(posted by Linda)
The best of surgeries is never fun. Even when you’re having an operation to relieve something excruciatingly painful, even if you’re having a C-section to deliver a long-awaited baby, the surgery part is still no vacation. Especially if you’re having your skull drilled open in a marathon that’s scheduled to last some five hours, and especially if it starts later than it’s supposed to.
First of all, I should caution anyone reading this to be prepared: Having a loved one diagnosed with a brain tumor turns into a chronic sleep deprivation study, fast. First, there’s the simple worry over the loved one and the prognosis and what that will mean for the person’s life. Then there’s the gnawing despondence and anger at fate, or at the God that some people assure you still exists, over the fact that life circumstances that started out bad and trended generally worse have now taken a ninety degree free-fall straight for the bottom. Then there are the correspondence duties—more and more people come to mind who need to be notified, and then they all need news. Then there’s the influence of the caffeine you drank this morning to get you over the sleep you didn’t get last night. And then there’s The Packets.
(More on that later.)
I never knew exactly how or why, but over the course of twenty-four hours, Bob came to a more reasonable view of the disastrous conversation of Friday night. Saturday, with tears streaming down his face and mine, he sat in his hospital room with Adam and me and went over some final wishes…just in case.
I had had this crazy idea that I was going to work on the day of Bob’s surgery. We had a new part-time doctor at work and I couldn’t volunteer to work any extra days—not that I’d want to anyway, with all this going on—and with no sick pay or vacation pay, every penny counted. Perhaps it was just a form of denial—a way to pretend that what was happening, wasn’t really happening. But once I woke up from denial and realized that the wee hours of August 22nd might be the last time my husband would speak to me, ever, I knew I had to call work and tell them I wouldn’t be there. I also decided to pull an overnighter at the hospital on Sunday night. If I knew I had a five hour brain surgery to look forward to, I wouldn’t want to spend the night alone.
I would just like to caution anyone who needs to stay overnight in a hospital like that, especially at St. Mary’s, to get some extra sleep the night before if at all possible. I was already sleep-deprived anyway, and the accommodations there weren’t a whole lot of help.
Eric had left us his portable DVD player and gone home to sleep early (a wise move), promising to be back around 5 AM. We watched a movie until around 11:30, at which time Bob said he was tired and promptly dropped off to sleep. I don’t know how he managed it—I wouldn’t have—but I’m glad he did. I, on the other hand, had to try out the hospital chairs.
The nurses on the floor had searched for a cot, but none was available. They moved one of the regular chairs out and moved in a recliner for me to sleep in. While I’ll always appreciate them for letting me stay and for doing their best to make sure I was comfortable, these recliners leave something to be desired.
I had noticed, whenever Eric visited, that he kept getting up from his chair and walking around, complaining that his leg had gone to sleep. Well, my entire butt went to sleep—amazing considering the amount of, um, padding thereon. I might have drifted off anyway, but every time I almost did, the monitors over Bob’s head went: BEE-EEP! They seemed to do this every ten minutes. How anybody gets any sleep in there, I’ll never know.
I tried to change positions, but every time I did, my comfortable, gauzy, wear-to-the-hospital-overnight pants made a noise on the imitation leather like a giant fart, and I was afraid I’d wake Bob up.
At three AM I had a choice. I could move to some comfortable seating outside the unit where I knew I’d be able to sleep, and possibly miss Bob if he woke up—or move a chair out in the hallway in case Bob woke up, and get no sleep. I did go out of the unit for a bit, but then I opted for the hallway. I felt bad leaving Bob alone, and anything was better than sitting in the dark looking at nothing while the monitor beeped its crazy head off and pins and needles crept down my hamstrings.
I dragged a chair and placed it against the wall in the hallway across from Bob’s room, where I could look in and see if he woke up, and then hit the coffee machine. I was going to need it.
At five AM Eric showed up, as promised, and made me pour my coffee out since Bob wasn’t allowed to have any. I forced down a choice word and tossed it down the sink.
And then we sat and chatted. And sat. And sat.
Around nine o’clock a nurse called down to find out what was up. It turned out that Bob’s surgery had been postponed to one PM.
I will always be amazed at how well Bob took everything. I’ve faced a lot more minor surgery than this with fear butterflies the size of eagles having a midair fight in my stomach. Then we were informed that after they took him downstairs, surgery wouldn’t be for a while yet. There’d be a final pre-op CT scan first, and then Dr. Alexander would have to study the results. I can only imagine what must have gone through Bob’s mind, having to lie stock still and stare at the machinery and know every bit of what was about to happen, with no family around and no distractions at all.
At ten-thirty AM Transport arrived. Eric and I followed Bob to the elevator, kissed him, held his hand, said our “I love you’s”. Bob broke into tears as the elevator doors closed. I’ll never forget how vulnerable he looked lying there dwarfed by this big white hospital bed.