Continued from Before . . . and After: Part One. If you missed it, you can find it here.

 

AND BY THE NEXT MORNING, the doctors have all changed their minds.

Now they’re saying that they want your husband to be on steroids for a few more days before he flies, and he might as well be at the condo as at the hospital, so in shock again, you bring him home. And in some ways that is when the real stress begins because suddenly all you can see are the many hard surfaces—tile floors and concrete pool decks—that someone who’s unsteady on their feet could fall on. But your dear friend is there to help you and between the two of you, you can keep eyes on him.

And having her there is a blessing beyond blessings because you are suddenly completely incapable of doing even the simplest of practical things—like ordering food online from restaurants or changing your plane reservations or putting together a schedule for the cocktail of meds your husband is now on. Another huge blessing is that she takes on all the driving in her big, comfortable car, which means you can leave the piece of crap car in the garage where it belongs. One night, you go to do some laundry, but the washer and the dryer look exactly alike and the words mean nothing to you, and it’s not until you’ve put your clothes in and poured liquid detergent on top that you realize you are trying to wash your clothes in the dryer.

Still, unexpectedly — even miraculously — you are able to have two days of sort-of vacation.

Back by the pool at the condo

Your husband sits with his feet in the kiddie pool and watches the baseball playoffs on the big screen TVs in the cabana by the pool, and you try to relax a little because you know that there are hard days ahead of you at home.

And amazing, beautiful things continue to happen. Your friend runs into a friend of hers at the condo, and when she tells her what’s going on, this woman whom you have never met takes the turtle bracelet off her wrist and tells Sue to give it to you because in Hawaiian culture, honu are symbols of good luck and longevity. Which makes you cry, and you put the bracelet on and wear it home on the plane and many days after that to the hospital, including the hardest day of all, the day of your husband’s brain surgery.

The turtle bracelet

And when the day comes to fly home from Maui, your dear friend drives your husband to the airport so he won’t have to walk so far, and you leave earlier so you can take the piece of crap car back to the rental place. And you are even mildly happy because you think you have prayed your last Help me, Jesus, help me prayer in that stupid car and an hour from now you will be done with it forever.

But you are wrong because the piece of crap car has one last sting in its tail. As soon as you turn onto the highway, you realize it needs gas—and you have no idea how to put it in. So you pull into the gas station and search the dashboard for the button that opens the gas door and of course you can’t find it and once again you are praying Help me, Jesus, help me. And when you look up, a tow truck has pulled into the next bay and a giant, bearded guy gets out and even though he’s a bit scary looking you go up to him and ask if he can help you, and he says sure. Somehow, he wedges himself into the piece of crap car and starts pushing buttons while you stand outside by the gas door, yelling No, that’s not it, till it finally pops open.

Then he gets out with a big, friendly grin and says, Well, that was more complicated than I thought it would be, and you thank him and he gives you the Hawaiian shaka sign which means hang loose or no worries and tells you to have a nice day, and you know that God has just sent another angel to help you.

And finally, you get to the airport and turn in the piece of crap car, and it is one of the best moments of that very long day. You take the tram back to check-in and meet your husband and your dear friend, who’s arranged for him to have wheelchair assistance which is beyond brilliant because you would never have thought of it and it’s hot and humid and the airport is a madhouse and you are still pretty much unable to cope with anything. But there is this lovely young man, and he deals with your bags and check-in and steers you through the security chaos and pushes your husband’s wheelchair all the way to the gate and he is another angel.

Because you have been blessed.

You have been blessed.

You have been blessed.

So you fly home first class, courtesy of your dear mother-in-law, and that makes all the difference because your husband is able to lie down during that long flight. And your sister and brother-in-law are there waiting for you at Sea-Tac. Your sister has brought snacks and even a thermos of tea, and when your brother-in-law sees you, he comes running toward you with his arms outstretched and a huge smile on his face and the guy who’s pushing your husband’s wheelchair starts cracking up and you have never been gladder to be met at the airport in your life.

Because you are not going home. You’re taking your husband straight to the hospital, and that is just the beginning of the really exhausting, difficult days which culminates in the day of his six-hour brain surgery.

It goes well, praise God.

But even so, when you walk into his room in the ICU that night and see him asleep and hooked up to every monitor known to humankind with a drain coming out of his head, you collapse on the chair next to his bed and lay your head down in his lap because you’re afraid you might faint—or throw up.

And you are sitting on his left side and the incision where they cut into his skull is on his right side and even though they have mercifully not shaved his head, you are not sure you will ever have the courage to look at it. And when you finally do, you see that it looks like a black line drawn with a Sharpie pen (because of the glue) and it starts just above his hairline and curves all the way around his head to just below his right ear and it is huge.

Then he wakes up.

And he knows your name and his own and he kinda knows what day it is and where he is, and he is talking, and he is there. He remembers that your sister is in the waiting room and asks to see her and you all talk and even though he’s hooked up to all that stuff, he already seems more like himself than he has in months. And though there are many more hard days ahead, harder days than you have ever lived through, you know . . .

You have been blessed.

You have been blessed.

You have been blessed.

October 26, 24 days after you walked into the ER on Maui and 9 days after brain surgery at Evergreen

and the first day you thought you might make it

And he spends more days in the hospital — in the ICU and then in rehab — and there are many angels there too. Then he comes home, and though that is an amazing blessing, it is still hard. But through it all, you are surrounded by love, by your family and friends who are sending cards, calling, texting, coming to visit, bringing food, leaving coolers of soup and banana bread on your doorstep, and praying.

And as the days pass and you watch him slowly regaining the strength and energy and focus he hasn’t had for more than a year, it feels like getting someone you love back from the dead.

And so, you have a very thankful Thanksgiving and a beautiful Christmas and then it’s a new year and it’s been three months since the surgery. So you go to the follow-up appointment with the neurosurgeon and he tells you that your husband’s latest MRI looks exactly the way he hoped it would and though they will continue to monitor him for the rest of his life, there is a 95% chance that the meningioma is gone forever and will never return.

And now, you really know . . .

You have been blessed.

 

With deep gratitude to everyone who helped and called and texted and sent cards and brought food and especially prayed, because truly, we would not have made it through this without you. Special thanks to dear Sue, Sharon and Griffin, Megan and Colin, Susan and Tom, Barbara, Mark and Robin, Karolyn, Donna and John, Pastor Aaron, and all our dear friends at UPC and Bear Creek School. We love you all and we are beyond grateful for your presence in our lives.

Our heartfelt thanks also to Dr. Dustin Hayward and Dr. Steve Montague, and a special shout-out to Dr. Holly Poag, ER doctor at Maui General Hospital. We will always be grateful you ordered that CT scan.

All photos your own