad because I didn't have my hippos that first night."
What this means, what he doesn't know how to say because he is only 8, but what I hear because I am 38 and because I know him like no one else on this earth does, is:
One day you were supposed to pick me up from school and you didn't. And then you were gone and nothing's been the same since. Tell me you'll be here when I come home from school. Tell me you won't go again.
I pull him close. I tell him that I was sad when I couldn't come home the night I found out about the brain tumor. I tell him that I talked to his dad first thing the next morning and we made our plan to get him the hippos. I tell him that I missed him every day, but that I knew things would be normal again eventually. Or, almost normal.
The grown ups are in charge. And I was never really gone because nothing could keep me away.
"Okay," he says, and he hops off the bed and goes back downstairs to play with his brother.
He takes the hippos with him.
Because he is 8 and doesn't yet know that you don't just get big so abruptly.
You ease into it.
Let me down gently, little boy.
"Wait," I say before he can hang up. "Last night I found one of your hippos in my bed."
"I know," he says matter-of-factly. "I left it there for you."
"For me?" I'm touched.
"Yeah," he says. "I don't need it anymore."
"Oh," I say.
Oh.
* * * * *
Originally, there was only one hippo. It sat in the corner of his crib, unnoticed, until the middle of one night when I stood outside of his room debating going in and just FINDING THE DAMN PACIFIER FOR HIM so that we could all sleep. But after a few minutes, he grew quiet. The next morning, he was holding the hippo close and chewing on its ear. The pacifier had been replaced by something he could find HIMSELF in the middle of the night.
Score.
However, even as his first birthday came and went, my son had terrible reflux, which meant there was not a single item belonging to either him or me that had not, at one time, been bathed in spit up.
So I ordered a back-up hippo. For when the primary hippo needed to be washed.
The second hippo was stashed in my closet, and the rule was that the primary hippo stayed in the crib (with an exception made for getting shots because everyone knows that rules don't count when you're getting shots).
This worked out well until I took a job working weekends. My very first day of work, I came home to find my son sitting on the living room floor with both hippos next to him.
"Buppos!" he giggled, holding them both out to me as if to say, "Can you even believe how much MORE awesome life is with TWO hippos, Mama?"
My husband shrugged. "He saw the other hippo in the closet."
So I ordered a third hippo.
"Buppos," my son would grin, stuffing the ear of one into his mouth and tucking the other under his arm while I gagged at the thought of chewing on cloth.
"Buppos," he would say quietly, settling onto my lap and into the crook of my arm in his warm, fuzzy footed pajamas as I read him bedtime stories and sang to him.
"Buppos," he would cry, his cheeks flush with fever as I tried to explain that we had only one hippo right now, that the other two were in the wash because he had thrown up all over them.
They were his buppos until, one day, they weren't. He called them hippos.
"Oh," I thought.
Oh.
* * * * *
A few days after leaving his hippo for me, he pulls me upstairs and climbs onto my bed, this big boy who is 8 and now has opinions about his hair and his clothes, who plays sports and asks me if it's true that grown ups use their tongues when they kiss. It's a beautiful thing, watching him get big, watching him become himself.
But it's a painful thing, too. I'm rarely Mama anymore. One day, when I wasn't even paying attention, I morphed into Mom.
How long before he stops wanting to sleep in my bed when he's scared?
How long before he stops letting me pull him onto my lap?
How long before he stops kissing me goodnight?
He has scooted over to the far side of the bed, the side I don't sleep on. He looks up at me.
"Mom," he says. "Can you get my hippos?"
I get him the hippos and climb onto the bed. He snuggles in, quiet for a bit, and I lie there smelling his sweet head.
Finally, he says, "I missed you in the summer. And I was sad because I didn't have my hippos that first night."
What this means, what he doesn't know how to say because he is only 8, but what I hear because I am 38 and because I know him like no one else on this earth does, is:
One day you were supposed to pick me up from school and you didn't. And then you were gone and nothing's been the same since. Tell me you'll be here when I come home from school. Tell me you won't go again.
I pull him close. I tell him that I was sad when I couldn't come home the night I found out about the brain tumor. I tell him that I talked to his dad first thing the next morning and we made our plan to get him the hippos. I tell him that I missed him every day, but that I knew things would be normal again eventually. Or, almost normal.
The grown ups are in charge. And I was never really gone because nothing could keep me away.
"Okay," he says, and he hops off the bed and goes back downstairs to play with his brother.
He takes the hippos with him.
Because he is 8 and doesn't yet know that you don't just get big so abruptly.
You ease into it.
Let me down gently, little boy.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Breathe In, Breathe Out
They can't decide what to do with me and the PA says as much. She's standing at the end of my bed with her perky ponytail and her white coat and I've already decided that I do not like her, not because of the perkiness of her pony, but rather because of the air of condescension floating off her like so many dandelion seeds carried on the wind. This is the first conversation I've had with her, but she is quick to point out that she saw me earlier in the day.
"I saw you by the elevators," she says.
I saw her too, holding her folders close to her chest as she looked over at me. I had been walking but needed to stop, choosing the most unfortunate spot I could find, a padded bench by the busy elevators. I sat, clinging to my IV pole and willing the floor to stop rising and falling.
Call, don't fall.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
I was feeling better as my eyes met hers. It didn't bother me that she was looking, everyone who passed stopped to look. With one eye patched, a turban of gauze that I did not know was blood soaked in the back, and my wrists and arms already turning a vibrant purple from an endless number of needle sticks, I wanted to grin at all of them and boast, "LOOK! Look at what I did!" But from her I could sense disdain, a silent "tsk, tsk, surgical patients should be up and walking, not lazily people-watching from the bench."
"So..." she trails off, flipping through papers from the foot of my bed. "We're trying to decide whether or not you should go home today. I'm...I'm trying to reconcile what the doctor wants for you and what I think YOU want." She looks up at me.
I hate her.
"What I want," I begin, "is to go home, so long as you can tell me it's medically safe for me to do so. But when you come in here telling me that you can't decide, I'm not convinced."
She frowns.
"You have family set up to stay with you?"
"Yes," I answer. Despite having committed the most egregious sin of getting sick without a husband, without a 'in sickness and in health' clause to enact, a barrage of family and friends have come forward, volunteering to take care of me for the next three weeks. They will wake me in the night to taper me off my steroids. They will be there to watch for seizures and confusion. They will dole out medications from the giant grid that houses pills of yellow, pink, white, and brown. They will help me up the stairs. They will make me smoothies and scrambled eggs.
They will wash blood out of my hair, an act so tender and sorrowful that even now, four months later, I cannot speak of it without crying. I cannot yet write about it.
They will rest a warm, steady hand on my back when I cry.
"You had a rough day yesterday," she says, her voice rising at the end so that I can't tell if she's making an observation or asking me a question.
I lean my head back against the pillow.
Yes. Yesterday was a rough day.
It was the day after brain surgery. I was in pain. A sweet girl in scrubs fed me a few spoonfuls of soup until I could drink a strawberry milkshake on my own. I was groggy, in and out of consciousness throughout the day.
A priest came into my room, making his introduction from the side of the bed.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
I opened my eyes to find my brother reading by my bedside.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
A woman who smelled like peppermint came in to take my vitals.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
"Jennifer," the nurse was calling to me in the afternoon as I tried to wake up. "Honey, we have to get you out of bed and walking. They REALLY want you walking."
I nodded. The neurosurgeons had told me this before the surgery. "You'll be up and walking the next day. We'll be sure of it." They had laughed and I had laughed, so eager to prove what a cooperative patient I could be. Oh yes, oh yes, you take out the tumor and I'll take over from there, I'll walk as much as you want me to walk, just get this thing out of my head without killing me and I'll do anything you want.
"Why don't we move you to the chair to start with," the nurse suggested.
She removed the compression cuffs from my legs and helped me swing them to the side of the bed. I was surprised to see how weak they looked, so pale and thin. They were foreign, these soft, unsteady, timid legs.
I sat for a moment, then nodded to her that I was ready. The floor was shockingly cold beneath my feet as she took my arm and lifted me up. I stood for a moment, suddenly aware of pain in my lower back from the lumbar drain, took three small steps to the chair, and collapsed into it.
"Good!" she cheered.
"I'm going to throw up," I sputtered before leaning forward and beginning to retch. She moved quickly, shoving a blue basin under my chin just in time.
"Sit back," she was saying urgently, but my body was automatically doubling itself over as my stomach emptied. A brilliant white pain burst before my eyes and I cried out, "My head!" but could not stop vomiting long enough to realize that this was why she wanted me to sit back.
"-too much pressure on your head-" she was saying, and I suddenly shoved the basin at my mother and managed to squeak, "I'm going to pass out" before a sparkling warm blackness flooded over me. I felt the nurse's hand push me back against the chair. I could no longer see her. She was calling my name.
"Stay with me, Jennifer. JENNIFER, STAY WITH ME."
I tried to grab on to her voice, tried to take a deep breath, tried to tell her I was trying, trying to stay with her.
-just get this thing out of my head without killing me and I'll do anything you want-
But I couldn't speak again until minutes later, when I was back in the bed breathing in oxygen from a mask and nodding at another doctor, the nurse taking my hand and telling me, "You scared me."
Yeah. Me too.
"Yes," I confirm for the PA. "Yesterday was a rough day. But if I can, I want to go home."
She nods. "Alright," she says finally. "We'll get your discharge papers ready."
Surgery was on Wednesday. Today is Friday. I'm going home.
I'm relieved.
I'm terrified.
"I saw you by the elevators," she says.
I saw her too, holding her folders close to her chest as she looked over at me. I had been walking but needed to stop, choosing the most unfortunate spot I could find, a padded bench by the busy elevators. I sat, clinging to my IV pole and willing the floor to stop rising and falling.
Call, don't fall.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
I was feeling better as my eyes met hers. It didn't bother me that she was looking, everyone who passed stopped to look. With one eye patched, a turban of gauze that I did not know was blood soaked in the back, and my wrists and arms already turning a vibrant purple from an endless number of needle sticks, I wanted to grin at all of them and boast, "LOOK! Look at what I did!" But from her I could sense disdain, a silent "tsk, tsk, surgical patients should be up and walking, not lazily people-watching from the bench."
"So..." she trails off, flipping through papers from the foot of my bed. "We're trying to decide whether or not you should go home today. I'm...I'm trying to reconcile what the doctor wants for you and what I think YOU want." She looks up at me.
I hate her.
"What I want," I begin, "is to go home, so long as you can tell me it's medically safe for me to do so. But when you come in here telling me that you can't decide, I'm not convinced."
She frowns.
"You have family set up to stay with you?"
"Yes," I answer. Despite having committed the most egregious sin of getting sick without a husband, without a 'in sickness and in health' clause to enact, a barrage of family and friends have come forward, volunteering to take care of me for the next three weeks. They will wake me in the night to taper me off my steroids. They will be there to watch for seizures and confusion. They will dole out medications from the giant grid that houses pills of yellow, pink, white, and brown. They will help me up the stairs. They will make me smoothies and scrambled eggs.
They will wash blood out of my hair, an act so tender and sorrowful that even now, four months later, I cannot speak of it without crying. I cannot yet write about it.
They will rest a warm, steady hand on my back when I cry.
"You had a rough day yesterday," she says, her voice rising at the end so that I can't tell if she's making an observation or asking me a question.
I lean my head back against the pillow.
Yes. Yesterday was a rough day.
It was the day after brain surgery. I was in pain. A sweet girl in scrubs fed me a few spoonfuls of soup until I could drink a strawberry milkshake on my own. I was groggy, in and out of consciousness throughout the day.
A priest came into my room, making his introduction from the side of the bed.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
I opened my eyes to find my brother reading by my bedside.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
A woman who smelled like peppermint came in to take my vitals.
I said hello. I fell asleep.
"Jennifer," the nurse was calling to me in the afternoon as I tried to wake up. "Honey, we have to get you out of bed and walking. They REALLY want you walking."
I nodded. The neurosurgeons had told me this before the surgery. "You'll be up and walking the next day. We'll be sure of it." They had laughed and I had laughed, so eager to prove what a cooperative patient I could be. Oh yes, oh yes, you take out the tumor and I'll take over from there, I'll walk as much as you want me to walk, just get this thing out of my head without killing me and I'll do anything you want.
"Why don't we move you to the chair to start with," the nurse suggested.
She removed the compression cuffs from my legs and helped me swing them to the side of the bed. I was surprised to see how weak they looked, so pale and thin. They were foreign, these soft, unsteady, timid legs.
I sat for a moment, then nodded to her that I was ready. The floor was shockingly cold beneath my feet as she took my arm and lifted me up. I stood for a moment, suddenly aware of pain in my lower back from the lumbar drain, took three small steps to the chair, and collapsed into it.
"Good!" she cheered.
"I'm going to throw up," I sputtered before leaning forward and beginning to retch. She moved quickly, shoving a blue basin under my chin just in time.
"Sit back," she was saying urgently, but my body was automatically doubling itself over as my stomach emptied. A brilliant white pain burst before my eyes and I cried out, "My head!" but could not stop vomiting long enough to realize that this was why she wanted me to sit back.
"-too much pressure on your head-" she was saying, and I suddenly shoved the basin at my mother and managed to squeak, "I'm going to pass out" before a sparkling warm blackness flooded over me. I felt the nurse's hand push me back against the chair. I could no longer see her. She was calling my name.
"Stay with me, Jennifer. JENNIFER, STAY WITH ME."
I tried to grab on to her voice, tried to take a deep breath, tried to tell her I was trying, trying to stay with her.
-just get this thing out of my head without killing me and I'll do anything you want-
But I couldn't speak again until minutes later, when I was back in the bed breathing in oxygen from a mask and nodding at another doctor, the nurse taking my hand and telling me, "You scared me."
Yeah. Me too.
"Yes," I confirm for the PA. "Yesterday was a rough day. But if I can, I want to go home."
She nods. "Alright," she says finally. "We'll get your discharge papers ready."
Surgery was on Wednesday. Today is Friday. I'm going home.
I'm relieved.
I'm terrified.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
In the Still of the Night (Part 2)
Need a recap? Part 1
He looked back down at the phone, at this former lover of
hers and his engagement announcement. There was a pounding in his head, as if
he could hear the beating of his own heart from within, that was growing as he
clicked through to Jenna Burke’s Facebook page.
Her profile picture
was of her and a friend, each with her blonde hair braided and wearing a straw
cowboy hat, red plastic cups in the hands they had slung over each other’s
shoulders to pose for the camera. She was
conventionally attractive; nice hair, nice tan, nice teeth, but generic, unlike
Kyla who stood out in a crowd with her long legs and wildly curly auburn hair. He had dated plenty just like this Jenna
Burke, although none seriously, as he found that once he had fucked a girl like
that, he grew tired of her quickly.
He was scrolling
down to find her status just as Kyla returned to the table, placing his shot
before him and then sitting down. She
picked up her own glass, raised it in his direction, and tossed it back.
He looked down
and read the post.
“Baby Greene will
be arriving in November!!!!” it said.
“Bottoms up, my
friend,” she said, nodding at his drink.
The pounding in
his head continued as he looked across the table at her. He had once asked her if she wanted children
someday, but she had waved her hand at the question as if brushing away a
small, annoying bug.
“No kids for me,”
she had said, leaning forward with a smirk, a glass of red wine dangling
precariously by its stem between her fingers.
“I’m not exactly
the maternal type.”
He did not take his
eyes off of her face as he tipped his head back and let the warm liquid slide
down his throat. He was feeling dizzy as the alcohol hit him. Nothing about
this night was going the way he wanted it to. Nothing about this night was making
any fucking sense. Adam Greene and his
pregnant fiancé and Kyla - his Kyla, HIS FUCKING KYLA - trying to drink them
off her mind. He took a deep breath, held the side of the table to steady
himself, and tried to tell himself that she was still the same, still the same Kyla she had been when she walked into the bar that night. She was not slipping
through his fingers.
No, she was sitting
there, across from him, her same hair that he had run his fingers through, the
same mouth that had met his, the same long fingers that had scratched down his
own back. No. Everything was alright. They would leave soon and go back to his
place and he would hold her close to him and she wouldn't be thinking of Adam
Greene or his wedding or his baby. She would wrap her legs around HIM and be
his and everything would be the way it was.
“You drunk yet?”
she asked. He nodded.
“Great. Then we
should probably go before I buy us another round and wind up throwing up all
over the bartender.”
He wasn't sure exactly where the feeling
was coming from, but he suddenly felt bold. Rather than let her decide whether
or not the evening was over, he stood and said, “Let’s go back to my place.”
“Perfect,” she
replied and in a moment he was steering her through the crowd and out into the
night air. He wanted to hurry. The
sooner he had her in his apartment, the lights low, her naked body beneath his,
the sooner everything would feel right again.
They walked
silently for a few minutes, until she slowed a bit.
“I’m drunk,” she
said quietly.
He was happy for
this. Maybe she would pass out in his bed and stay the night. That would
certainly go a long way to fix things.
“Wow,” she said
with a small, forced laugh. “Wow. I am…I am REALLY drunk.”
“Come on,” he
said, taking her arm and walking quickly but she pulled away.
“No, I…I need
air, I need…” she trailed off. Her eyes were shiny but remained sharp as she
suddenly looked at him.
“Got a
cigarette?”
“At my
apartment,” he said.
“Bullshit,” she said, laughing and grabbing playfully at his waist where she knew he always had a
pack.
He was growing
impatient, even as he stopped to pull a cigarette out for her. He couldn't be
sure she wouldn't still turn toward the street, hail a cab, and slip away,
leaving him alone with no relief for this feeling of urgency. But as he leaned in to light the cigarette
for her, she looked up at him with wide eyes and he felt, for a moment,
better. They were only a few blocks away
from his apartment now. She was almost his again.
She dragged on
the cigarette as they walked, their pace slower than he would have liked. She
hadn't exaggerated her drunken state; she stumbled for a moment, reaching out
for him as she steadied herself.
“Fuck,” she said,
closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her breast brushed against his arm
as she did. His heart raced. Three more blocks.
“FUCK,” she yelled,
turning her face up towards the sky and laughing. She let go of his arm and
sped up her pace.
“I mean,” she
laughed bitterly, “I mean do you believe this shit?” She was in front of him
now, turning back to face him, her hair bouncing as she did. He wanted her to
stop. He wanted her to stop moving, stop thinking and, for fuck’s sake, to stop
talking.
As if he had made it happen himself, she
stopped.
“You know,” she
began, and he wondered if, since he had made her stop moving, he could make her
stop talking before the next words slipped out of her perfect, delicious mouth.
“I was pregnant
once.”
He had failed.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Waking Up
PAIN.
It's all there is, all that I'm aware of.
The insides of my eyes are a wall of red and I feel like I'm spinning. There is no sense of head or back or arms or legs. There is everything and everything is raging, throbbing, searing.
PAIN. PAIN. PAIN.
Slowly, I break back through the surface of consciousness and my mouth begins to work.
"I'm in so much pain," I groan with a stinging, swollen throat.
"My name is Pam," a voice answers. "I'm your nurse."
My eyes fly open. She keeps talking, she's saying more words at me but I can't hear them. They don't register because in that moment the pain has been chased away by the relief of awareness that I have communicated with someone.
I spoke to her and she understood me. She spoke to me and I understood her.
My brain is working. I can think.
I am me.
* * * * *
I have a degree in psychology. Once upon a time, back in college, I knew the central nervous system inside and out. I could have drawn you a picture of the human brain, labeled each section, and explained the function of each part.
Here's your frontal lobe.
You, in the sense of your personality, with all of the incredible and maddening things that make you YOU, are born from your frontal lobe. It's the room where your memories live, your compassion swells, your despair bleeds. This part of your brain is your heart and soul.
Over here in the brain stem is the medulla oblongata.
The medulla oblongata controls your basic functions, things like your breathing and heart rate, things that your body just does because it's a body.
See how they are not the same? See how they are two different places?
But that's my college self, with her textbook and her studying and her grades. My 38 year old self tells her, You don't know this yet, but there's a tumor growing in your brain stem. Eventually, it will grow large enough to push on your 6th cranial nerve and cause you to see double. Three neurosurgeons will work to get it out.
You're going to be afraid of waking up as someone you do not recognize, someone who is flat and emotionless.
You're going to be afraid that YOU will be lost.
My college self shakes her head. You're not looking at the science. The tumor isn't near the frontal lobe. Your surgeons won't be poking around there. Your personality, your memories, YOU will be safe.
All the science says so.
* * * * *
My friends are here.
Pam The Nurse has blonde hair. Sascha has blonde hair. Dana has brown hair.
This is Dana standing on my right, rubbing my leg. The right side of the room is almost nonexistent because I can't hear out of my right ear and my right eye is covered so that I don't see double. But I feel the warmth and pressure and love from her hand, through the blankets, as she rubs my leg for me.
CONNECTION: I know you. I love you. Look at me, Dana, I didn't die today. Thank you for being here, thank you for rubbing my leg.
I am me.
This is Sascha, standing on my left, holding my hand. I'm babbling, telling her I'm proud of myself and proud of her as the nurse laughs and says that this is common in surgical patients, it's known as post-surgery euphoria.
CONNECTION: I know you. I love you. Look at me, Sascha, I didn't die today. Thank you for being here, thank you for holding my hand.
I am me.
Soon I'm telling Pam again about the pain. They cut a muscle from in front of my ear and used it as a patch in my skull. From my jaw down through my neck, and spreading out into my shoulder, my muscles are screaming.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Gratitude. Relief. Joy.
I can think. I can feel. I can speak.
I am me.
It's all there is, all that I'm aware of.
The insides of my eyes are a wall of red and I feel like I'm spinning. There is no sense of head or back or arms or legs. There is everything and everything is raging, throbbing, searing.
PAIN. PAIN. PAIN.
Slowly, I break back through the surface of consciousness and my mouth begins to work.
"I'm in so much pain," I groan with a stinging, swollen throat.
"My name is Pam," a voice answers. "I'm your nurse."
My eyes fly open. She keeps talking, she's saying more words at me but I can't hear them. They don't register because in that moment the pain has been chased away by the relief of awareness that I have communicated with someone.
I spoke to her and she understood me. She spoke to me and I understood her.
My brain is working. I can think.
I am me.
* * * * *
I have a degree in psychology. Once upon a time, back in college, I knew the central nervous system inside and out. I could have drawn you a picture of the human brain, labeled each section, and explained the function of each part.
Here's your frontal lobe.
You, in the sense of your personality, with all of the incredible and maddening things that make you YOU, are born from your frontal lobe. It's the room where your memories live, your compassion swells, your despair bleeds. This part of your brain is your heart and soul.
Over here in the brain stem is the medulla oblongata.
The medulla oblongata controls your basic functions, things like your breathing and heart rate, things that your body just does because it's a body.
See how they are not the same? See how they are two different places?
But that's my college self, with her textbook and her studying and her grades. My 38 year old self tells her, You don't know this yet, but there's a tumor growing in your brain stem. Eventually, it will grow large enough to push on your 6th cranial nerve and cause you to see double. Three neurosurgeons will work to get it out.
You're going to be afraid of waking up as someone you do not recognize, someone who is flat and emotionless.
You're going to be afraid that YOU will be lost.
My college self shakes her head. You're not looking at the science. The tumor isn't near the frontal lobe. Your surgeons won't be poking around there. Your personality, your memories, YOU will be safe.
All the science says so.
* * * * *
My friends are here.
Pam The Nurse has blonde hair. Sascha has blonde hair. Dana has brown hair.
This is Dana standing on my right, rubbing my leg. The right side of the room is almost nonexistent because I can't hear out of my right ear and my right eye is covered so that I don't see double. But I feel the warmth and pressure and love from her hand, through the blankets, as she rubs my leg for me.
CONNECTION: I know you. I love you. Look at me, Dana, I didn't die today. Thank you for being here, thank you for rubbing my leg.
I am me.
This is Sascha, standing on my left, holding my hand. I'm babbling, telling her I'm proud of myself and proud of her as the nurse laughs and says that this is common in surgical patients, it's known as post-surgery euphoria.
CONNECTION: I know you. I love you. Look at me, Sascha, I didn't die today. Thank you for being here, thank you for holding my hand.
I am me.
Soon I'm telling Pam again about the pain. They cut a muscle from in front of my ear and used it as a patch in my skull. From my jaw down through my neck, and spreading out into my shoulder, my muscles are screaming.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Gratitude. Relief. Joy.
I can think. I can feel. I can speak.
I am me.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
The Scary Part
It's been a long day. It's Monday and I've been at the hospital for blood work, an EKG, and my preoperative physical. It's rainy, I'm tired, and I need this to be over. Surgery is on Wednesday.
I'm trying not cry. I've been positive and focused on all the love and support surrounding me since Diagnosis Day. But now it's time to say goodbye to my sons. I won't see them again until after the surgery.
I hug them. I kiss them. I tell them I'll call them tomorrow.
I tell them I love them.
And then I wonder if I will see them again.
* * * *
People don't like to talk about death or dying or the fact that you might be afraid. Mostly what they want you to do is to Stay Positive! Because Everything Is Going To Be Okay! They will remind you that You Can't Think That Way! Everything's Going To Be Just Fine!
(Spoiler Alert: this is bullshit and I thank God that I've surrounded myself with people who believe in letting you cry your ugly cry and say whatever the hell you need to say, people who will stand there and hug you while you have a cry, even if you're in the middle of a very large seating area in a very large hospital where a number of doctors are sitting checking their phones but neither of you cares about them because you are a real, live woman and anyone who is uncomfortable with crying or feelings can just go fuck themselves anyway because who gives a shit what anyone else even thinks when there's a tumor in your head and it's kissing the part of your brain that controls your breathing?)
Doctors are different. Doctors lay it all out there for you, they make sure they are clear and that you understand the risks involved. You will sign paper after paper saying that you understand and agree to and accept the risks involved.
Death. Stroke. Right side facial paralysis.
Do you understand? Do you?
Stay Positive!
Sign here.
* * * *
His name is Dr. Matt. He has a last name and it begins with a V, but I can't remember what it is. I remember only that he introduced himself in the ER the first night as Dr. Matt.
"What day is it?"
I know the answer this time. It's Wednesday, June 12th, 2013. It's 9:30 in the morning and my two friends have just been ushered out of the pre-op area because it's time. They'll start IVs, they'll put me to sleep, they'll put in the breathing tube, they'll put the lumbar drain into my lower back to drain cerebrospinal fluid off my brain, they'll pad my body, they'll secure my head, they'll shave my hair, they'll cut through my skin and muscle and skull and remove part of the bone and then lift my brain and try to get to the tumor.
We're done with the baseline neurological exam. This is it. This is happening.
It's go time.
My hands are trembling, but I'm not crying. Dr. Matt puts a hand on mine and says this is a big surgery. He tells me that it's normal to be nervous.
But to prove it, to prove he's right, to prove that it really is okay to be nervous, I feel the need to run down the risks again. I start with the general: death, stroke, right side facial paralysis. Then, I piece together tidbits from various conversations with various doctors over the last week:
-it's in a difficult spot to get to
-it's wrapped around the part of your brain that controls breathing
-we might not be able to get it all
-there's a major artery right here
Does this warrant being afraid? Does this finally warrant it being okay to say, "Not to be overly dramatic here, but this is serious shit and it has shaken me to my core, and while I no longer doubt my own personal strength, I am afraid of having my head cut open and I am afraid that I just hugged my best friend goodbye, and I am afraid I won't see my boys again, and I am afraid that I am going to die today and I am afraid that this is it, that all of these 38 years have led me here and I am afraid that this is how my story ends. I thought I had more time. I thought I'd be a wife again. I thought I'd write a book someday. I thought I'd be a grandmother..."
The anesthesiologist is pretty. She tells me she's a mother, too. She tells me to lie back and relax. I focus on my hand as she puts something into my IV.
Dear Dad, please be with me.
Dear God, thank you for every person I have ever loved, for every thing I have ever felt, for every thing I have ever done. Thank you for such beautiful sons.
Thank you for this life.
And then, I am out.
I'm trying not cry. I've been positive and focused on all the love and support surrounding me since Diagnosis Day. But now it's time to say goodbye to my sons. I won't see them again until after the surgery.
I hug them. I kiss them. I tell them I'll call them tomorrow.
I tell them I love them.
And then I wonder if I will see them again.
* * * *
People don't like to talk about death or dying or the fact that you might be afraid. Mostly what they want you to do is to Stay Positive! Because Everything Is Going To Be Okay! They will remind you that You Can't Think That Way! Everything's Going To Be Just Fine!
(Spoiler Alert: this is bullshit and I thank God that I've surrounded myself with people who believe in letting you cry your ugly cry and say whatever the hell you need to say, people who will stand there and hug you while you have a cry, even if you're in the middle of a very large seating area in a very large hospital where a number of doctors are sitting checking their phones but neither of you cares about them because you are a real, live woman and anyone who is uncomfortable with crying or feelings can just go fuck themselves anyway because who gives a shit what anyone else even thinks when there's a tumor in your head and it's kissing the part of your brain that controls your breathing?)
Doctors are different. Doctors lay it all out there for you, they make sure they are clear and that you understand the risks involved. You will sign paper after paper saying that you understand and agree to and accept the risks involved.
Death. Stroke. Right side facial paralysis.
Do you understand? Do you?
Stay Positive!
Sign here.
* * * *
His name is Dr. Matt. He has a last name and it begins with a V, but I can't remember what it is. I remember only that he introduced himself in the ER the first night as Dr. Matt.
"What day is it?"
I know the answer this time. It's Wednesday, June 12th, 2013. It's 9:30 in the morning and my two friends have just been ushered out of the pre-op area because it's time. They'll start IVs, they'll put me to sleep, they'll put in the breathing tube, they'll put the lumbar drain into my lower back to drain cerebrospinal fluid off my brain, they'll pad my body, they'll secure my head, they'll shave my hair, they'll cut through my skin and muscle and skull and remove part of the bone and then lift my brain and try to get to the tumor.
We're done with the baseline neurological exam. This is it. This is happening.
It's go time.
My hands are trembling, but I'm not crying. Dr. Matt puts a hand on mine and says this is a big surgery. He tells me that it's normal to be nervous.
But to prove it, to prove he's right, to prove that it really is okay to be nervous, I feel the need to run down the risks again. I start with the general: death, stroke, right side facial paralysis. Then, I piece together tidbits from various conversations with various doctors over the last week:
-it's in a difficult spot to get to
-it's wrapped around the part of your brain that controls breathing
-we might not be able to get it all
-there's a major artery right here
Does this warrant being afraid? Does this finally warrant it being okay to say, "Not to be overly dramatic here, but this is serious shit and it has shaken me to my core, and while I no longer doubt my own personal strength, I am afraid of having my head cut open and I am afraid that I just hugged my best friend goodbye, and I am afraid I won't see my boys again, and I am afraid that I am going to die today and I am afraid that this is it, that all of these 38 years have led me here and I am afraid that this is how my story ends. I thought I had more time. I thought I'd be a wife again. I thought I'd write a book someday. I thought I'd be a grandmother..."
The anesthesiologist is pretty. She tells me she's a mother, too. She tells me to lie back and relax. I focus on my hand as she puts something into my IV.
Dear Dad, please be with me.
Dear God, thank you for every person I have ever loved, for every thing I have ever felt, for every thing I have ever done. Thank you for such beautiful sons.
Thank you for this life.
And then, I am out.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Five Free Freebies From the Not Free Hospital
While being diagnosed with a brain tumor is no one's idea of a good time, it helps if you can keep your eyes open to the perks of spending time at the hospital. Here are 5 freebies I walked away with:
1) SNACKS! I sat in the ER of my local hospital for a few hours before getting the news that there was something in my head that shouldn't be there. It was around 4 in the afternoon and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. As soon as they told me the results of the CT scan, suddenly I had all the crackers and juice I could want. This experience taught me a valuable lesson: in a hospital setting, you don't know when you'll encounter food again, so horde the snacks you can. Just shove them all into your purse. Who cares? You have a brain tumor.
2) JEWELRY! Not only does the hospital give you free bracelets, they even personalize them with your name, birth date, and patient ID number! Where else can you get free engraving like that?
3) CLOTHES! Even though I brought my own socks, the hospital gifted me these. While they are a bit limiting in that they only come in blue, they are warm and comfy. The downside is that they have white traction stuff on the bottom to keep you from falling down, so if the ability to moon-walk across the kitchen floor or do that Tom-Cruise-Risky-Business-sliding-in-your-underwear thing is important to you, you might inquire about exchanging these for the mesh underwear that the maternity unit gives away.
4) A NOTE THAT GETS YOU LITTLE BROWN BOTTLES WITH WHITE CAPS! These speak for themselves. Initially, they are filled with fun and/or awful medication (many of the ones shown here will keep you from throwing up...this qualifies as 'fun' at this point). Once they're empty, you have lots of little brown bottles for holding stuff! And little white caps! For capping stuff!
5) THIS THING THAT LOOKS LIKE GIANT BIRTH CONTROL! While this appears to be a giant condom, the hospital does not actually endorse this as a reliable method of birth control. Rather, this is for throwing up into should the stuff in the brown bottles and white caps not do their job. I keep this in my purse. It's a great conversation starter.
1) SNACKS! I sat in the ER of my local hospital for a few hours before getting the news that there was something in my head that shouldn't be there. It was around 4 in the afternoon and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. As soon as they told me the results of the CT scan, suddenly I had all the crackers and juice I could want. This experience taught me a valuable lesson: in a hospital setting, you don't know when you'll encounter food again, so horde the snacks you can. Just shove them all into your purse. Who cares? You have a brain tumor.
2) JEWELRY! Not only does the hospital give you free bracelets, they even personalize them with your name, birth date, and patient ID number! Where else can you get free engraving like that?
3) CLOTHES! Even though I brought my own socks, the hospital gifted me these. While they are a bit limiting in that they only come in blue, they are warm and comfy. The downside is that they have white traction stuff on the bottom to keep you from falling down, so if the ability to moon-walk across the kitchen floor or do that Tom-Cruise-Risky-Business-sliding-in-your-underwear thing is important to you, you might inquire about exchanging these for the mesh underwear that the maternity unit gives away.
4) A NOTE THAT GETS YOU LITTLE BROWN BOTTLES WITH WHITE CAPS! These speak for themselves. Initially, they are filled with fun and/or awful medication (many of the ones shown here will keep you from throwing up...this qualifies as 'fun' at this point). Once they're empty, you have lots of little brown bottles for holding stuff! And little white caps! For capping stuff!
5) THIS THING THAT LOOKS LIKE GIANT BIRTH CONTROL! While this appears to be a giant condom, the hospital does not actually endorse this as a reliable method of birth control. Rather, this is for throwing up into should the stuff in the brown bottles and white caps not do their job. I keep this in my purse. It's a great conversation starter.
Complain about rising health care costs all you want, if it's paying for freebies like these, I'm on board.
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