Email: (from me to a friend)

Hey [friend],

Gah!  Can you please pray for me?  Took my dad to the E.R. this evening with what seemed to be stroke symptoms (garbled speech)… turns out that there is a mass on his brain which looks to be cancerous (I hate that word – the “C” word -and writing it just now makes it all that much more real, and scary).  He was admitted to the hospital, my mom is there with him, and there will be more tests and a biopsy (hopefully very soon).  Just too big to wrap my mind around… he’d been busy all day at my place putting up bead board and other such projects; seems fine except now he can’t get his words to make sense – sounds like he’s speaking in a foreign language.  Lots of unknowns at this point.  Just would appreciate your prayers.

– Kari

 

My Reflections:

Papa ‘s not acting like himself; more accurately, Papa’s not talking like himself.  At all.  It’s as if he’s speaking an entirely foreign language; except for the fact that he doesn’t speak any foreign languages.  And the rest of us just sit there eating Nana’s belated b-day dinner, trying to act casual and carry on conversation as if Papa’s speech isn’t that horribly abnormal.

Inwardly, we are concerned though, and a mite embarrassed for Papa too.  It’s not until he excuses himself to the restroom that Nana, J, and I start voicing our concern.

The possibility of stroke is fresh on my mind since I recently talked with a friend who told me about her dad having one.

“Mom, Dad’s kinda worrying me,” I say.  “Is mixed-up speech a sign of a stroke?  Make sure you keep an eye on him tonight.”

Nana agrees that it could be a sign, but, like myself, doesn’t feel it’s an emergency situation. Ironically, Papa and Nana have had discussions previously about signs of a stroke (he’s on blood thinners for his heart and thus at a higher risk) and the importance of getting to a hospital in the first few hours to prevent long-term damage.  In the moment though, despite the signs, Nana and I don’t sense the urgency of this situation.  Papa seemes completely normal except for his garbled, mixed-up speech.  It can’t be that bad, can it?

Thankfully, J ‘s more level-headed than the rest of us, and recommends (insists) that we take Papa to the E.R. right away.  When Papa returns to the table from the restroom, we tell him our concern and our plan.  Even he thinks it’s a bit over-kill and especially ridiculous that I want to drive them there, but he doesn’t argue (much) and within moments we’re out the door and on our way.

When we get to the E.R., we quickly realize how serious things are.  I’ve been to the E.R. on several other occasions, but never before have I seen anyone rushed into a room so quickly as they rush in Papa.  Immediately there’s a flurry of doctors and nurses attending to him, asking us questions, ordering tests, and whisking him away for scans and such.  In the midst of all this, the nurses and doctors all seem to be confirming what we thought; surely Papa has had a stroke.

And then a doctor comes in to give us the report of the CT scan.  The scan indicated no bleeding on the brain.  It’s not a stroke like they had thought.  Instead, the CT scan showed some “shadowing” on an area of Papa’s brain, indicating that there’s most likely a mass there.  And from the way the blood vessels are shown to be flowing to this area, it’s probable that the mass is cancerous.

I sit there listening, nodding, feeling numb and as if things are running in slow motion.  Events with Papa over the past couple of months run through my head and I nod as I hear the term “brain cancer” and somehow it all makes sense…

Less than two months earlier I’d been talking with J in bed one night, commenting on how Papa seemed to have gotten “older” all of a sudden:  that time when he was helping me paint our deck and told me he had to go in because he was getting tired (he wasn’t one to easily get tired), how he’d lately gotten so “doomsday” on politics and financial matters (he usually wasn’t so pessimistic), how his patience had shortened with his grandkids (being more sensitive to their noise and antics), those times he’d made mistakes in measurements for house projects he was helping me with (he was an engineer and usually so precise with details), and how he’d told me he’d been sporadically mixing up a word here and there for the last several months.  As I talked with J that night, tears streamed down my face and I told him I wasn’t sure how much longer Papa would be around.  After that conversation, I’d made a conscious effort to just sit and listen as Papa talked about politics or other topics I’d previously not be inclined to listen to in lieu of pressing household demands.  And I let J know how important it was for us to make a 2 1/2 hour round trip to get lunch at a specific restaurant just because Papa liked it and really wanted to take us there. It was just a gut feeling that his time was limited.

And there in the E.R., in that moment when time slowed down and the surrounding emergency rush blurs for a brief second or two, those two words of the doctor, “brain cancer,” make sense for some crazy gut, can’t-put-my-finger-on-it, feeling that I’ve been carrying with me these past short months.

Even earlier that very day I’d seen it.  Even before Papa’s speech got so mixed up you couldn’t understand a word he was speaking.  Papa had been installing some beadboard above a countertop in our basement.  Weeks before he’d cut a few of the boards too short and Papa & I decided to use a trim piece on the bottom to cover up the mistake.  On this day when the beadboard install was complete, I walked down to the basement to check it out.  The first words out of my mouth were “Dad!, What did you do?!”  He’d installed the boards leaving the gap at the top, not the bottom, like we’d discussed.

I couldn’t believe he’d forgotten what we’d talked about, it was so out of character for him.  The trim I’d bought to cover up the previous mistake wouldn’t work to cover this mistake.  And I felt bad that he’d worked so hard on it and it wasn’t done “right.”  He told my mom that he’d disappointed me; and then I felt worse for my reaction.  I  did my best to apologize and told him it was just me being too perfectionistic.  We were able to get it all fixed; breadboard and hurt feelings.  And then Papa went upstairs to rest on our couch (he wasn’t one for typically resting on couches).  He even sat there and petted Bobo, our beagle (completely out of character for this animal non-lover).  And then more small things started to happen.  He asked to use our laptop (he’s forever searching the web), but then said he couldn’t get it to work (it worked just fine when I came over to look at it).  He mentioned to J about his and Nana’s upcoming trip to “Colorado” (they were going to California, not Colorado).  And then in a three hour timespan his speech went from fine to completely nonsensical.  And all the while he kept trying to talk as if we’d understand what he was saying.

They bring Papa back from the CT scan and the doctor tries to explain to him about the brain tumor. The doctor asks him if there’s any history of brain cancer in his family and Papa responds with a noncommittal “no” or “nah.”  Nana and I are taken aback a bit and Nana reminds Papa about his own dad having, and passing away from, brain cancer (something that Papa was previously very aware of).  Now Papa doesn’t seem to understand or remember.  The doctor looks at me and asks if I have any siblings.  When I tell him “yes, I have a brother (out of state,)” the doctor responds that I need to be aware and let my brother know that a link has been shown between heredity and brain cancer.  I silently wonder what one is supposed to do with this grim “awareness.”  And how does one watch for signs of brain cancer?  Are my brother and I to soon follow suit after my grandfather and Papa?

At one point when Papa’s out of the room for a test or otherwise preoccupied with nurses attending to him, one of the doctors or nurses mentions to Nana & me how important it is not to pretend to understand what Papa’s saying in his nonsensical way, but instead letting him know when we can’t understand him and trying to do our best to work at figuring out what he’s trying to communicate.  In Papa’s current state we’ve gotten to the point of just nodding and smiling when possible, while he continues to talk fluently in his own “foreign language.”   It’s just been a whole lot easier at times to “fake it,” especially when he gets so frustrated when we don’t understand him.

All this time, I feel like I’m doing a pretty solid job of keeping it together as I attempt to take in everything that’s happening.  I send out some quick texts to friends asking for prayer.  One friend and her husband are having a date night when she gets the text and they drop by the E.R. for a few moments with cups of hot tea from Starbucks for Nana and me.  In a numb fog, I fill them in on the latest, so glad to see their kind faces in the midst of the crazy night.  I’ve been updating J through texts and calls and let him know that I’m ok and he doesn’t need to worry about coming in.

Yes, I’m doing a pretty solid job… until the seizure hits.  Papa’s very adamantly trying to tell Nana & me something of importance that needs to be done.  Neither of us can understand him, but we’re trying our darndest with asking more questions and making guesses and so forth.  Papa gets frustrated and exasperated and then the right side of his face begins to get droopy and  his eyes start to roll back; and his head and arms and legs and entire body begin to shake in stiff, uncontrollable motions.  And it’s absolutely terrifying to witness.  Nurses are right there doing whatever it is they do when a seizure hits and, as if on cue, a doctor rushes in and says she’s just gotten off the phone with the neurologist who says Papa will need anti-seizure meds prescribed to minimize this common side affect with brain tumors.

Apparently.

It’s then that the tears come.  And I try to just listen and blink them back and swallow the lump rising in my throat; the last thing I want to do is lose it in front of Nana and Papa and all these nurses and doctors.  But the dam is about to break and I can’t hold it together much longer.  I excuse myself as soon as I can and escape to the nearest sitting area down the hall.  And I call J, crying.  Reality is beginning to sink in.

Late tonight (or rather very early the next morning) when things settle down, plans are made for Papa to be admitted to the hospital for further monitoring, and I head home.  Alone.

At least that’s how it feels.

Right now my heart is numb, I’m in shock and comfort and strength seem far, far away.

It might take awhile before I can fully grasp it, but in time, a quote my brother will write (when this is all said and done), will prove to ring true, even for me:

To be lifted up, one must first walk in the valley.

Welcome to Day 1 of life in the valley.