One Year Anniversary: Surgery by Patrick Part 2

I feel asleep within seconds of finishing that post.  I slept hard and was awaken by the discussions of doctors like I have been so often during Jamie’s hospital stays.  For a second I thought that I was dreaming because I could hear Dr. Spetzler’s voice.  Why in the world would he be here?  He should be on his way to Hawaii.  I finally realized that it was real and that I better get my butt up out of bed to hear what they were saying.  In my half awake/half asleep stupor I asked the good doctor, “What are you doing here? I thought you were gone for the week?”  He replied, “I wanted to see your wife prior to leaving.  She looks remarkable”.  

I rattled questions off as fast as I could.  When is the MRI?  How long will it take?  Who will read it now that you are gone?  I was a pitching machine of constant questions to which he steadily deflected or fouled off.  “We will know more once the MRI is done” or “Time will tell, take it step by step,”  Dr. Spetzler reassured me we were in the best of hands and he and his little entourage of doctors left as quickly as they came in.  It was 4:45am.  

To be honest with you, Saturday is a blur in my mind.  Jamie would open her eyes and be in and out of consciousness for the majority of the day.  Whenever she woke up it was for a limited time and the vast majority of what she said did not make any sense.  She was so high on narcotics to dull the pain of the surgery that she had no idea what was going on around her.  

Throughout the day the five of us split time between Jamie’s ICU room and the ICU waiting room.  We also had to say goodbye to Nathan as he was scheduled to fly back to Iowa.  Jamie stated it earlier in this blog, “Nathan has always been very strong and it has a contagious effect on me...he would serve as a center of strength for me and a pillar of calm…”.  It was hard to see him go for this exact reason.  He provided that strength and calm for us over the past 48 hours.  I hated to see him leave, but knew his duties as a husband and father awaited him at home as well.  I will never forget what he did for us in our most desperate time of need.

The day continued and I honestly was only focused on one thing and one thing only-- the MRI.  The nursing staff probably nicknamed me the, “crazy husband asking about the MRI every 20 minutes,” but I knew the importance of what this would tell us.  It had been expressed to me multiple times that a large amount of trauma victims came into the hospital overnight and they drew precedent over Jamie.  What I was once told would be an early morning MRI turned into a late afternoon MRI.  

Bill, Mavis, Angie and I rotated in and out of the room with Jamie.  Arch madness was on the little television in the waiting room so I escaped reality by tuning in to watch the UNI Panthers during their NCAA run.  I sat there with a blank stare at the screen simply trying to turn my brain off.  

We were finally alerted that Jamie would be taken back for her afternoon MRI.  It was so late in the day that my biggest fear would be that no one would be able to read it because of how late it was getting.  Jamie was gone for about 45 minutes and she returned oblivious to what had just occurred.  

Time continued to pass by and I knew, I knew in my gut, “This thing is not getting read today.”  Sure enough, the news came that the reading would take place tomorrow, Sunday morning.  I was shattered.  It took everything I had not to come un-glued on someone.  Another night of unsteadiness was ahead.

I returned Bill and Mavis to the condo in Scottsdale and came back to the ICU to join Angie and Jamie.  Angie’s flight was early in the morning so instead of traveling all the way up to Scottsdale and then back to Mesa we both decided it would be easier if she stayed at the hospital with us.  Angie and I let Jamie rest in the ICU as we talked in the ICU waiting room.  

My nerves at this point were shot.  The ‘what if’s’ were popping into my head.  I kept bouncing things off of Angie and she continued to reassure me that, “Everything is going to be fine, Pud.”  You see I was prepared for the day of surgery and what it was going to entail, but what I was not prepared for was the 36 hours after surgery.  This MRI reading was going to provide us with clarity, a sense of relief, or heaven forbid, a whole other challenge.  

Angie insisted on sleeping in the ICU waiting room.  If you were to ask Angie I doubt she slept at all that night.  The security guards refused to allow people to turn off the lights in the ICU waiting room, so Angie aligned two chairs across from one another and slept sitting up for the majority of the night.  I returned to Jamie’s bedside to rest.  We couldn’t have slept for over a few hours.  

Angie and I left early in the morning to head east towards Mesa.  The drive at 4am is pretty simple and easy.  But with each mile we traveled it was hard for me not to be saddened about losing another member of our team.  Angie started this journey with us the day we left unexpectedly to Mayo all the way back on February 18th.  She had traveled this path with us when she honestly never had to.  She was Jamie’s Matron of Honor in our wedding and for the past three weeks she stood directly by her side like she did on our wedding day.  It was undoubtedly hard for me to let go of her as we hugged and said goodbye.  She has always meant so much to us, but even more so now.

I climbed back into our Ford Transit, brushed away a few tears, and headed back to the hospital.  I was bound and determined to get back there prior to the doctors doing their rounds.  The last thing I wanted was to miss them and delay hearing about the MRI reading.  I hustled into the hospital, sat patiently next to Jamie, and waited for the entourage to come in.  6am turned to 7 and 7 to 8 and so on.  I knew that Bill and Mavis would want to come and see Jamie as soon as they could, but I knew deep down inside that I needed to be the one to hear the news first.  I wanted to be the one to paint the picture of positivity if all hell broke loose with what we heard.  Selfishly, I wanted to be alone with Jamie if the news we heard was what we had been praying for.  

Around 9am I finally voiced my frustration to our nurse.  We had been waiting far to long in my opinion for this reading to occur.  The nurse assured me that they would be around soon to go over the results with me.  It was within 15 minutes of that interaction that he came into Jamie’s ICU room and handed me a phone, “Mr. Smith, Dr. Spetzler’s office would like to talk to you.”  I was in shock that they were legitimately handing me a cordless phone and escorting me across the hall to an empty classroom.  My heart was racing.  I could feel my pulse in my neck throbbing and my throat tightened up.  It was easily the scariest, most intense, agonizing walk I ever had.  

I put the phone up to my ear and said, “Hello.”  The doctor on the other side stated her name and that she was with Dr. Spetzler’s service.  She apologized for not being there in person, but she understood from staff that I was anxiously awaiting the results.  I leaned up against the wall with tears already flowing down my face.  What she was going to say in the next 10 seconds may shape the rest of our lives.  The doctor continued on by saying, “Mr. Smith, we have had a chance to review the MRI and we can confirm that a complete and total resection of your wife’s CM occurred during surgery.”

I will admit to you at this point that I was digging into my brain for the definition of resection.  I even stated to the doctor, “can you give it to me watered down?”  I was so mentally exhausted at this point that I just needed a, “We Got It.”  The doctor said to me, “Mr. Smith, we could not be happier with what we see on the MRI scans.  We successfully removed your wife’s CM”.

I crouched down to the ground, put my head into my hands, and completely lost it.  I thanked the doctor for the news over and over again.  I don’t know if she knew what I was saying as I was trying to talk between sobs of joy.  She concluded the call with her congratulations and hung up.  I sat there in tears, with the weight of the world slowly leaving my shoulders.  The poor nurse that escorted me into the room had to have thought the worse.  My celebration looked more like a grieving session to an outsider, so much so that he came into the room and asked me if I was okay.  Everything that had been building up inside of me since October 25th of 2013 had been released.

The nurse escorted me back to Jamie's room.  I was crying so hard that when I leaned over to hug Jamie I could feel my stomach convulsing uncontrollably.  Jamie woke up just enough for me to say to her, “They got it.”  She replied back to me in a drugged state, “That’s good.”  I held her…...she had done it and didn’t even know that she did!    

I knew that Bill and Mavis had to be chomping at the bit to get back to the hospital.  They had no transportation at the condo so I decided that I better go and pick them up.  I purposely did not call them to tell them the news.  I wanted to be able to tell them face to face.  The trip back to Scottsdale was not a drag like it was the previous days.  It was joyful.  The sun was shining and the radio was turned on.  I actually had a smile on my face for what seemed like forever.

I entered the condo to Bill and Mavis standing there anxiously awaiting my arrival.  I couldn’t have been in the door more than two feet when I blurted out, “They got it.”  I gave both them a big hug and they of course had questions galore as to what “They got it” meant.  But for the first time all trip we joyfully celebrated what we came to Arizona to accomplish.

We returned to the hospital and Bill and Mavis spent time with Jamie as we all continued to bask in the glory of the news we received.  The rumors on the ICU floor started to pick up steam that Jamie would be well enough to move to the neuro-surgery post-op floor.  I was quite pessimistic about this move because Jamie hadn’t even really woken up from her surgery yet to carry on a conversation.  But, sure enough in the late afternoon I was watched my wife get wheeled out of her ICU home and pushed down a hallway to an elevator that would take us to our home for what would be the next eight days.  6N47 had a shower, a cot, and Jamie’s new bed!

Jamie would start to come in and out of consciousness more frequently and stay with us for longer periods of time.  She was still sedated and under extensive pain management for the 5 inch incision she had on the back of her neck.  Bill and Mavis would remain with us in our new setting until it was time for me to take them back to the condo in Scottsdale.  We established a plan that I would come and get them early in the morning so they would be able to see Jamie and then take them to SkyHarbor for their return trip to Iowa in the morning.

The evening came and went.  As like any hospital setting minimal activity occurred during that Sunday.  I knew in the morning we would be inundated with physical therapy consults, occupational consults, and other medical professionals coming in to check on Jamie’s progress.  We rested and prepared for what was to come on Monday.  

As like the previous mornings, I was up and at them earlier than usual.  It was time to go pick up Bill and Mavis from the condo in Scottsdale.  They had a tremendous set up at the Scottsdale Links Condos all because of our close friends Scott and Shannon Farlow provided their timeshare for us.  This was just another example of incredible people watching over and caring for us.  We checked into these condos five days prior scared, nervous, and uncertain of our future.  As we pulled out of the complex parking lot we had a renewed sense of hope and happiness.

We made our way down the interstate towards downtown Phoenix like we had done so many times in the past five days.  I knew it would be the last time I traveled down this road as the remainder of my stay would be in the hospital with Jamie.  We arrived at Jamie’s new room with limited time for Bill and Mavis to say their goodbyes.  I think they felt the same way as I did, wishing they could stay longer with us.  But we all knew that they were needed back home to watch over our girls.  My brother, Tom had taken the brunt of the care for the children since we left.  Between Tom, my brother Jon’s family, my sister Kelli’s family, Chelsea and Joe, and Nathan and Ashley,and our close friends, the kids were being taken very good care of.  Spoiled rotten would be a better definition of their time with our family.  We knew that having Grandpa and Grandma home would provide consistent care and more normalcy in their lives.  

Bill and Mavis gave their love and hugs to Jamie one last time prior to loading up for the airport.  I had a sense of how medically sedated Jamie was, but not until later did I find out she had no recollection of saying good bye to them.  With tears and regret Bill and Mavis were ready to leave for the airport.  

I have traveled with Bill and Mavis before and flying certainly was not their favorite thing to do.  I knew that I had to do my best to remain calm and get them to the airport with sufficient time to get their tickets, check their baggage, and get through security.  Sounds easy to do, but I by no means am a world expert traveler myself.  Traffic: I’m not a fan.  Airports: quite honestly not my favorite place to hang out.  Trying to navigate, drive, and get people to an airport that I had never been to was not my idea of fun.  Mesa was a little puddle jumper airport that just flew Allegiant.  Skyharbor on the other hand was THE airport in the metro and BUSY.   

We came in to the airport and started to navigate towards short term parking.  We went up a spiral staircase of a road to the parking ramp where we found a parking spot on the fourth level.  I remember taking a picture of the parking ramp sign to ensure I would be able to find Bot on my return back to the car.  Bill, Mavis, and I nervously walked our way into the airport and found our way to the departure area.  I showed them the new technology of generating their boarding pass by entering their credit card.  We proceeded to the airline clerk and they checked their baggage.  I walked with them all the way to the security checkpoint where the friendly agents of TSA met them.  

It was here that it hit me: these two are heading back home it was just Jamie and I left in Arizona.  We hugged, tears fell down cheeks, and they turned to head through the security lines.  I remember standing there watching them walk back and forth through the lines until they got to the metal detectors.  I chuckled to myself because if anyone was going to get pulled aside by a TSA agent it was going to be Bill.  The guy has so many metal rods in him from his countless surgeries that the detector had to throw up red flags.  A few minutes went by and  my view of them became blocked by other passengers.  Soon thereafter, I saw the big right paw of Bill’s hand go up and signal, “We made it!”  All they had left was finding their gate.  I turned around and headed to find Bot.  

When I got back to Bot, I put both hands on the steering wheel and began to cry.  It was the first time that I didn’t have Angie, Nathan, Bill, or Mavis with me.  A very real sense of holy shit came over me.  It was Jamie and I left in Arizona and it was up to us to return to our family in Iowa.  

As I returned to Jamie’s side, I had calmed down and really had a much better mindframe as to what we were going to accomplish.  I came to the conclusion that this was Jamie and Patrick time.  I did not have anyone other than Jamie to be concerned about.  The kids were cared for, our Arizona army had returned to Iowa, it was our time to come together and fight our asses off to get home.  That would be the mentality we would have for the next eight days.     

Over the next twelve hours Jamie made progress that to this day still shocks me.  She would have her first PT and OT sessions.  She would be out of bed for the first time and go for a walk around the neuro floor.  She would hold longer conversations with me.  I knew she was out of it as she was foggy and medicated heavily.  What I did not realize is that she had limited recollection of anything between Friday morning at 9am and to this point in our journey.  It was the end of Monday, March 7th, 2016.  

When Jamie asked me to do this, I thought about it for an extended period of time and did not know whether I was ready or able to put these thoughts on paper yet.  It still feels so raw and fresh.  It feels like someone else lived this journey and I was watching it as a spectator.  There have been moments over the past year that I have been so numb to, in awe of, and honestly pinching myself to see if I was dreaming or having a nightmare.  

Over this past year I have had conversations that I had never imagined I ever would.  I have asked questions that no one ever wants to ask.  I had to take a long hard look in the mirror and ask myself if I had the courage to do what was needed to be done.

Am I happy that we had to go through all of this?  NO.  Am I thankful that I will have this perspective on life moving forward?  Absolutely yes.  

The doors that have been opened for us would have never been doors that we would have opened willingly ourselves.  We are grateful, tremendously grateful for what we have endured over the past three and half years.  We have learned lessons that normally are not learned so early in life.  We now have the opportunity to live knowing these experiences have made us better.  

So that we may Do Better.  Be Better.  every day for the rest of our lives.  

One Year Anniversary: Surgery By Patrick Part 1

Writing about surgery has been my most difficult post thus far.  It was an insanely emotional ride.  I was also heavily sedated for four days after my surgery and have many blind spots of my immediate recovery as a result.  I enlisted Patrick to help write this to help fill in the holes.  More so, I want our girls to understand that their Daddy is my hero ….….and I have no idea what to say to finish this paragraph.  Instead, picture me at the island of my kitchen, at 11:53 p.m. on a Friday night, bawling my eyes out as I empathize with what he went through those four days.  I am not sure if I would have made it if the roles were reversed.  

Here is Patrick’s perspective on my surgery:

The alarm sounded.  I had slept hard through the night which I thought was odd knowing the day we had ahead of us.  Honestly, at this point in the game Jamie and I were so mentally and physically exhausted that we were walking zombies.  My body and my mind were in shock.  We had just driven to a hospital on the other side of the country to have brain surgery.  (Still hard to believe one year later)

I showered, got ready for the day,and chose to wear my Do Better.  Be Better shirt.  We said our goodbyes to family at hours of the morning that are intended for sleep.  We traveled down the flight of stairs to our rental car and I directed us from Scottsdale to downtown Phoenix.

I remember two things in our drive very distinctly.  One: It as a Friday morning and the traffic in the Phoenix metro area was intense at the time we were driving into the hospital.  Two: I remember turning to Jamie and expressing to her, “You are having brain surgery today”.  It was so surreal to hear that come from my mouth.  

We arrived at the hospital parking ramp and proceeded into the pre-op area.  I remember how full the area was and how the board on the wall showed all of the surgeries for the day.  I glanced at it during our wait.  Jamie’s surgery was to take 8 to 10 hours, certainly Dr.  Spetzler would not have anything else scheduled for the day right?  Wrong.  The good doctor had 2 other surgeries on the docket for the same day.   I couldn’t believe it, but knew that he had his support teams around him and he was probably only going to be in Jamie’s surgery for a small yet critical portion of time.  

We were escorted back to our waiting area.  Jamie and I snapped a few pictures with our Do Better.  Be Better shirts on.  We made small talk during the anxious time of nurses, doctors, and staff coming and going.  We anxiously awaited Jamie’s family to join us.  Upon their arrival, we continued to take pictures and converse trying our best to avoid what I knew was to come.  The moment I was dreading.  

The time was near.  We knew only a few more medical professionals would be by to prep Jamie for the surgery.  The  anesthesiologist was the most critical of everyone.  He explained some significant details as to what his role was in the surgery.  At this point in the game, I was numb, scared, and simply did not want my wife to leave my side.  It was time, time for Jamie to leave for her surgery….for brain surgery.  

Jamies parents (Bill and Mavis), brother (Nathan), and best friend (Angie) said their “See you laters” (not goodbyes) to Jamie.  It was my turn.  We snapped a quick selfie to remember the moment and the anesthesiologist administered the sedation drugs to relax Jamie prior to wheeling her back.  I gave her a kiss and started to walk with her back to the “Can not go Beyond” doors.  Jamie’s hand relaxed, her speech slurred, and as I looked into her eyes they faded.  The drugs were working, she was headed off to surgery.  I walked with her as far as the medical staff would allow me to.  I kissed her forehead and watched her go through the doors.  

It was at that moment in time I had a flashback to being twelve years old watching my mother go through similar operation doors to have her right breast removed to stymie the cancer.  I literally lost it.  I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I could not hold back the emotion: the worry,  the stress, and the pure and significant amount of fear that I had.  I knew that I could not let the others with us see me, so I literally ducked into an unused pre-op area to try and hide my emotion.  I doubled over sobbing.  I lost every ounce of composure that I pretended to have.  It felt like minutes went by, but in reality it was probably only seconds, until Nathan and Angie came to my side to help me regain my composure.  I had to do everything I could to stay strong and hold it together for Bill and Mavis.  The thought of watching one of my own girls fight for their life is gut wrenching and they were living it in real life.    

We gathered our belongings from the pre-op area and headed to the surgical waiting area.  This would be our home for the next 8 to 10 hours.  We were one of the first families to arrive in the waiting room. We set up camp in one of the corners of the waiting room that had a circular table and enough chairs that we all could comfortably sit around it.  I looked around the area and it seemed more like an airport than surgical waiting area.  It had a huge monitor at one end of the room that showed patient number and status of that specific patient's surgery.  It was 9AM.  

Nathan and Angie offered to go and get some breakfast for everyone and I knew that I had to get some air so I tagged along.  Bill and Mavis stayed back to watch our belongings.  We found an amazing little diner across the street from the hospital called, “First Watch”.  You could tell that a lot of their business came directly from hospital staff as many of the customers were in scrubs of some sort.  We ordered, we ate, and I remember thinking to myself how surreal this whole experience was.  My body was in full blown shock.  

We arrived back at the waiting room with food for Bill and Mavis.  I noticed that I had left my phone in the waiting room while we were gone to eat.  (I must have been in shock, because when do I ever leave that thing behind?)   I picked up my phone to a mass barrage of messages.  I had hundreds of messages on that phone.  My tears fell.  Text messages from friends near and far, emails from co-workers/clients, and Facebook posts that would have taken me a year to respond to all of them.  The amount of support, prayers, good vibes...selfishly, it was what I needed.  We were an army of 5 in foreign land and simply knowing that we had so much support coming from back home….it meant everything.  

It is fair to say I was a nervous nelly.  I was at my wits end.  The littlest of things would get to me.  I needed my alone time and I needed to find my place.  I left the others behind in the waiting room and said I was going for a walk.  I knew exactly where I was headed; the Chapel.  St. Joseph’s hospital had one of the most beautiful hospital chapels that I had seen.  The chairs were wooden with maroon padding.  I sat quietly and peacefully reciting the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be.  I stared ahead at the large archway that held the altar and crucifix clutching my hands in prayer as hard as I could clasp them.  I called upon my Mom as I tend to do in time of need.  This was undoubtedly the hardest time I have ever called on her.   

My nerves seemed to settle.  I had seen a sign for a ‘healing garden’ on my way from the waiting room to the chapel, I thought it might be a nice place to go check out.  The sun was warm to my skin and certainly a welcome feeling coming from the Iowa winter we had just left four days earlier.  The healing garden was an outside area filled with trees, rock gardens, water fountains, and benches.  I did not realize it at first sight, but this would be my go to place for the next ten days.  It was so peaceful and inviting.  A place that you could come visit to let all your worries vanish into the Arizona sky.  

The timing of the day is a blur.  At this point it was probably close to noon.  I returned to the waiting room much more like the version of Patrick that I aim to be rather than the one that left a couple hours earlier.  A card game that the Garbes family enjoys to play is Pepper.  The five of us pulled out the deck of cards and pretended to the best of our capabilities that we were not in a surgical waiting, but in a living room in Dunkerton playing cards like we so often do.  

The card game allowed a portion of the afternoon to pass.  One or two of us would come and go as we pleased.  Taking walks around the medical facility, visiting the cafeteria/Starbucks on the main floor, and checking out the gift store as well.  Just yesterday sitting in church with Myah I opened up a pocket of my UNI coat (that I had not wore in quite some time) to find a guardian angel pin that Angie had bought for all of us.  It was more than just a simple pin, it was a symbol of hope.  

Throughout the day the surgical waiting room grew in attendance.  There was a mixture of tears, sadness, fear, and for some, happiness.  I remember very vividly a family going to the counseling room to meet with their physician.  They came out so happy and cheerful to what I would assume was the news they had all been hoping and praying for.  A part of me was mad, did that family not have enough respect to know that others in the room were still in the state of fear/sadness that they were just relieved of?  The other part of me was envious.  Will that be us coming out of the counseling room with smiles and joy?  

The waiting room had what I would call a surgical liaison that would come and update you with any information that she had available.  She would come over and say, “Yep, she is still in surgery, everything is going fine” or “Just went back, all is looking good”.  She knew that every time she came up to our family that we all sat at attention and begged for any glimmer of hope/information.  We had to look like a hungry chocolate lab eagerly awaiting her treat (Molly, our dog niece ; ).  

The time was close to 3:30 in the afternoon Arizona time.  Jamie had been back in surgery for over six and half hours.  The little waiting room liaison approached our table and instead of the simple everything is, “going ok” blurb that we got all afternoon she gave me the, “Hold tight and don’t go anywhere.”  Then she walked to another part of the waiting room to speak to a different family.  I legitimately lost it.  I popped up from my seat, raced to catch up with her and dropped an f-bomb.  I was beyond fired up-- my wife has been in brain surgery all day and you walk by us and tell us to hold tight?  What does that mean?  What happened?  Why did you not give us information right away instead of walking to a different family?  It was a perfect case of an employee losing touch with how important of a role she played in the livelihood of other humans.  Should I have done what I did?  Absolutely not.   When she finally calmed me down she expressed that Dr. Spetzler was done with his portion of the surgery and he would be in shortly to speak with us.  That is all she wanted to let us know….

I returned to my seat with a blood pressure that had to be 220 over 120.  My face was red and my ears were burning.  I explained to the family that Dr. Spetzler would be out to consult with us soon.  Everyone checked their watches and started to calculate in their heads how long she had been back there.   Six and a half hours which was earlier than we thought.  Millions of questions started to go through my head.  Were they able to get to the malformation?  Did something occur during surgery that caused them to turn back?  It was very challenging for me to not think of the worse.  

Minutes went by, they felt like hours, and finally we all were escorted back to the briefing room that we had seen so many other families go back towards throughout the day.  As we walked in Dr. Spetzler was already there.  I introduced Bill, Mavis, Angie, and Nathan and sat there awaiting the words that could sway our lives forever.  He and his staff were very calculated and guarded when speaking about the outcome of the surgery.  I would imagine from a legality standpoint they were not wanting to promise or guarantee anything with this type of a surgery.  They advised us that it went as planned.  Time would tell and a post surgical MRI would be necessary to measure how successful the procedure was.  All five of us drilled them with questions and their answers were like broken records.  “Time will tell.”  “One step at a time”.  It was not the guarantee or the rush of joy and excitement that I was so desperately yearning to hear.  I thanked the Dr. as I thought it would be the last time I saw him for a week.  He was off to Hawaii for vacation.  We were informed that Jamie should be “closed” up within the hour and we would possibly get to see her by 5:30.  

We all walked out of the briefing room.  I didn't know how to feel.  Was what we just heard good news?  We sat down at our table and looking at everyone’s reaction, we all were beaten down.  If it wasn’t for Nathan, I would have remained beaten.  He brought the positives directly in front of my face.  The worries I had before had been laid to rest.  They were able to get to the CM, they were able to remove it to the best of their capabilities.  We had to view the surgery a success until we knew differently.  We had to take a breath.  

The hour came and went. I anxiously awaited the beeper in front of me to buzz telling me Jamie was being wheeled back to recovery.  I glanced up to the airport board to see if her status would change from, “OR In Room” to “In PACU”.  Soon it was 5pm and the waiting room liaison that I verbally gave a bashing to was about to leave.  She came over and gave us her best and advised us a student worker would take us from there.  The waiting room was nearly empty.  We were one of the first ones in this room eight hours ago and now would be one of the last ones to leave.  She gave us the last update stating that they were still closing Jamie’s wound.  The hour that Dr Spetzler gave us was not the most accurate of timeframes.  It was dinner time and everyone was hungry, so I advised the others to go get some food.  I would hang tight to wait for Jamie to get moved to recovery.  

Everyone headed to a pizza place close to the hospital for dinner.  I had stayed back huddled in the corner of the waiting room.  I scrolled through Facebook to pass the time.  I had completely forgotten that my alma mater, Turkey Valley, was playing in the state basketball championship game.  One of the Facebook posts I saw was a link to the game.  I uploaded the link and there I sat in a hospital waiting room watching the Lady Trojans.  They were down big when I started to watch, kinda had one of those moments where I said to myself, “At least they made it this far”.  Slowly but surely they started to chip away at the lead.  I can’t remember the specifics.  They were down close to 20 points and the next thing I knew they were winning late in the fourth quarter.  I was so engrossed in the game that the buzz of the pager they gave me frightened me when it went off, “Patient Going To Recovery”.  Finally, I was getting closer to seeing her.  It was 7:30pm.  

I stepped out into the hallway to stretch my legs.  A person I recognized walked by me, it took a minute to put two and two together.  It was Jamie's anesthesiologist!  What do you suppose i did, you bet your ass, I chased him down the hall and stopped him.  How did surgery go?  How is she doing?  Did she bite her tongue like you said could happen during the surgery?  I bombarded the poor guy with 20 questions before he could answer one of them.  He walked me back to the waiting area and we sat down to discuss the procedure.  He assured me that she was a trooper and that the surgery was very successful.  At this point, I took a deeper breath.  

The young student waiting room attendant walked over shortly after the anesthesiologist left.  She said, “Mr. Smith?  They are ready for you back in the recovery area.”  FINALLY, I was going to get to see Jamie.  I walked back with her to the recovery area.  She told me to wait here and she would go to check and confirm they were ready for me.  She came out a very short time later and escorted me back to the recovery area.  I remember lots of cubicle-ish pods that had walls on three sides and a curtain on the front.  She pulled the curtain back and kind of gave me the “Ta-Da” look.  There in the recovery room was a lady that I didn’t recognize, didnt even know who she was….it was not Jamie.  I turned to the young 20ish old and said, “That is not my wife”.  As you can imagine, I was swiftly escorted back to the waiting area and apologized up and down to.  All I wanted to do was see her.  

Time continued on - Bill, Mavis, Angie, and Nate arrived back from the pizza parlor.  I scarfed down a slice of pizza faster than Rafael, Donnatello, Michaelago, and Leonardo could.  Once again the young lady came over to me and said, “NOW, they are really ready for you.”  It was time, finally time!  

We walked the same path back as we did before.  This time there was no waiting, she took me directly back, and introduced me to Jamie’s recovery nurse.  She stated that Jamie was doing well, but she had some vomiting episodes that they needed to have under control prior to bringing me back.  I wanted to say, “enough already with the chit chat, let me see her.”  They opened the curtain and there she was.  Resting.  Peaceful.  As I walked up to give her a hug, she started vomiting again.  Fierce and violent thrusts as she vomited into her oxygen mask prior to the nurse removing it and providing a pan.  It was all so much to comprehend and all so much to view at once.  She was not intubated like they all had stated she would be.  She had all of her hair-- I thought for certain they would be shaving a portion of her head to get to the incision site.  For all things considered she looked….amazing.  I hugged her, kissed her forehead, and thanked God for helping her through the surgery.  Minutes went by and I knew the others waited anxiously. I returned to the waiting room to allow Bill and Mavis to go back.  

With each of our support crew that went in, they all came back with the same marvel that she looked wonderful.  We all knew it was going to be an intense battle to get her back to 100%, but the first step, the largest step, was complete.  

As we waited for Jamie to be placed into an ICU room, I noticed Dr. Spetzlers right-hand man walk by the waiting room.  I once again showed my 34 year old quickness and tracked him down in the hall.  He recognized me and said of course I was just coming to brief you.  This doctor was with Jamie from start to finish.  He opened up the site and closed it down as well.  The five of us met with him in the briefing room.  Once again, questions upon questions were being asked.  Many of them were by me and many of them may have been the same I asked Spetzler earlier in the day.  He had much more time to answer them.  He went into far more detail than anyone had done before.  Almost every answer involved the post-surgical MRI.  “We will know more once we have the MRI back”, “That can be answered with the post-surgical MRI”, “We will know if we got it all after viewing the post surgical MRI”.  

The one comment he made that I will never forget was, “Dr. Spetzler has done this surgery over 500 times.  He knows the difference between healthy brain stem that is blood stained and cavernous malformation which needs to be removed.  Once you remove healthy brain stem, you can not put it back”.  Holy meatballs, did he just say that!

After every question was exhausted, we let the doctor go, after all it was close to 9pm on a Friday night.  He was finishing his studies under Dr. Spetzler and in June he would “graduate” and head back to home in Buffalo, New York.  

We gathered our items from the surgical waiting room and headed up to the ICU.  There was strict rules to follow regarding the ICU.  No more than two people could go back to see Jamie at a time.  The rest of us stayed out in the ICU waiting room with other families.  There were couches and chairs to rest in and a television to watch to pass the time.  

I went back first to see Jamie.  She had her very own room and her very own nurse assigned to her.  The nurse had a station set up directly outside of her room.  In the room was a small couch, rest room, and obviously Jamie’s hospital bed.  It would be our home until Jamie was well enough to move to the surgical recovery floor.  

As I returned from the ICU room, Bill and Mavis went back to see Jamie.  When they returned Angie and Nate took their turn.  It is hard to recall all that happened during this span of time.  All I remember was being exhausted.  

As the other four decided to head back to the condo to get some rest, I returned to Jamie’s side.  I was rubbing her head and sitting by her side when she narrowly opened her eyes to me and gave me the sign language sign for I love you with her right hand.  It took everything that she had to open her eyes for a few seconds and lift her hand enough for me to notice what she was trying to say.  With that she closed her eyes, March 4th, 2016 was over and will go down as a day we will never forget.  

I took to Facebook to update everyone of Jamie’s status.  Below is my post from that night.    

March 4th-

“Today my wife had brain surgery”.  As many times as I say that in my head I still don’t believe the day we just had.  I remember turning to Jamie this morning on our way to the hospital saying that very same thing, “You are having brain surgery today,” as we both just looked at each other in disbelief.  

If I had to describe the day we just had well…..IT. WAS. LONG.  It started with pre-op check in, difficult conversations with doctors dealing with exactly what they were going to do, and of course the challenging hugs and kisses prior to surgery.  Then came what I would expect to be the longest hours of my life.  The wait…..no words.  I am so thankful for Jamie’s parents, her best friend, and her brother for being here.  I wouldn’t had stayed sane if it was not for them….and all of you - the messages - the prayers- they were tremendous.  

As for our current state - Jamie is resting peacefully in her ICU bed as I lay next to her on a cot made for umpa-lumpas (seriously my feet are hanging over the cot by a foot).  I am thankful, I am beyond thankful….its deja vu for me as I flashback to Iowa City 2.5 years ago.  I have not been able to carry on a full conversation with Jamie as she is still heavily sedated, but about 5 mins ago she gave me the, “Smith Family Secret I Love You” sign, it brought tears to my eyes.  The plan is for her to rest and let the anesthesia wear off.  Some time tomorrow they will conduct another MRI of the impacted area.  As I have said before, she will get worse before she gets better.  The surgery acts almost as if another bleed occurred.  We are aware of this challenge and we are ready to battle together, “Step by Step.”  

At this point, I honestly am so exhausted that I don’t know if this post will make sense, but I will leave you with this.  

Today is the only day of the year that tells you to do something, March Forth is exactly what my GSD/DBBB wife did.  

Tomorrow we will be better than today.  God Bless!  

It was 12:47am on March 5th.  I had survived the longest day of my life.        

One Year Anniversary: Surgery By Me

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.

One Year Anniversary: Pre-Op

March 3 was a day full of pre-op appointments.  We decided the day before that everyone would come to the morning appointments.  So we all loaded into the Transit and headed to Barrow.  There was so much traffic, but the roads are beautifully maintained and it is incredibly easy to navigate about Phoenix.

My first appointment was in Speztler’s surgical wing.  I had to meet with the nursing staff to pick up all my items for my surgery and discuss the order of my surgery day.  The neurosurgical unit was not what I expected.  It was like an emergency room, with bays separated by partition walls and curtains.  My appointment went very smooth and quick.  The nursing staff were kind, efficient, and informative.  I, surprisingly, was extremely calm.

After that, we went to check in for my MRI.  This MRI would be the final view that Dr. Spetzler and his team would have of my brain before surgery.  They used this MRI to determine the safest route to reach and remove my CM.  We were very early so we walked across the street and ate at this cute little sandwich shop for lunch.  We ate outside and enjoyed the gorgeous weather.  It was quite the departure from the weather we left at home.

I was escorted back to the preparatory room when it came time for my MRI.  Once I was ready, I was taken to the room that held the MRI machine.  To my surprise, the room seemed very old and dingy.  I did not feel comfortable the second I entered and unfortunately that feeling continued throughout my MRI.

It was the worst MRI of my life.  It was SO HOT in the room.  The tech asked me if I wanted a blanket and I about laughed at him.  I also had to have an iodine IV for contrast (I HATE IV’s!).  The MRI tech was a pro at IV’s though, because I barely felt it.  Plus, they did not have music (I usually get headphones, this time was just ear plugs).  I couldn’t even count songs to keep track of time.  So, for 45 MINUTES (the longest MRI I have ever had), I sweat to death, tasted iodine in my mouth, listened to the loud drumming of the scan, and tried my best not to have a panic attack.  Did I mention that all I did was think about all the really bad things that could happen to me during and after surgery?  What would this MRI reveal?  I about started crying when the tech came in to pull me out of the machine.  I was so over the day and the worst part was still yet to come.

My next appointment was not until 4pm so we took my parents and Angie back to the condo.  We had time to relax for just a little bit before heading back to Barrow and spent some time walking around the grounds of the condo complex.  

My next appointment was in Dr. Spetzler’s office with him and his team.  This appointment was to discuss their surgical recommendation after seeing my MRI and answer any questions we had.  Patrick and I decided to attend this meeting alone.  We knew we were probably going to hear many scary things and wanted to protect my parents from hearing them.  We also knew that we would more than likely be very emotional and wanted to experience that alone.

We arrived to Spetzler’s office early to fill out paperwork.  The waiting room was packed!  There were people of all ages and it was easy to see who had brain trauma.  I was overwhelmed and felt very unsettled throughout our entire wait. I had obviously had my fair share of hospital visits and therapy sessions so I was used to seeing people at all stages of pain and recovery.  This, though, was different.  I found myself wondering what each person’s circumstances were?  What happened?  Are they fresh from their injury?  Fresh from surgery?  Months past surgery?  Who will I be like?  Sometimes I wish God would have given us an off switch for our thoughts.  I would have used it.

Forty-five minutes later, we were taken back to our room.  The nurse took my BP and heart rate and asked all the usual questions.  Shortly thereafter, Dr. Spetzler’s resident came in.  He explained the surgery and listed many things that we could expect.  I would more than likely wake up intubated and  unable to communicate with anyone.  There was a chance that I could bite through my tongue during surgery. I would be heavily sedated for many days.  I would wake up with a severe headache and a lot of nausea and have both for many days.  Due to the location of my stroke and the deficits that I have suffered from previously, I would definitely have loss of motor control and eye function/vision.  Plus, other factors (trauma of the surgery itself, how precise the removal was, my bodies ability to respond, react, and recover) would all help determne how many deficits I would have, how severe they would be, and how many would be permanent.  Here is the fun list of possibilities we were given in addition to those previously mentioned: unable to swallow or breathe on my own, facial paralysis, body paralysis, speech impairment, and intense dizziness.  

So, let me paint a picture for you.  Patrick and I are in a 6x10 room with this resident.  The energy and emotion in the room is making it burst at the seams.  I am sitting closest to the resident, with Patrick sitting on my left.  I cannot make eye contact with the resident for fear of a complete breakdown.  After all, how is it humanly possible to make eye contact with the person who is explaining in detail the demise of your health and life as you know it?  Memories from my Iowa City appointment from my initial diagnosis are on instant replay in my mind (you will never be the same after surgery).  Patrick is doing what he does….asking questions and preparing.   I, on the other hand, am staring at the floor, and biting my lip so hard to stop myself from crying that it could bleed.  I could hear Patrick and the resident, but they sounded like the teacher in Charlie Brown, muffled and distant.  I literally could not even think about any of it anymore.  For two years, and especially in the last two weeks, all we had done is ask these SAME EXACT questions.….what will my deficits be?  How severe will they be?

You want to know what the answer has been EVERY SINGLE TIME?

I DON’T KNOW.  That is every doctor’s response word for word.

Because they don’t.  The brain is an intricate and unpredictable organ.  All any doctor could do is tell us what could happen and prepare us for the possibilities.  All we could do is pray that none of them actually happened.

I wanted the entire conversation to be over.  We were beating a dead horse at this point.  I was starting to get antsy and about got up to remove myself from the room when Patrick asked this,

“Will she still be Jamie?”

And with that one question, time stood still.  I looked at Patrick in complete bewilderment.  Never, NEVER, in all of our conversations had he ever spoke those words aloud to me or to a doctor.  I am not sure why I never realized that he would be worried about that when it was always my greatest personal fear.  

All in the matter of a second, I looked at my husband in an entirely different light.  Physically, he looked beaten, fragile, and like the weight of the world was literally resting on his shoulders.  His eyes were filled with tears as he anxiously awaited the resident’s answer.  My heart broke for him.  I was doing this to him.  This wasn’t just happening to me, but to him as well.  I was trying to cope with how different I would be and how that would translate to my everyday life.  And Patrick, well, I am sure he was trying to figure out how he was going to do life without me.  How he was going to be a Dad AND a Mom to our four beautiful daughters.  Every ounce of my being wanted to take it all away.

Just as quickly as my broken heart came though, it also swelled with love and adoration.  Through it all he had never stopped being my other half.  He had never complained, or shut down, or stopped doing everything in his power to make our life beautiful through all the ugly.  I think I truly realized in that moment that he never would.  I was overcome by intense feeling of God’s grace.  Almost like He was saying, “I made him for you.”     

My tears slowly fell down my cheeks.  Unlike other times in the previous two weeks, I did not weep out of fear.  This time I cried out of love and surrender.  It was an entirely different form of release and it was refreshing and empowering.

Thankfully, the resident was able to confirm that I would, in fact, still be me.  The location of my CM would not cause harm to my frontal lobe, the part of the brain that controls personality.

Instant relief washed over both Patrick and I as the resident excused himself from the room to notify Dr. Spetzler that we were ready.  The resident returned with Dr. Spetzler within minutes.  He was in full scrubs like he was in between surgeries.  Patrick greeted him first and shook his hand.  I stood to introduce myself and the very first thing he said to me was, “Wow.  You look much better than your scans do.”  My response, “I get that alot.”  I actually got a bit of a giggle out of him as he sat down.

Dr. Spetzler was a man of few words.  He was very reserved and precise.  It became very clear that his resident was sent in beforehand to answer all of our questions and do most of the talking.  Dr. Spetzler explained his findings of the MRI; my CM was much larger and in a more difficult spot than he had previously thought from my MRI two weeks prior.  My first reaction was dread.  I was fearful that he was going to tell us that he couldn’t do it, or worse yet, that we shouldn’t do it.  Instead, he stated that we needed to remove it.  It was an active CM and my strokes were only going to become more frequent and severe in nature.  He quickly detailed his route and before we knew it, 30 seconds had passed, and he was gearing up to leave. That’s it.  This guy was going to cut my head open in less than 24 hours and 30 seconds was all the more we were apparently going to get to talk to him.  Patrick, of course, didn’t let him off the hook.  He began to ask the same questions he had asked the resident.  I think he needed to hear the answers from the man himself, the surgical God we had heard so much about and had really high hopes for.  Dr. Spetzler’s response to every single question, “We will not know until she wakes up.”  Total time of meeting: one minute and thirty seconds.

Dr. Spetzler and the resident left and the previous assistant came in.  She asked us if we were going to go through with surgery to which we responded yes.  With that, she placed papers on the desk next to me to sign and asked us how we were going to pay today.  WHAT?  Pay for what?

We were dumbfounded.  Right there, in that little room before we left, we had to pay for a portion of my brain surgery.  We put brain surgery on our credit card.  We never thought we would ever do that!  

Patrick and I were both spinning as we left the room.  Neither of us spoke.  We exited through the waiting room, holding hands.  I stared at the floor to hide my tears from those waiting.  I was embarrassed, but I also didn’t want to scare anyone that was possibly waiting to have the same appointment I just did.  I couldn’t look at Patrick either. I couldn’t bear the burden of of blaming myself for his fear as well as trying to carry the weight of my own.  

Our drive home was quiet.  To be completely honest, I don’t even remember if we spoke at all on the way home. I do remember what I thought about though.  I was replaying the entire day in my mind and trying to wrap my head around how I was going to walk into that condo and act calm and collected in front of my family when I was WIGGING OUT inside.  I spent the entire ride home trying to calm down and pump myself up…..you’ve done this before, you’ll do it again.  Stay positive.  Have faith.  Focus on improvement.  And suddenly, BE AN EXAMPLE, popped into my head and everything fell into place.

The way I responded to all of this was going to affect how Partrick, my parents, and Angie reacted to all of this.  My example was going to give them the peace and strength that they needed to make it through this.  My example was going to determine how the last few hours that we were all together would be spent.  Would we drown in our fear together or celebrate the many blessings we still had?  I chose the latter.  

I walked up to the condo emotionally shaken, but with newfound courage.  I am certain that the trauma of the last hour was still written all over my face as I opened the door--I am not a good actress!  To my surprise, I found my brother, Nathan, sitting in the living room with my parents and Angie. His presence both shocked me and stilled me all at once.  My brother has always been very strong and it has a contagious effect on me.  Having him there was another gift from God; he would serve as a center of strength for me and a pillar of calm and absolute for my parents and Patrick in the days ahead.  I was elated to have him there.

We kept our explanation of the appointment short.  For the most part I kept my emotions in check as I told them that the appointment was scary, but that Dr. Spetzler was very confident we were doing the right thing by going through with surgery.  I also told them that he said that I looked much better than my scans.  I think they appreciated that compliment as much as I did.  That sentence carried hope and we all needed it more than ever.

It was getting late so we decided to call the girls before we left for supper.  I do not often write about how the last three years have changed me as a parent or shaped the childhood of our daughters.  I also don’t write much about how Patrick and my relationship has evolved.  I would have two more blogs on top of this one if I did.  I have been so public with my personal feelings that I have made the conscious decision to keep the intimate pieces of Patrick and the girls close to my heart.

Over the last three and a half years, I have thanked God everyday for His timing.  I am grateful that I had so many healthy years- growing up, playing sports, college, falling in love, healthy pregnancies- completely oblivious to the CM that was lurking in my brain.  I was able to fully live for 32 years. I believe my life would have been drastically different if I had known about my condition.  I praise Him everyday for having all of this happen while the girls are young and completely oblivious.  Yes, they know more about strokes, brains, hospitals, and therapy than I wish they did.  BUT, if you ask them what they remember about Mommy being sick they talk about fun with friends, sleepovers with their cousins, and visits to the Mommy’s room, eating lots of sherbert, and doing therapy with me.  They don’t talk about if they were scared, sad, or worried.  They don’t know how those things truly feel.  They don’t understand how those emotions can put a hole in your heart.  They don’t remember how sick I was and how stressed, scared, and worried we were.  I am so, so, so grateful for that,

So, when we Face Timed the girls they were delighted to fill us in on everything they were doing with Uncle Tom.  They knew I was having surgery the next day, but they had no idea what it all meant.  I remember trying to tell them about it before we left, but their little minds were preoccupied with everything else.  I kept the Face Time conversation casual like it was just a regular ole day.  When I hung up I lost it though.  Myah didn’t want to hang up and it was like a knife went through my chest.  I had an intense moment of doubt about going through with the surgery.  Is this really the right thing to do?  Would it be better to just ride out the strokes and enjoy the time in between?

We also called all of our family members back home.  With each phone call, I recounted a little bit about the appointment and filled them in on the plans for the upcoming day. They all told me good luck, that they were praying for me, and that they loved me.  

Conversations under circumstances like these are hard and awkward.  I have had many of them--after my strokes, before eye surgery, before we left for Arizona and now these.  Do you lay everything all out there like you’re never going to see them again?  Do you stay more reserved and hope that they can sense through your tone all the things you want to say but can’t?  There is always so much to say and no idea how to say it.  And the energy you can feel from that when you talk to someone or hug someone is palpable.  There is no other feeling like it.    

I was drained after all of the phone calls.  I was starving and ready for a change of pace.  We eventually loaded up to eat supper.   We went to an awesome Irish pub and it was the perfect cuisine to eat for my final meal.  While we were there, I was able to talk to my sister, Chelsea.  She was emotional and upset that she couldn’t be with us.  She was nearly 7 months pregnant at the time.  All I could do was reassure her that I was going to be okay and back in time to see her deliver her beautiful baby girl.

After supper we went to the neighboring grocery store and picked up some ice cream for dessert.  It was getting late at this point so we headed back to the condo.  I sat with my family for a bit in the living room before retiring in to our bedroom to watch American Idol and write my final blog post.  Angie came in with me and helped me type it up.  It was very hard for me to see my computer screen, especially the cursor, at this point.  If I am being honest, I struggled to write it.  I was exhausted and I had so many thoughts in my mind that I couldn’t focus on just one thing to write about.  I felt like I was putting pressure on myself to write this amazing post for my girls since I didn’t know if I’d be able to write again.  I didn’t have it in me though. So, instead, I sat with Angie in the bed, wrote a quick post, and enjoyed my time laughing, crying, and reminiscing with her.  

I fell asleep quickly.  I was mentally and physically drained from the day's events.  After all, I was only two weeks out from my stroke so I was still recovering.  My stamina, both physically and mentally, was not great and that was the most activity I had done yet.  By the time I laid down, I shut off.  I had agonized over everything so much during the daytime hours, that I didn’t have anything left to think about.  My left side, by this point, was also more stiff and tingly than usual.  That reaction is a new tell tale sign that I am tired, over exerted, or getting sick.  

Tomorrow life would change forever.  Strangely, I was feeling more at peace about that than I could have ever imagined I would.

To be continued…...