I have written three posts since my surgery. It’s not that I haven’t had things to say, it’s more so that I am not sure I was ready to write. I began these series of posts three weeks ago. It was my intention to write one. Before I knew it, I had written pages upon pages. I haven’t even written everything I could, nor have I even began to recount surgery.
It is not easy to write these. It’s hard to describe all that has transpired in a way that does it all justice. It’s really taxing and emotional to remember all of it. When I write these details I don’t just remember it, I see it and I feel it. I see faces mostly---the reactions of my loved ones at each important juncture. I feel everything--it feels like someone is squeezing my heart in their hands. Honestly, I have wondered with these series of posts if I am torturing myself more than I am helping myself.
When it comes down to it though, these are moments that I won’t ever want to forget and that I want our daughters to know. Whether it is painful or not, I need to do this.
So, here it is...... my story of my brainstem surgery.
My alarm jolted me awake at 5 a.m. the morning of March 4. I had slept hard and felt very rested. As always, I did a quick assessment to test for any new changes. Usually this is the point where I pray for another day stroke free. On surgery day though, I selfishly overwhelmed Him with favors. Please protect me from the horrors my surgeon outlined. Please give me the strength and determination I need to recover. Please let me stay me. Please let my girls have a mommy. Please let Patrick have a wife. I could list about a million more.
I could tell I was physically fatigued from the day before based on my unsteady walk to the bathroom. It took me awhile to get my bearings and get into the shower, but once I did it was heaven. It was like my shower was washing away the worry I woke up with….literally. My mind was blank and I was relaxed. I made sure that I followed all my pre-op instructions with care. When I was finished, I took one last look in the mirror and reminded myself to let go and let God. Do not be afraid.
Patrick and I said quick goodbyes to my family and drove to the hospital. We held hands and made random small talk. Just a regular day, right? Minus when he turned to me stone faced and said, “You are having brain surgery today.”
Checking in to the surgical unit went very quickly. So much so that we thought my surgery was going to be an hour ahead of schedule. It was easy to tell that Barrow was a well oiled machine. We called my family and told them to make sure they were not late.
We spent the time before my family arrived taking pictures, chatting up the nurses, and responding to messages. We were overwhelmed with social media as well. I understand that may sound vain or silly to say that was how we spent some of our time, but we needed the boost. We honest to God needed to see and hear good. Messages and posts helped us find positivity, encouragement, courage, and joy. Plus, it was something to talk about other than brain surgery. Neither of us could talk about that anymore. It all was a welcome distraction from reality.
My family arrived and it was much of the same. We kept conversations light. My dad barely spoke at all. One of my most vivid memories of my surgery day is of him. At one point in time, I had drifted off of the conversation that Patrick, my Mom, Nathan, and Angie were having. I had another one of those moments where everything kind of froze around me. I looked around at my surroundings and found my Dad standing in the front left corner of my bay. He had his left hand in his pocket and was staring blankly down the hallway. He was lost in thought. My vision was terrible, but I could tell by his posture that he was crying. I watched him for what seemed like an eternity. He would stare down the hallway, then look at his feet while he patted his eyes dry with a Kleenex, and then go back to staring down the hallway. Every now and then he would softly clear his throat.
Two very opposing feelings overcame me at the sight of him. First, my heart literally crumbled. Just as I felt with Patrick, I hated that I was doing this to my parents. My Dad is a man of few words, but he has never been one to shy away from emotion. To see him crying meant that he was really struggling. I could empathize with him from the perspective of a parent. I would be devastated if I ever had to go through something like this with our girls. But his emotion also motivated me. In that moment of time I vowed to beat all of this and come back stronger on the other side. This wasn’t going to stop me. This wasn’t going to change the lives of everyone I loved.
Surgery was nearing closer as they were preparing me to receive anesthesia. I was given my IV and it literally felt like they had lodged a five inch needle into my hand. This IV was PAINFUL. To make matters worse, I decided to take all of my support bracelets off after they had finished so we had to untape my arm to get them off. I did not want them cut off of me in case something went wrong during surgery. Each of the bracelets I wear carry a very special meaning to me. It was only the third time in 3 years I had taken them off.
After my IV, I called my sister to make sure that I got to talk to her before heading back and before she went to work. She was still emotional and upset that she couldn’t be with us. I, in turn, bitched about my IV! It was a short conversation but I am so grateful that I got to talk to her before heading back.
No more than a few minutes after that did my anesthesiologist come in. It was go time. Like, really, they were ready to go RIGHT NOW. They gave me a quick run down on my drugs, my IV’s and my central line. They also explained that they would give me neuro tests throughout my surgery to ensure that my body still responded to stimuli. I have learned to block all of their “information” out. I do not care what you are doing to me, just make damn sure it works. From my point of view, knowledge isn’t power in these instances. It’s worry wrapped up with a pretty bow to distract you. I felt like I was in the middle of a tornado. Everything around me was moving so quickly and I felt stuck. I had NO control.
BUT I was ready. I was at peace with my decision. My mindset had begun to shift since the evening before. Of course I was scared. I mean shit, I was getting my head sliced open and played around with for the majority of the upcoming day. BUT, I wasn’t worried anymore. After seeing some of the outpouring of support that morning on social media, I truly believed that my army was screaming loud enough for God to hear (I feel like I just quoted the movie, “Elf,” somehow). God was going to take care of me. I had reached the point where I was truly, with every part of me, letting go and letting God. No matter how much I had heard from the doctors and researched about all the awful that could happen, I still was never able to picture myself in the future where I wasn’t anything other than me. A future like that just couldn’t exist. I wouldn’t let it.
My new outlook didn’t make goodbyes any easier though. What do you say? Honestly, what do you say in moments like these? It’s so hard. There is SO MUCH to say, no time to say it, no idea how to say it, and the fear of regret if you don’t say it. Plus, you are so emotional that it’s like you are having an out of body experience. It is in moments like these that you pray for the I love you that you say and the hug that you give to equal the weight of the world. Those last few interactions were hard and will stay close to my heart forever.
The last thing I remember before falling asleep is taking a selfie with Patrick to remember the moment. Who I am kidding? We both knew it was the last picture we would take as Patrick and Jamie 2.0. The last picture to document what “normal” was for us.
They told me the drugs would work very quickly and they were not kidding. I MAYBE lasted ten seconds once I received them. The time had finally come.
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