“About six hours.”
Still extremely fatigued, I closed my eyes again. I must have drifted off because I woke to the sound of Sylvie’s voice.
“Jenn, the doctor’s here. Can you answer some questions?”
I opened my eyes to discover a handsome male physician, possibly about forty years old, standing over my bed. “Hi Jenn. I’m Dr. Samson and I’m a neurologist. How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I replied. “Mom said I had a seizure.”
“That’s right. Two of them, actually. Do you remember any of that?”
“Not much.” I wanted to give him as much information as I could, but I had to speak slowly. “Just a weird buzzing in my head before it started. It felt like my brain was twitching.”
“What else do you remember?”
I blinked my eyes and focused on the ceiling. “I was anxious and couldn’t talk or make my body move. Then all my muscles started to tense up and I fell off the chair. I don’t remember anything after that.”
He nodded and wrote something down on my chart. “While you were sleeping this afternoon, your sister and mother were able to tell me a few things about your medical history and the fact that you had a miscarriage recently?”
I swallowed and nodded my head.
“Sylvie also told me you’ve possibly been suffering from some memory loss and personality changes—that sometimes you can’t think clearly. Or you say or do inappropriate things. Can you tell me how long that’s been going on?”
Continuing to blink up at the ceiling I struggled to remember when it all began. “It’s difficult to know. I was pregnant so I thought that’s what was causing it. I guess about a month or two.”
I described things like leaving groceries in my car and possibly smashing my honeymoon picture, but having no memory of it. Judging by the doctor’s lack of a reaction, I suspected Sylvie had already told him about that.
“Was today the first time you’ve had a seizure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He wrote something else down and I looked at my mother. She moved quickly to my side and squeezed my hand.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked. “Do you know?”
At last, the doctor stopped writing and lowered the chart to his side. “Yes. After you came in, we put you on a Dilantin drip to prevent any more seizures, and we were able to do some tests. We also did a full round of blood work and a CT scan.”
“I didn’t wake up for that?”
He shook his head. “No. You had what we call post-ictal fatigue. It’s common for patients to sleep very deeply after a seizure.”
I glanced at my mother again. She was looking at me with great compassion while Sylvie stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me with concern.
“Do you have the results of the CT scan?” I asked with growing unease.
The doctor regarded me intently and paused as if to give me a few seconds to brace myself. “You have a tumor on your brain, Jenn. It’s pressing on both your frontal and temporal lobes.”
Stark white terror shot into my core. Had I heard him correctly?
I glanced at my mother again. She squeezed my hand tighter.
“Am I going to die?” I asked.
“Not if we can help it,” Dr. Samson replied.
“Everything will be fine,” Sylvie promised.
I had a hard time believing her, however, because nothing had been fine in my life lately. All the worst possible things that could ever happen to a person seemed to be happening to me all at once. What next, God? What do you have in store for me next?
Chapter Thirty-one
“Is this why I lost my baby?” I asked Dr. Samson.
He spoke matter-of-factly. “The two events were most likely unrelated, though it’s impossible to know for sure. Your sister mentioned you don’t remember having your miscarriage?”
“That’s right.”
Dr. Samson paused. “I’m sorry to hear about that, Jenn, but at least this explains why you might not remember. The pressure on your frontal lobe can cause all sorts of things—loss of memory, changes in personality and behavior, loss of inhibitions, confusion, distraction…”
“What can we do?” I asked. “Is it possible to treat it?”
“Yes. We’re recommending surgery.”
“Brain surgery?” I exclaimed. “You can’t fix it with radiation or something?”
He shook his head. “The neurosurgeon will be in here to see you later. His name is Dr. Phillips and he’ll be able to answer any specific questions you might have about the procedure, but for now I can tell you that surgery to remove it is your best option. Let me assure you that Dr. Phillips is highly skilled. He’s done hundreds of procedures just like this. You’ll be in excellent hands.”
I lay there for a moment, letting all this sink in. “I can’t believe it. When would it happen?” I asked the doctor.
“Tomorrow or the day after.”
What? The breath sailed out of my lungs. I felt an instinctive urge to sit up on the bed, rip the IV out of my hand and run straight out of there.
“That soon?” I asked. “No…that’s not possible. I have to talk to my husband first.”
“I understand he’s in Afghanistan,” the doctor mentioned, consulting my chart.
“Yes, and I can’t get in touch with him right now. He’s away on a mission and said he might be gone for a week. What if something happens to me during the operation? I can’t do this without him knowing.”
And I have to tell him about the miscarriage…
“Can’t we wait a week?” I pleaded. “Would there be any additional risks to putting it off for that long?”
“Yes, there would be some risks,” Dr. Samson replied, “but we could put it off for a week. No longer than that, though. It’s a mid-sized tumor, but that could change. These things are unpredictable. I wouldn’t want it to become inoperable. And there’s the danger of seizures as well.” He gestured toward the bandage on my head. “You know what can happen if you fall. You were lucky this time, but you could have broken something.”
“I could stay home from work,” I offered. “I’d be really careful. And lots of people live with seizures, don’t they? People with epilepsy…”
He consulted my chart. “We’ve had you on a Dilantin drip since you came in this morning. As a compromise, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation just to make sure you’re responding well to the medication. If I see no problems with that, I can give you pills to take during the week to prevent any more seizures. And I’d want you to come in mid-week for a check-up.”
“That sounds fine,” I said. “It would give me time to contact my husband’s commander and let him know what’s happening. Maybe they can fly him home.”
Please, let that be an option…
To my surprise and relief, the doctor agreed. I would be discharged the following day and my surgery would be scheduled for six days later.
Chapter Thirty-two
Still fatigued from my seizure, I napped a lot in the hospital. Sylvie went to school because she was nearing mid-term exams and couldn’t afford to miss any additional time. It was my mother who stayed at my bedside, fetching me water, making cheerful conversation about the latest reality shows, and showing me pictures out of the gossip magazines.
I must have been asleep when Sylvie arrived late in the afternoon because I woke to the sound of her and my mother speaking in quiet tones.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” my mother whispered.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Sylvie replied.
I opened my eyes but didn’t move on the bed. I was able to watch my mother angrily turn the pages of her magazine. “You’ve come so far, Sylvie. Why stir the pot?”
“Because it needs to be stirred, Mom. I think it helps me.”
“How could it help you? I think you just enjoy torturing yourself, going to the nursery to look at those babies. After what happened to your sister… Losing her child and n
ow this… Why do we even have to go there?”
“You mean emotionally?” Sylvie asked. “Dr. Ramone says it’s good for me to face my emotions and deal with them head on.”
My mother let out an angry huff. “Just keep it to yourself, all right? Jenn’s been through enough. She doesn’t need to hear about how cute they are.”
I closed my eyes and decided not to involve myself in their argument because my mother was right. I didn’t want to hear how cute all those newborn babies were. I was still grieving the loss of my own.
Chapter Thirty-three
November 12
“Don’t worry,” I said to Sylvie over dinner the night before my mid-week checkup. “I’ll be fine.”
I’d been doing well since my discharge from the hospital and had experienced no seizures or memory lapses. The Dilantin was working like a dream.
My mother had traveled home the day before to tend to her dog, Chocolate, a six-year-old Shih Tzu she’d adopted after my father passed away. A neighbor had been taking care of Chocolate, but Mom needed to make other arrangements before returning for my surgery—and staying indefinitely afterward—which she fully intended to do.
“I’ll take a cab to the hospital and back,” I promised Sylvie, “and you can text me every hour, but I’m not letting you miss your exam.”
She pushed her salad around on her plate with a fork. “What time do you have to be there?”
“At 7:00 a.m. for blood work,” I replied. “Then I have to hang around until 12:00 to see Dr. Samson for the results and then there’s my checkup. I’ll bring a book and go to the cafeteria. What could possibly happen? If I pass out or seize—which I won’t—at least I’ll be in a hospital.”
Thankfully my sister didn’t argue. “Fine,” she said, “but promise to text me every hour, except while I’m writing my exam between 11:00 and 1:00.”
“I will.”
“And be sure to bring your phone charger.”
I laughed. “Good Lord! Everything will be fine and I won’t forget. I promise.”
“Good.”
We finished our supper. A few minutes later, just as we were rising to clean off the table, my laptop chimed from the bedroom.
I froze in my spot. “Do you think it’s Jake? Maybe he’s coming home.”
My sister met my alarmed gaze. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go answer it and find out.”
I set my plate down on the counter and rushed out of the kitchen.
*
“Baby…” Jake said.
I was never so happy to see my husband’s handsome face. Those thoughtful, loving eyes. Thank God he was all right.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Then he shocked me by bowing his head into the crook of his elbow and choking back a low, tortured sob. I’d never seen him weep before, not like that, and a hot tear rolled down my cheek.
“I guess they must have told you,” I said. But how much did he know?
He leaned forward and met my eyes. “They said you have a brain tumor. I didn’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true. It can’t be.”
Dear God…
I reached out and touched the screen. “I’m so sorry, Jake.”
His eyes were bloodshot and glassy. “How could this happen? Why?”
Swallowing uneasily, I shook my head because I didn’t have those answers. I’d been asking the same questions myself. “Bad luck, I guess.”
He wiped a tear from his cheek. “How did you find out? Were you having headaches?”
I explained how it progressed from headaches and a few inconvenient episodes of forgetfulness to a full-blown seizure in my kitchen, and how Sylvie and my mother had called an ambulance and taken me to the ER.
Suddenly, Jake stood up. He knocked his chair over and disappeared from sight.
“Jake!” I shouted, leaning forward. For a moment I watched the blank wall in the background while I listened to the sounds of him pacing around.
Please come back.
At last he reappeared on the screen, picked up his chair and sat down again. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.
“You’re angry,” I said.
“Yes. I can’t believe this is happening to you. That I wasn’t there to be with you, to take care of you.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I have good support here with Sylvie and Mom. You don’t have to worry about that part.”
He looked away. I saw a vein pulsing at his temple and knew he was fighting hard to manage his frustration. “They said you’re having surgery on Thursday?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “Can you come home for that?”
He nodded and I let out a breath of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“They’re flying me out in an hour,” he explained. “With the time change and connections, I should be home by tomorrow night. I’ll call you on your cell when I know more.”
I felt suddenly weightless and very blessed. My husband was coming home. “I’ll be so happy to see you,” I said.
“Me, too.” He touched the screen. “I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too. Fly safe.”
He kissed the camera lens and the screen went blank. Leaning forward over the keyboard, I cradled my head in my arms. Deeply and slowly I breathed in and out.
Jake…
I’d always been an optimist, but rarely had I felt more hopeful and happy than I did in that moment. Joy bubbled up within me and I found myself laughing and crying at the same time.
How miraculous. Even with a tumor on my brain, I still believed the future was bright. There was so much to look forward to because my husband was alive; he loved me and he was coming home to support me.
Wiping the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hand, I decided with certainty that come hell or high water, I was going to make it through the surgery. I began to visualize myself in the recovery room afterward.
The doctors will tell me I have a clean bill of health. Jake and I will both weep tears of joy. We’ll try again to have another baby. It’ll be a girl… Later, I’ll watch her play in a sandbox in the backyard. She’ll be three years old by then. We’ll have a puppy and I’ll be pregnant again…
Rising from my chair, I turned and jumped at the sight of my sister standing behind me. Laying a hand over my pounding heart, I said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I apologize,” she replied. “I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know if he’d be able to come home.”
“He’s on his way,” I told her as I brushed past to finish tidying up in the kitchen. “He’ll be home in time for the surgery.”
“Did you tell him about the baby?” she asked.
I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. “Not yet.”
She didn’t say a word, but I felt her disapproval like a cold outdoor breeze at my back. Maybe I should have said something, but I walked out because I didn’t want anything to spoil my mood.
*
The following morning I rose early for my appointment at the hospital, took a long hot shower, called a cab, and left the house while Sylvie was still sleeping soundly.
The cab dropped me off at the main entrance shortly before 7:00 a.m. I went straight to the blood drawing clinic where I only had to wait a few minutes before someone called my name.
Sylvie
Chapter Thirty-four
November 13
As luck would have it, I slept late the morning of my mid-term, which meant I didn’t have time to shower or eat breakfast. I rushed out the door in a panic and was lucky not to get pulled over for speeding as I raced across town.
As soon as I found a parking spot and spilled out of my car in a tangle of limbs and books, I dug into my purse for my phone and texted Jenn.
By this time it was 10:50 a.m.
I slept in. How are you doing?
She immediately texted me back. I’m doing great.
Good. Heading into my exam now. I’ll text you later.
Good luck, she re
plied.
Since my instructor was strict about cell phones in class, especially during exams, I shut off my phone and slipped it back into my purse.
*
I suppose, under the circumstances, I should explain why I’d slept in that morning and didn’t text Jenn when I said I would.
The truth is, I’d tossed and turned all night long, wondering if I should have called Jake myself and told him about Jenn’s miscarriage.
Or forced her to do it herself.
Fine. I’ll admit it. I was eavesdropping on their conversation on the laptop again the night before, but the fact of the matter was this: She hadn’t said a word about the baby when she’d spoken to him and I was certain it was only going to make things more difficult when he arrived home. I doubted he would be quite so sympathetic when he found out she’d kept something like that from him. Twice.
I wasn’t sure if it was intentional on her part. Maybe she’d made a conscious decision not to drop another bomb on him last night when he was so distraught about the tumor. I knew how sensitive she was to his fears about losing another child. Maybe she wanted to tell him in person.
Or maybe she’d simply forgotten to tell him—which wasn’t out of the question, considering her condition.
And so… Last night I hadn’t slept. This was not unusual for me because I had a tendency to stress out about things I’d said or didn’t say. It always hit me hardest during the night. I would replay conversations over and over in my mind, analyze them to death, and wish I’d handled them differently.
My anxiety medications were helpful, but still, in extreme circumstances like these, I tortured myself by worrying about the future and the past. I had to physically restrain myself from calling my mother or therapist at 3:00 a.m. to ask for advice. What would they think? Would they advise me to call Jake immediately and break the news to him myself? Maybe Jenn needed my help to do that.
Or maybe that would be meddling. Would I be butting my nose in where it didn’t belong?
Anyway, that’s why I’d slept in—because I’d tossed and turned from midnight until dawn. It’s also why I was so distracted during my exam and for the rest of the day when I couldn’t stop debating with myself about what to do.
08-The Color of Joy Page 10