11 posts tagged “aneurysm”
Thank you guys for all your thoughts and prayers.
Thankfully, we received encouraging news. Though one of Grandma's arteries was 99% blocked, the rest of her heart is remarkably strong, especially given all her medical issues. She'll stay in the hospital for a few days but her prognosis is good beyond that. She has been through such an array of medical complications this past year and a half. Her doctors are quite amazed that she's not only survived everything thrown at her lately, but soldiered through with such grace and wit. That's just how we roll in our family I guess :)
And I also owe you guys an update regarding Mom's hearing. Short story is that we still don't know anything. It was a very trying, humiliating, and exhausting experience for her. Basically the lawyer grilled her for nearly 45 minutes and watching her struggle to find words, to speak, to be heard... it was heartbreaking. But Linz and I got to speak on her behalf as well, and I feel like in a combination of the three of us, we told her story. The judge will be deciding in 2 weeks and we should know in about 10 weeks.
Meanwhile... my benediction for tomorrow. I was scheduled to read it at the 9am tomorrow, but will miss it because the girls seem to have a stomach bug (and I think I'm getting it too). Regardless, someone will read it and I hope the right hearts hear it. It's been in mine for awhile, though I didn't know quite how to get it out.
Psalm 143
"O Lord, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy.
In your faithfulness and righteousness come to my relief."
In the darkest of times, my prayers are the most simple. Usually all I can muster is a simple "please" repeated incessantly aloud and in my head. A syncopated supplication broken only to take a breath and to interject our Lord's name. Though the syntax is simple, the petition is not. I cry not just for relief, but for knowledge, acceptance, guidance, wisdom, peace.
Please says "I don't know how to handle this alone."
Please says "I'm not ready for this loss."
Please says "This is not my plan but yours."
Please says "I know, Lord. I know."
"Teach me to do your will for you are my God.
May your good Spirit lead me on level ground."
...please say a little prayer for my mom this morning. We have her judicial hearing for her disability case today and we're all a wreck. It's hard for her to stand in front of a court and admit out loud that her aneurysm left her disabled, but it's the truth and she needs help. Pray that the judge has the wisdom to see that and that we have the strength to support our mom.
Mom had her aneursym rupture on March 14, 2006. By the time she got out of surgery the next day was an hour old, but I was at least 5 years older. The doctor let us see her; she was still hooked to the ventilator and approximately a dozen other tubes, wires, and monitors. Linz and I kissed her right hand, which seemed to be the only part of her that still looked like her. French manicured and delicate as always. We even joked that she would be so thankful that she'd just had a manicure and pedicure done. We gave the nurse our cell numbers and hotel info and went back to catch some sleep.
I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep so I found the business center and got online. I emailed some friends, denied my instinctual urge to Google any medical texts, and checked the credentials of her neurosurgeon. Because you know if he was disreputable, I could rewind the past 6 hours and have someone else do the surgery. He proved to be quite capable from the bio I found so I allowed myself to go to bed. I didn't even change out of my clothes - just took off my shoes and crawled into bed, clutching my cell phone to my chest.
I fell asleep quickly but not deeply. I woke up every hour in a panic, searching for my phone. I was afraid I had dropped it and would miss the phone call, but each time I found it still in my right hand. Soon after locating it, I realized it was silent and showed no missed calls. She was still alive. This was tangible evidence that she was still alive.
As the early morning progressed to later morning and I continued my attempt to sleep, I began what would become my standard prayer: "Thank you for these past X hours. Please give us X more." Where X equals the number of hours since her surgery. It worked and by the time I officially woke up at 10am on March 15, 2006 my mom was alive. It was the first good thing to happen in 24 hours. I was able to step into the sun out of the cold. It wasn't enough light to keep warm by yet, but the light was there.
It's been almost 2 years now. My prayer hasn't changed much. I'm grateful for the time we've had since then, but am anxious for a guarantee on the future. These have been the hardest 2 years in my mom's life. Though each day is a blessing, it is also a struggle. She struggles to find words, to find a reason, to find a purpose. She doesn't struggle to find joy, or gratitude, or rest. But the search for the former can often overshadow the ready availability of the latter.
I worry I traded her quality for my quantity. I know she would have been happy to conclude her life that beautiful March day. It was a well-lived life and her eternity is one she's anxious to experience. But I wasn't ready. I wanted her here with me and would pray for nothing else. I tried to pray for God's will to be done, whatever it might be, but He knew my heart and knew that my true prayer was that I still needed my mom.
I finally got over that prayer this weekend. I finally, honestly, truly prayed for my mom to be happy. Whether that happiness is found here or in heaven doesn't matter to me anymore. Of course I still want and need her here. I want her to be at my wedding, to see the girls grow up, to be there for me when I need to talk or cry or drive around. I still want to make her laugh, hear her advice, make her proud. But above all else, I want her happiness and her peace. She's spent 30 years making every sacrifice to ensure my and my sister's happiness. All I want is to be able to make those same sacrifices now to ensure her's. I don't pray for my peace or happiness anymore. Now I pray for her's.
I've been thinking about my mom and her brain a lot lately. Pull up the aneurysm tag and you'll stumble across most of the story if you don't know it. We're working on getting her in with some neuropsych people to prod her recovery just a bit. She's doing so well and I'm so proud of her. I love her so much and have been missing her lately. I stumbled across this tonight. I wrote it a few months ago. It's the beginning of something, I just don't know what.....
There are defining moments in life which serve as clear markers, delineating one part of one’s life from another. Some of these are apparent and expected: Before graduation, after graduation. Before marriage, after marriage. Before kids, after kids. Some are unplanned, but normal and preparation is possible: Before divorce, after divorce. Before one career. After another. Sometimes they might come along without your knowledge, and only in retrospect do you realize their significance. Before meeting someone. After that person is in your life. But some are so completely and wholly unexpected, that you cannot possibly plan for them, nor can you hope to regain any sense of before in the after.
I have a before kids, after kids. I have a before divorce, after divorce. Now, the most defining mile marker in my life is before aneurysm, after aneurysm. And it wasn’t even in my brain. One sunny day in March, the world was spinning as it always did and my dramas were small and petty on the grand scale. The next, sunnier morning, a 15mm portion along the internal carotid artery in my mom’s brain decided it was really worn out from keeping all that blood in one place. It put it’s feet on it’s desk, clocked out, and quit doing it’s job unleashing a torrent of trauma into Mom’s subarachnoid space, and into all of our lives.
She didn’t believe us at first. When we said aneurysm, she rewarded us with a furrowed brow and a confused tilt of her head. When she finally regained cognizance about a month after the rupture, she found herself weak, drugged, and unable to speak. All she knew was she couldn’t talk, couldn’t remember, couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Surely we were exaggerating. Surely she had just had a migraine yesterday and now we were trying to scare her. Surely she was just a little wiped out from the meds they’d given her and everything would be back to normal by next week.
I don’t know what she thought because she couldn’t tell us. That lazy artery wall had leaked blood all over the part of her brain that controls speech. I could see the questions in there, the words bouncing around in her brain. Everything multiplying exponentially and crowding up in that space. The pressure of their isolation showed in her eyes. She’d spent nearly 50 years being the most outspoken and eloquent person and now….now…. Her tools, her weapons, her thoughts, her loves, her words wouldn’t come. They stayed in her head. Reluctant to leave her mouth and be seen in the light. Stubbornly denying her her voice. The brain which had served her so well, which she prized, by which she defined herself and attained every goal to which she aspired… it was now her enemy. After aneurysm.
It could have been worse. We tried to explain how lucky she was. How those initial phone calls from the doctors in Louisiana held no hope, only grim statistics and admonishment to drive the 300 miles as fast as safely possible. How we were preparing to say good-bye at worst, and preparing to care for her in a vegetative state at best. I did what I do best and googled. I found stories with worse outcomes; it wasn’t hard. Mention an aneurysm to someone and the stories told back to you are those of a relative who died. Always unexpected and always tragic. Maybe 1 in 10 will be a shared story of survival. I printed medical texts that detail in black and white those same grim statistics hammered into my brain by the doctors. 50% die before reaching the hospital. Of those who make it to the hospital 30% die within 48 hours. Of those who survive that long, the next 30% die within a month. Those lucky percentages left either die within the next year, or survive with significant deficit.
She beat all the odds. She survived the surgery. She ruptured fully while on the operating table. Had they waited even 10 minutes to operate, she would likely have died. She survived post-operative complications, never having a stroke from vasospasms. She didn’t get pneumonia. She wasn’t paralyzed. She walked within 2 weeks. She could see and hear and taste and swallow. Mom! You can swallow! Isn’t that awesome news! Her confused and frustrated expression was answer enough for that ridiculous question.
Before aneurysm: Project Controls Analyst working on a multi-million dollar project for a major energy company. Avid reader. Accomplished scholar, gifted musician, loyal friend, and doting grandmother. Active, articulate, intelligent, beautiful and amazing woman, who taught, guided, supported, and inspired. After aneurysm: You can walk! And eat! And breathe! All by yourself! Aren’t you proud? Aren’t you fulfilled? We know your before aneurysm self is still in there. We see it waking up, flitting about, screaming to get out and straining against its new bonds. We hear it in our own minds and know it will be strong one day. But for now it tires easily. Go rest and gather strength. It will come back.
The words began to find their way out. Furry and vaguely malformed, but coming to the party finally. The cloud of confusion gradually lifted. The puzzled look was permanently affixed for a few weeks. We had to retell the story a few times and learned to limit the length and detail. After awhile, we didn’t have to tell her. She knew she had crossed a line and was in the after of something.
Video: Show us your TV crush.
Submitted by quornflour.
It's not too often that what I was going to blog about anyway is presented in a Question or Vox Hunt of the Day, so I'm super excited to use this opportunity to ramble on about my television crush and how he parallels to my real life crush.
Mohinder Suresh is of course the yummy Indian professor on Heroes. He's yummy not only because of his slender dark looks, and the mellifluous cadence of his British accent, but more importantly because of the excess of knowledge swimming around in his brain under those glossy black curls. If I have a weakness it is smart boys. I've only ever dated on person smarter than me and there is something indescribably sexy about hearing nerdy boys ramble on about binary code or semiconductor manufacturing or any other bits of arcane expertise that I have no way of knowing myself. Not everyone can make engineering principles sound sexy, but with the right hairdo, the right glasses, and the right air of authority, I melt. I'd take a nerdy boy over a buff male model any day of the week.
So now onto my real life crush. Dr. Ravish Patwardhan is the neurosurgeon who operated on my mom last year when her brain aneurysm ruptured. He was then working with the LSU Health Science Center in Shreveport, but soon after began his own practice and associated philanthropic organization. The picture on his website isn't the best one I've seen of him. He reminds me a lot of Mohinder Suresh in appearance, grace, and intelligence though he doesn't have the fun accent. I was pretty sure that most of my crush was because he saved my mom's life. That would be enough to endear anyone to me. He was also incredibly kind and thoughtful, which is an accomplishment for anyone, much less a neurosurgeon. Neurosurgeons, as well as many types of engineers, are required to trade in their personalities when acquiring their education. It's not a prejudice I suffer, just something I've learned over the years. The good Dr. Patwardhan has dodged this loophole and actually returns phone calls and emails like a real live person. Amazing.
But I knew for sure I had a crush when I read his CV. It is 20 pages long. Not a fluffed out 20 pages, but a legitimate 20 pages detailing his professional experience, research positions, publications (including books), inventions bearing patents, presentations at conferences and grand rounds, awards, committees, journals reviewed, grants awarded, teaching service, public service, and hobbies. Even in his hobbies he is certified as pilot and scuba diver. Just as my former boyfriend "had me at schadenfreude and binary code", the good doctor set my heart aflutter when I read "discernment of adipose versus nerve tissue using a novel solvent: a potential application in lipomyelomeningoceles." Swoon. He's smart, he's attractive, he saves peoples lives, gives back to the community, runs triathlons, and invented a countersunk anterior pedicle screw instrumentation system. I can imagine him whispering "lipomyelomeningoceles" to me over a candlelight dinner. What could possibly be sexier? I have no idea.
When I went to visit my family in Colorado this past month, my uncle pointed out a herd of cows on the land next to theirs. They are some sort of Scottish Highland breed and are as cute as cows can be. They're small, with out of control curly hair and disproportionate horns. If they were people, they would be 8th year philosophy seniors at UT, playing hackey sack in the grassy knoll. Cool laid back cows. That day, they were grazing right next to the barbed wire fence that ran parallel to the road, but went into hiding soon after that, and I never saw them at a photographable distance over the next two days.
That Sunday, after church and a leisurely lunch of roast and potatoes, Mom got a blind spot. This was quickly followed by an almost complete loss of speech and pronounced weakness on her left side. She was crying, as she struggled to find the words to tell us what she was feeling, and her tears, rarely seen since the aneurysm ruptured a year ago, were scarier than any of the other symptoms. I asked my aunt where the nearest hospital was, while trying to round up the girls and ensure the weren't scared, and while also quietly letting everyone know what was going on. I wanted to impart urgency, but not panic.
Grandma went into triage mode and was taking Mom's blood pressure, checking her pupils, and asking her to squeeze her hands. The look in Mom's eyes was a familiar one. She's in there in her traitor brain, unable to get out. She knows what's happening and what she thinks and the perfect way to articulate it, but her brain traps her. I knew that look the first time I saw it, and though it seems a bad thing, in fact I like the assurance of knowing my mom is still intact, whether or not she can get out. This time there was fear in her eyes too though, and when she asked to see Lindsay (only able to articulate the word "Allie") her demeanor was that of someone saying good-bye. In a later conversation, Linz and I realized with both thought that Mom was saying goodbye to Linz and her unborn child.
All the adults were standing around Mom doing nothing. I was asking Mom if she wanted to go the hospital. The kids were oblivious and playing amongst the gaggle of cousins. It was finally the littlest voice that wandered in the room with the most common sense: "What's wrong, Mommy?" asked Avery.
"Your Gaga isn't feeling very well."
She looked up at me with an almost impatient and incredulous look and said "Well, then call the ambulance."
"Great idea," I said and picked up the phone immediately. I let the operator know we suspected a stroke and needed an ambulance. She stayed on the line with me, speaking calmly, asking for updates on Mom's condition, and assuring me that help was on the way. Linz was on the phone on the other line trying to reschedule her return flight which was to leave for Houston in 2 hours. Accompanying the siren were three burly but compassionate men who swiftly loaded Mom onto the stretcher and into the ambulance, and comforted Linz as she started crying when told she couldn't come in the ambulance. I was already situated in the front seat and there was only one passenger allowed. Had I known her distress, I would have traded spots with her, but it was probably for the best. We learned last year that we seem to alternate who copes and who breaks down, and this was my day to cope.
The ambulance left with the sirens singing and the paramedics in the back periodically asked me questions about Mom's medical history. I knew so much, so accurately, that the driver thought I worked in medicine. I told him that I wasn't a doctor, but I talked like one. I liked the driver a lot because he had an elaborate mustache that reminded me of all my good ol' boy coworkers here in the Houston oil and gas industry. He busied himself with the CB radio, and the myriad switches that changed the pitch and rhythm of the siren. He warned the EMT's in the back when going over a rough patch of road, and they in turn informed him of when they were poking Mom with sharp objects.
When I looked in the back, all I could see was the back of her head. I wondered if they would tell me if she died on the way to the hospital, or it they'd wait until we arrived. I wondered if she was hooked to anything that would beep to alert me of her death. I wondered how I would get her body back to Houston for burial, or if we should just bury her in Colorado. She always did like the scenery. And at least this time her hair looked better than last time I was planning her funeral. That time she had a shaved head to make room for the shunt relieving her intracranial pressure. This time, she was freshly styled and highlighted and would make for a much more attractive corpse. I began to worry about how much a funeral would cost, and how I would work without anyone to watch the kids. I cried a minimal amount, because I knew it was my turn to be strong, and that if I started crying I wouldn't be able to stop. I repeated my standard prayer of maternal neurological trauma which consists only of the word "Please" repeated over and over, with "God" thrown in there now and then to make sure He knows to whom I'm talking.
We rounded the corner and crested a hill. Against the violently blue sky, standing in a very well lit section of field, were the elusive hippy cows. They munched on grass, mingled in groups, and all manner of other photogenic things as if mocking me. In the space of about .05 seconds I cycled through wanting to take a picture, kicking myself for leaving my camera at the house, and realizing that chances were slim that the driver would have stopped for me to snap a shot anyway. What with us rushing to the nearest level 1 trauma center and all.
Soon after, I quit worrying. I quit running down morbid scenarios, planning a eulogy, and mentally scanning my closet for funeral dresses. I caught sight of the clear snowy Rockies not too distant and became peaceful. A soothing wave ran through my chest and relaxed my tense, fretful heart. I knew things would be okay. We were headed to a renowned stroke/neuro hospital, it was a Sunday afternoon with little traffic, and soon enough a doctor would find out what was rupturing or clotting or misfiring and she would be fine. I had no solid basis for this belief other than it came over me suddenly and certainly and I knew not to doubt it.
Mom was in the hospital for 3 days, but her health is fine now, and I'm accompanying her to her neurosurgeon next week to get a final determination on if she's having transient ischemic attacks, or post traumatic epileptic seizures. I'm rooting for seizures, as they don't affect life span nearly as much and then we can share meds and she'll know I'm not faking the dizziness and the uneven pupils caused by my Keppra. My schadenfreude is definitely showing as she complains of the side effects I've been experiencing for years, but I know once she adjusts to the dosage, she'll be much better, if she is in fact having seizures.
This past week has been incredibly stressful. Mom's health is not at the forefront of my worries, but the rest of my life is crumbling in places and I feel like every time I fix one area, another has rotted away and needs my attention. At one point this week I was really low. Not quite suicidal ideation low, but definitely contemplating not ever leaving the house again, living in candlelight and eating raw potatoes because making any effort beyond that was futile. I was stressed and scared and unsure of how best to handle the new and exciting obstacles thrown in my path, But just as in that ambulance, I was overcome with peace. It's not the la-la-la-la buzz of a pseudo-peace brought about by denial, but a distinctively comforting and optimistic peace. Again, I have absolutely no reason to be so calm and reassured with all that is going on around me. I should be climbing the walls or hiding under the bed or at least covering my ears and making the la-la-la-la buzz of denial, but instead I'm so peaceful and optimistic, that I'm about to annoy myself. And I haven't even seen a hippy cow, which marked my last "peace attack" but just in case, here it is. My karmic animal, or something like that.
I know, I know. I'm supposed to be cheerful and grateful and happy. No one likes a whiner. But where is that line? Is it wrong to worry or vent about problems or should I just keep them to myself? Is bottling things up and pretending all is well in the least bit helpful?
How things stand:
Mom was denied disability. She survived a grade 5 anuerysmal subarachnoid hemorrhage, lost a great deal of speech ability, short term memory, strength on her right side. She needs a nap everyday or her speech gets even worse, can't remember what happened yesterday, and needs to use both hands to open a can of coke, but no.... that's not disabled. Her "husband" refuses to help her out. He won't pay her car note, give her gas money, or provide anything more than a place to live. He's hidden her jewelry from her for fear that she might pawn it. Because, you know, she shouldn't pawn jewelry to pay a car note. My grandmother will pay it. Because she's just rolling in the money as a retired missionary.
I tried to keep up with her car note last year. I tried to keep up with everything after her brain aneurysm exploded last year. What happened? I couldn't pay for the girls day care. Full-time daycare for a 3 and 4 year old costs $1400 a month. I make too much to qualify for assistance. I couldn't pay for my own insurance or car. My car was repossessed. I couldn't send the girls to school anymore and my sister had to keep them for awhile. I couldn't keep the house we were living in and had to move to an apartment. It's depressing and embarrassing, but there you have it. I wasn't getting ANY money for child support at the time and trying to do it all myself. The stress was so bad that my seizure disorder flared up again and I had to get back on medication for the first time in 6 years.
Things gradually got on track. Mom watched the girls for me. The ex started to pay child support a few months ago. I've been planning on moving to house this summer that would be big enough for Mom to live with us. I stupidly thought that she would be getting approved for disability, given that every doctor she has seen is amazed that she is even alive. The survival rate for her condition is only 10%. She is a miracle and is progressing really well.
With the money I was getting in child support, I put the girls in a part-time preschool. They need the social interaction and are just so hungry to learn. They're smart little girls and I want to be able to harness that love for learning while their young. The school wasn't the best of places, but they made friends and Allie was learning to write again. I hate that she's not reading by now. If she'd been able to stay in school, she'd be reading by now. I'm so terrified that all of this upheaval and instability is going to scar them somehow. I'm trying my best to keep things calm and scheduled for them, but I don't have that luxury all the time.
Yesterday, I had to pick the girls up from school. Mom wasn't feeling well enough to watch them. Their pre-school is being bought out by a larger chain called KinderCare. I had to take them out of a KinderCare after Mom's aneurysm because I couldn't afford it anymore. They wanted me to pay for the 2 weeks the girls didn't attend school. The 2 weeks that I was in Louisiana wondering if my mom was going to die. The 2 weeks in which I didn't get paid. So, when I walk in the building yesterday, who should appear but the director of their old school. She politely says hi, good to see you, I didn't know you were here. Then I hear someone whispering to her "do you want to talk to her?" as I walk down the hall to retrieve the girls. On the way out, she informs me that I need to pay off my balance from last year if I want the girls to keep going there.
Which, OK, I didn't like that school all that much to begin with and was going to look for something else. Mom is doubting her ability to watch the girls as much as she has been, so I wanted to find something that had a fuller part-time schedule for around the same cost, which would mean a church program somewhere.
But wait. I get a call later that night from the ex to tell me that any/all child support payments will be on hold for a few months. Child support equals school money. So now I don't have money for them to go to school. My mom is not up to watching them, no matter how strongly she denies that claim in an effort to help me. My sister can't watch them because she is now hugely pregnant and needs to stay off of her feet, lest she end up on bedrest like she did with her last pregnancy.
I'm sorry if I sound like I'm whining, but I am at a loss as to what to do. I know Mom can file an appeal and hire a lawyer, but that will take another year I'm sure. What do real people do? I make too much for assistance, but not enough to actually work and pay for school. Allie starts kindergarten in August, so that will help. But right now it's April and just surviving to August seems impossible. I don't understand the "system". I don't understand how people who work their asses off year after year after year can get no help when something catastrophic happens. It's unjust. And more than that, it is exhausting.
I apologize for being a downer. And please don't get me wrong. I am grateful everyday that Mom is still here. Just being able to call her everyday is a gift beyond measure. It's just taking us all a lot longer to recover and get back on track than I ever thought it would.
I'll promise I'll post something peppy and cute in a little bit. I promise. Meanwhile, if anyone needs any freelance writing/design/vacuuming done, I'm your girl.
- Humidity.
- Feeder roads.
- Adequate oxygen supply.
- Absence of my mom experiencing neurological trauma.
- Private rooms with fancy room service at the hospital where my mom is subsequently admitted.
But it wasn't all bad. More details to follow. I must first bask in humidty. Sweet sweet humidity.
I thought I would be able to finish writing the narrative for my mom. One year ago today, she nearly died from a ruptured brain aneurysm. I expected to be joyful today. There is not a day that goes by that I am not immensely grateful that she survived and continues to recover. I'm actually even grateful for my gratitude because I don't ever want to lose the gravity of what happened. Each day that I can hug my mom is just about the most precious gift I've ever been given and I don't want to forget that.
But today, I feel like my gratitude is selfish. I feel like it is my neediness that kept her here. She struggles daily with the process of recovery, with the loss of her speech, with the role reversal that has taken away a lot of her independence. I feel like my joy is her burden. Maybe if she'd had her say, she would have declined the surgery that saved her life, opting to chalk her life up to well-lived and be done with it. That's kind of what my Grampsy did - he was so terrified of being old and senile, that he wasn't at all sad to die at a young age, with all his mental faculties intact. Did my neediness strip her of that option?
Exactly one year ago, at this exact time, my life ruptured along with the internal carotid artery in my mom's brain. I've mostly stopped the bleeding, but some days are bloodier than others.
This one is kind of long. It is a brief (ok, not so brief) retelling of the day Mom had her aneurysm. I wrote it for her this fall. She lost a whole month's worth of time while in the hospital, and even though we tell her some of the stuff that happened, I wanted to write it down so she could look back on it and remember. This is only the description of Day 1, and I want to go back and add more stuff at some point. I'm hoping to have a chronicle of the entire week ready in time for her "aneurversary" in March. It makes me cry even to read this now, and I know that writing the rest of it will be just as painful. But I think it's a good pain and it's good to remember how blessed we are to still have her with us.
March 14, 2006
March 14 started off horribly. Allie woke up with a fever and a sore throat and I knew that on my 7th day of work at the new job, I was already going to have to miss a day. I called your phone at 7:05 crying, because I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t answer, but I figured you were still asleep. I sent an email to work, got the girls dressed and dropped Avery off at daycare. The pediatrician could see Allie at 9:15, so I took the appointment.
I tried calling you a few more times, but you never answered. I thought maybe you had left your phone at home on the way to work. It was strange, but I didn’t think anything of it. When Allie and I went to the doctor, she was of course feeling much better. She charmed the socks of off everyone in the doctor’s office. Told Dr. Fowler that she just loved her shirt. She at least had a low grade fever and a red throat, so we chalked it up to a virus and that was that.
We left the doctor’s office and headed to Walgreen’s.
It was such a beautiful day. The sky was ridiculously blue and the air was crisp, but not quite cold. At Walgreen’s, Allie chose some Strawberry Shortcake stickers and I picked up some milk and pull-ups. With the day ahead of me, I figured we’d stay home and watch some movies. Maybe even venture to the grocery store later if Allie felt up to it. Everything in our lives seemed to be finally sliding into place with a satisfying “click” and I was optimistic about our future.
When we got back into the car, I noticed my cell phone notifying me of a missed call and a voicemail. Figuring it was you finally calling me back, I called my voicemail. But it wasn’t you. It was a nurse from the emergency room at LSU Medical Center in Shreveport. I called her back immediately, wondering if you’d been in a car accident. When I called back, the nurse was on the phone, so I told her that I was returning her call about you and hung up confused.
She called me back within 2 minutes, also confused because she had just hung up with an “Ashley Evans” calling about you. I told her that you had a secretary with that name, but that I was your daughter. I just wanted her to shut up and tell me what was going on.
“Your mom apparently had a very bad headache this morning…” she started. Instantly, I was relieved. You hadn’t been in a car accident, you just had a migraine and over-reacted.
“…and she also threw up.” Yep, just a migraine. I figured I’d just clue them in on your drug allergies, talk to you for a minute, and go about my day.
“…she went by ambulance to the hospital closest to her home, but now she is here because we are a level one trauma center. She’s had a brain hemorrhage and will be having a neurosurgical consult soon.”
“A WHAT?!?!?!” I was driving down Eldridge towards Spring Cypress and Allie was chattering in the background. You couldn’t have a brain hemorrhage. It was a beautiful normal spring day and all of our lives were finally straightened out.
“It’s called a subarachnoid hemorrhage. She’s awake and talking right now. Does she have any family here in Shreveport?”
“No, we’re all in Houston, but we can come to Shreveport immediately,” I told her. I expected her to tell me that that wouldn’t be necessary. I expected her to say that you’d be fine, it was just a small little bump, and that you’d be okay, and not to worry myself with a four hour drive for nothing.
“How soon can you leave and how long will it take to get here?” she asked. And I knew my life had just changed forever. I knew now that it was serious. I started to cry and told her that I’d leave just as soon as I could reach my sister and we’d be there in five hours. She encouraged me to travel safely and made certain that she could reach me on this number should your condition change. I hung up and began sobbing.
It wasn’t a cry anymore, but a primal and guttural reflex in my core. I’ve never cried like that before. Allie was scared and I realized that I needed to pull it together for her. I was still crying, and I told her that Gaga was at the hospital because she had a headache, but I lost my composure when I tried to tell her you would be okay. I knew I couldn’t call Lindsay and tell her on the phone so I started driving towards her house and tried to call anyone else that I could think of.
Grandma didn’t answer. Susan didn’t answer. Bill didn’t answer. I finally got through to Jerry, briefly said “Mom’s in the hospital with a brain hemorrhage. I’m on my way to tell Lindsay.” He said he’d meet me at the apartment and asked if he could do anything else. I was driving about 70 mph in a 35 mph zone, passing cars, running lights and stop signs. I had to get to Lindsay and we had to get to you. I was still crying and Allie was calmly sitting in the backseat, engrossed in her stickers. I called April in California because I needed to tell someone else. She was so scared for me and assured me she’d let the board know so they could start praying. I received a phone call from Mary at your work, but couldn’t understand her phone number on the voice mail. They hadn’t heard from you at work and wanted to know if you were okay.
I ran a final stop light right in front of a cop and arrived at Lindsay’s apartment. I picked up Allie and ran up the stairs, hoping that she was awake or that the door was unlocked. The former was false, but the latter was true. I found her laying in bed and sat down at the foot of it. She groggily sat up and looked confused “What’s up?”
I had composed myself as best I could and at least wasn’t crying. “She’s okay now, but Mom’s in the hospital in Shreveport. She’s had a brain hemorrhage,” and I started to cry.
Linz immediately shot out of bed and put on the first pair of jeans that she saw. “So we’re going to Shreveport now, right?”
“Right.”
Jerry arrived soon after and helped her get Cayden some breakfast. I sat on the internet and did my first Google search, but didn’t like what I found. I printed a map to Shreveport because I had no earthly idea where it was. I kept trying to reach Colorado without success, but finally reached Janet. I told her what was going on and that Linz and I were going to Shreveport.
“What can I do? Do you want me to watch the kids?”
I hadn’t thought of the logistics of getting the kids up there so I accepted her offer. Linz was going to take Cayden, but decided against it once hearing of Janet’s offer. I left Lindsay’s house to go get Avery and we agreed to meet at the house in 30 minutes.
The drive to daycare was just as tense as the drive to Lindsay’s house. I couldn’t get there fast enough and it occurred to me that all those horrible drivers I’d cursed out in the past, might have been driving so horribly because of a similar situation to mine. I vowed to never cuss out another driver as I ran a red light and cut off a dawdling Suburban.
Having to explain the situation to Avery’s teachers and the director at daycare brought on another wave of tears, and they all hugged me and gave me a look that I got to know all to well in the weeks to come. It was a look that said “I don’t know what to say. I can’t say it will be okay, because it probably won’t be okay.” I was a mess and though people wanted to comfort me, it was clear that they couldn’t.
I drove both of the girls back to the house and began trying to pack. I had no idea how long we would be there or what the future held. I think I packed 5 pairs of pants and 2 shirts. Linz arrived having packed nothing. Janet and Briana came while I was dashing around half naked trying to decide if I should pack a funeral dress or just buy a new one when I got there. Janet stopped me long enough for a big hug and told me it would be okay. She was the first person to tell me that and I didn’t quite believe her. But it felt good to hear it anyway. I sent off some emails to my boss and to Josh. I updated the board and saw that people were already praying.
Linz and I briefed Janet on our kids' nutritional requirements and bedtime habits. There were hugs and kisses all around. We loaded up my futile packing effort into Linz’s car and set out. We stopped to get gas and snacks, though neither of us was hungry. Mike called and said he was with you at the hospital. When you didn’t show up or all in at work, Mike got worried. Ashlie knew where your new apartment was, so they drove by and saw your car was there. They knocked on the door to no avail, and finally went to the apartment manager to see if they would check on you. They wouldn’t let Mike or Ashlie in, but she confirmed that an ambulance had been there that morning, but wouldn’t say anymore. They called some hospitals until they found you.
I was relieved that you weren’t alone. Lindsay was driving because I was unfit. I finally reached Susan on her cell phone. She was at church and surrounded by friends when I called her. She immediately offered to come to Shreveport and I told her that would be great. I told her I still hadn’t reached Grandma, and she told me Grandma was at the doctor, but that she would let her know.
Lindsay was a great source of comfort to me on the way up there. I don’t know how she held it together so well. Her denial muscle must be MUCH stronger than mine. We talked about anything but you, shared some laughs, freaked each other out by talking at the same time way too much. I could not have made it up there without her. On the way there, Josh called. He knew a neurosurgeon in Shreveport if we wanted a referral. The ER nurse called again to find out what meds you were allergic too. Linz and I ate beef jerky, I drank too much diet Coke, and we drove about 100mph with our flashers on the whole way.
When we were about an hour out of Shreveport, I got a call from one of your doctors. He said that they needed to drill a hole in your skull and put a drain in your head so that the swelling wouldn’t cause brain damage. If they didn’t do the procedure, you would die. Would I give permission for the procedure? Um, yes please. He said they would do the procedure in about 15 minutes and asked if we would be there in time. I told him no. He impressed upon me the seriousness of your condition. This was the first time I heard the word aneurysm mentioned, and he said that your prognosis was not good. He rattled off grim statistics about most people re-bleed within 24 hours and die, or some die in surgery, or some have strokes and then die.
I gave permission for the procedure and encouraged Lindsay to drive faster. My mood was much worse after that because I feared we wouldn’t make it in time for good-byes. It was the first time I ever really thought you were going to die. I couldn’t tell Lindsay what the doctor had said. I needed her to continue to be strong for me. Mike called us again and told us what floor you were on. Luckily, it was very easy to find the hospital and we made it in record time.
When we arrived, they let us into the surgical intensive care unit immediately. You were asleep on your back with your mouth hanging open and you were snoring louder than anything I’ve ever heard. The front part of your head was shaved and the drain was taped down. Your left eye was black and bruised. You had an IV in your right arm, a central line under your clavicle, a catheter, another IV in your left hip and hydraulic stockings on your legs to keep the blood flow circulating. The doctors immediately came in and briefed us on your condition. They wanted to do surgery that night to clip the aneurysm, but they had to wait to get all their best people on shift.
I was reminded again of all the grim statistics and that surgery would be risky. I think Linz asked some questions. I got dizzy and had to sit down. It was too much information and too much hung in the balance. There were no chairs so I just sat on the floor and cried. I held your right hand and kissed it. I wanted to crawl in bed next to you and hug you for about an hour.
Since I was your emergency contact and oldest child, I had to sign approval for them to operate. A nurse came in and asked me your medical history. The only thing I could remember was your hip surgery. Then as she asked other questions I remembered you had a hysterectomy. More questions reminded me of your gallbladder removal. I laughed that my brain wasn’t quite working and the nurse said she understood. She told me they would be putting you on a respirator for the surgery and since you were a smoker, it would likely be hard to get you weaned off of it again. The chance of pneumonia was great. And I was again informed that you could die. In case I had forgotten in the 5 minutes since someone else mentioned that.
Once the nurse left, Linz and I were on either side of you with your hands. We talked to you in case you could hear us and assured you that you were in good hands. We loved you and cried over you and eventually left the ICU. Mike, Mark, Lorraine, and Ashlie were all up at the hospital. Lindsay briefed them on your condition as I was too busy crying and trying to figure out what to do next.
We asked for your belongings from hospital staff, but were told you had to sign them out and they couldn’t give them to us. I called the apartment complex but they were closed. I explained to the answering service that it was an emergency and I needed the manager. When the manager called me back, I told her you were in the hospital about to have brain surgery and we needed to stay at your apartment while you were in the hospital. She told me no, that since we weren’t on the lease that we couldn’t stay there, and she had already done too much by letting Mike and Ashlie know that an ambulance had come. I cried and begged, but to no avail. Mark let us know where to get a good hotel in a safe spot, and we headed over to get a room and get something to eat.
We checked into the hotel and went to Mo’s Southwest Grill. I couldn’t eat much, but Linz recommended we have a beer and I took her up on the offer. When we got back to the hotel, I made some phone calls to update people. I was on the phone with Josh telling him about my frustration with being unable to get in your apartment when the hospital called. It was the doctor saying they were about to operate, and they needed my permission to give anesthesia. I was given a long list of possible complications, including death (in case I had forgotten) and I authorized them to operate with anesthesia. I clicked back over to Josh and thought of the irony that I could authorize life or death procedures on your behalf, but couldn’t get the key to your apartment.
We went back up to the hospital to wait. Bill had arrived at this point and he waited with us. Surgery started at about 9:00. I had no book. There was no TV. Magazines were outdated. Bill was up to his nervous talking. Jimmy came up for a few hours and waited with us and Bill talked his ear off. Lindsay was the victim of his incessant ramblings thereafter. There were two other people in the waiting room with us. One was a sweet old granny who was knitting. Her sister had had routine surgery and was in the surgical ICU as a precaution.
The other was a young man about my age. He and his family had been in a horrible car accident. A pickup truck towing a boat had hit their car head-on, and the boat had flown over the truck and landed on their car. He was the only one uninjured and gave grisly detail about the accident, describing his mother’s death and the rest of the family’s injuries. His wife lost their baby (she was 7 months pregnant), his dad and two sons were in intensive care. The 3 year old had severe brain damage and wasn’t expected to make it. It was one of the most depressing stories I’d ever heard, but it made me grateful that at least my kids were safe and healthy.
I had some really awful moments in that waiting period. I had no book to read. The only thing to drink was black coffee. And I really didn't think you were going to survive. I called Grandma at one point and just cried and cried. I don't think I said anything except "Please tell me she'll be okay." She prayed with me for close to 30 minutes on the phone, and it gave me enough peace to sustain me the rest of the time we had to wait.
We were restless and bugged the nurse a couple of times as to how long surgery was going to take. Each time, she assured us it would be a couple of more hours. Finally at about , Dr. Patwharden came out. As he approached us, he took off his hat and I braced myself for the worst. I knew what the hat removal meant. I knew you died during surgery. I was ready for the news and was mentally planning your funeral. I knew what dress I wanted you to wear, but wasn't sure where it was. Maybe it was in Shreveport. Maybe it was in Houston.