From Depths We Rise Page 5

  We had been having such an amazing time together without the threat of cancer. I wanted nothing more than to stay in our perfect little bubble we had created, even though I knew it was impossible. Life had to return to normal at some point. Our normal just so happened to be a constant state of wait and see.

  Soon the break was over and we sat in the hospital room in complete silence, waiting for the doctor to arrive. Our glorious break from reality had come to an abrupt end as we steeled ourselves for the news of what our fate would be.

  The only sound was the nervous tapping of Joel’s foot on the linoleum floor and the crinkling sounds the paper made underneath him as he shifted back and forth. The doctor walked in the room. One look at his face and I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

  “So we have some growth in the tumor size from the last scan,” he said.

  “When you say growth, what do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, when I say growth, I mean it has grown back to the size it was pre-chemo.”

  We were dumbfounded. In the three months we had taken a break, this tumor had grown back to a size that negated the five months of chemo Joel had endured. We felt like we were kicked in our guts again. All we wanted was freedom from sickness and our lives back again. Instead we were told all of his hard work did absolutely nothing.

  The doctor told us at this point he wanted to move to a different course of action. Instead of chemo he wanted to go in and surgically remove the tumor. I was immediately hesitant. Once you go in and start poking around, the cancer can do unpredictable things. I was also concerned with putting Joel’s body through yet another major surgery only three years out from the first one and after enduring almost a year and a half total of chemo.

  The room fell silent. I said the words that I knew Joel was thinking but too afraid to say.

  “Doctor, at this point are we just buying time, or do you really believe he can beat this?”

  It may have sounded abrupt, but we needed to know. I didn’t want my husband to continue to endure procedure after procedure only to put him through something that wouldn’t save his life in the end.

  “I think he can still beat it,” was his reply. “I really do.”

  One thing I did know was there was no one more determined to beat this disease than my precious husband.

  We spent the next several weeks in a tailspin in meetings with specialists and the surgical team. We finally told Joel’s boss, who was shocked he was able to keep this quiet for so long, never even calling in sick once. We sought the advice of friends and family and prayed really, really hard. During those next few weeks, it became more and more difficult for Joel to breathe as the tumor grew larger in his chest. Breathing in and out is something we all take for granted until lung cancer makes it a laborious activity. We finally decided, despite our extreme hesitancy, moving forward with the surgery was our only option. We called the doctor, who gave us a surgery date for the following week.

  “I was thinking,” Joel started in, “if they cut me open on my chest to get to my lung, that means that at least for a few weeks I won’t be able to rock Milo to sleep, right?”

  Up to this point we each had our “duties,” so to speak, of who would handle what in regard to our son. Joel’s duty had always been to give Milo his evening bottle and rock him to sleep. He had been the main one who would do so every single night, chemo or no chemo. There would be nights he would come home sick as a dog and I would say, “Maybe I should just rock Milo tonight?” He would say no—adamant it would be him. Those were his most special times with his son, and there was nothing he treasured more. I looked at him and gave my answer.

  “No, honey, you probably won’t be able to for a while.”

  Silent but steady tears started to pour down his face and, in turn, mine, too.

  Neither of us slept the night before surgery. Still, we had been reassured this would be a fairly straightforward procedure. Joel would be in for about a weeklong hospital stay and a two-week recovery time. This delighted us because it meant he would be healed up and able to attend our son’s first birthday party extravaganza, a party I had embarrassingly been planning for half of his life. Our sitter arrived early, and it was time to go. I went back to our son’s room to find Joel sitting in the rocker, talking to Milo and giving him kisses.

  “Daddy’s going to be gone for a while and I will miss you so, so much, but I will be home very soon, okay, buddy? You take care of Mommy while I’m gone. I love you, bud.” It melted my heart and still does as I think about it.

  I grabbed my cell phone and instinctively took a picture of both of them—Milo in his PJs, completely oblivious to the impending situation, and Joel already wearing a medical bracelet and looking apprehensive. A father holding the long-awaited gift of his son. Life was about to radically change. Our story was about to take an even deeper turn. This moment would be the last time it ever looked this way. If only I had known.

  We hopped in the car and made our way to the hospital where the surgery was scheduled. My husband changed into his gown and we sat in the presurgical room for what seemed like forever. My nerves were, once again, on edge. Joel was prepped and ready, but I wasn’t ready at all. There is no worse feeling than knowing someone you love so much is about to go into surgery. I felt helpless. Joel felt nervous. When a nurse came to tell him that they were about to take him back, he looked at me with fear in his eyes. I will never forget that look. He was holding his cell phone in his hands. When our babysitter forwarded me some pictures of our son, Joel asked if he could see them. As he studied the pictures, his face lit up and he seemed more at ease. He pulled up a picture of our son, held it to his forehead, and said over and over again, “I love you, bubby.”

  The time finally arrived to whisk him away. I squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him everything would be okay. I then leaned over his bed, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I love you. I will see you soon.”

  Little did I know that was the last time I would ever see my husband in the normal state he was in. Had I known, I would have held him longer. I would have taken him in my arms and had him wrap his arms around me. I would have taken a picture of his smile, staying as long as I could in that moment of my husband as whole as he would ever be again. But we don’t ever know the future, do we?

  Six hours later I was sitting in the ICU by my husband’s side. The surgery was successful, and he was still in ICU recovering. I’d walked in, surprised at seeing him on a ventilator. I had specifically asked before his surgery if he would come out on a vent, wanting to mentally prepare myself if that were the case. They had told us no, he wouldn’t be. Walking in his room and seeing my husband was indeed on a ventilator upset me greatly. Finally the surgeon came in to see me. His eyes were large.

  “The cancer was big,” he said flatly. “Much, much bigger than what I had anticipated.”

  “Define big,” was my response.

  He held up his hands in a round motion. “I would say at least the size of a grapefruit.”

  No wonder Joel couldn’t breathe. In that moment I felt waves of relief at the thought we had made the right decision. He went on to explain to me Joel would remain on the vent through the night to give his body a chance to relax. He said he should be off the vent by the time I got there the next morning. I had learned through prior surgeries you do not get any rest when you are sleeping on a hospital waiting room floor. As much as I wanted to be with my husband, it was almost time for them to kick me out because visiting hours were over. I decided to go home to try to get a few hours of sleep and head back over in the morning.

  I got there early the next morning and walked into Joel’s room. He was still sedated and still on the vent. Again, I was not expecting this. It had been twenty-four hours since I had spoken with my husband. I was getting antsy and wanted him awake so I could talk to him and tell him everything was okay. He had told me before that he wanted me to tell him the results of his surgery as soon as I could. The nurse came in the
room and said hello. It was my first time to meet her. She busied herself around the room, ending her visit with a vitals check.

  “Hello, Joel, can you squeeze my hand with your right hand?” He squeezed.

  “Good!” she said. “Can you wiggle your toes on your right side?” He wiggled his toes.

  “Great. Can you squeeze my hand on your left side?” Her face scrunched up in an odd expression.

  “Can you please squeeze on your left side, Joel?” Nothing. “What about your toes. Can you wiggle your toes on your left side?” Nothing.

  I felt fear rising up in me.

  “Um, nurse, what is going on? Should I be concerned?” I asked.

  “I am going to page the doctor,” she said and hurried out of the room.

  Time went on and on. There was activity around his room, but a doctor had yet to appear. I was sitting in the chair as the minutes ticked away and seemed like hours. I could tell by the look on her face she was concerned, but I couldn’t tell to what degree. All I knew was that I was extremely concerned myself and bracing for the reality that, once again, life might not be going as planned.

  Finally, after an immense amount of time, the neurological doctor stormed into the room. He immediately walked to Joel’s bedside and began screaming at him to follow commands. Not just talking, screaming. Joel was not responding. They kicked me out of the room, which filled quickly. There was activity and personnel everywhere. I was standing outside, all by myself since my family had yet to arrive, wondering what on earth was going on.

  After a long while the doctor came over to me and said plainly, “Ma’am, we think your husband has had a stroke.”

  A stroke? What? He had just had surgery on his lung for cancer. Now the doctor was saying he thought Joel had suffered a stroke? He was only thirty-five. Did people that young have strokes? I was in shock and had no idea what this meant for us.

  “I will have another doctor come talk to you but this is very, very serious. We are taking him back to CT right now to get a picture of his brain. I will come talk to you when we have the results. Do you have someone who can come stay with you?”

  When they ask you things like that, you know it’s really, really bad.

  Another doctor came to talk to me after the scan was done, telling me my husband had suffered a massive ischemic stroke and that the odds were very likely he wouldn’t live. If he did, he would most likely become a vegetable.

  My head was spinning. How on earth did we get here? We came in for a surgery for cancer. Cancer was our biggest obstacle, and now we had this stroke lumped on top of it? Why God, why? Haven’t we been through enough? I couldn’t make sense of it in my head, and neither could I imagine a reality where my husband did not exist. The rip current was back and pulling me deeper and deeper to a depth I feared I might never return from.

  Doctors came into the room and gave me my options. I could consent to a surgery to remove a portion of his skull to allow his brain to swell. In doing so he would have only a one-in-four shot at making it through. My other option was to do nothing and allow his brain to swell to the point of no return, a certain death. Both choices were bad, both feeling like a betrayal.

  I wept as I picked up the pen and signed my name on the dotted line, giving them permission to saw off a portion of my husband’s skull. They hurried back to prepare the operating room. I turned and walked over to my husband. He still had the tube down his throat and his eyes closed.

  “Joel, can you hear me?” I asked. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” He squeezed it.

  “Good. Joel, listen to me. You have had a massive stroke. Doctors are saying it doesn’t look good. They are about to take you back to have another surgery, this time on your head, to help with the effects of your stroke. Do you follow me?” He squeezed my hand.

  “Joel, do not quit on me. Do you hear me? You keep fighting. I need you. Milo needs you. We cannot live this life without you!”

  I was practically shouting as the tears were pouring down my face.

  “God is going to be with you, and He is going to heal you. You just continue to let Him do His part, but you have to do your part. You have got to fight. You have to, Joel. You do not give up. We love you, JoJo. Milo needs his daddy. You have to be there as he is growing up, Joel. He needs you. I love you.”

  Each sentence was coming out in wild, erratic gasps. I didn’t know in that moment if I was pushing my husband forward in his fight or if I was telling him good-bye. Over and over again he squeezed my hand, giving me signs he understood. With each squeeze, I knew he was vowing to fight with every bit of strength he had in him.

  I stood there saying the same things on a repeat loop, for almost an hour, willing him to live and praying to God to spare his life. They finally came to get him to take him to surgery.

  I squeezed his hand one more time and leaned down to whisper in his ear: “Joel, I love you. Do not leave me.”

  They wheeled my husband away for his second major surgery in less than twenty-four hours. Friends and family came to surround me as I sat on the dirty floor of a lonely hospital and wept.

  Against all odds, Joel made it through his surgery. He had a ten-inch scar wrapping around the right side of his head in a large U shape to allow his brain to swell. I sat at his bedside day after day, checking to make sure he was improving, whispering in his ear to continue fighting, massaging his feet with oils, and praying. They kept him mostly sedated because he had the ventilator down his throat and it was too uncomfortable to be awake. They would pull him out of sedation briefly each morning to do a vitals check and immediately put him back under. I tried to never miss when this would happen so I could look in his eyes and reassure him everything was going to be okay before he drifted off into a nice sedated sleep.

  Finally, after four long days of sedation, it was time to remove the tube. It was a glorious moment. Only a few days prior I didn’t know if I would ever talk to him again, and now I was able to hear his voice.

  One of the first phrases he spoke was, “I love you, baby.”

  Since he was now able to talk, I knew the time had arrived to have the conversation I had been dreading. As far as I knew, Joel only thought he had gone in for his lung surgery. He most likely felt as if only a day had passed, and he was just now waking up from his sleep. The reality was nearly a full week had passed, and he would not be waking up to the body that he had presurgery. He was completely paralyzed on his left side. While it wasn’t totally impossible for him to regain his strength, it would take a lot of work, and even then it was highly unlikely.

  I braced myself and said a silent prayer for strength.

  “Joel, I need to have kind of a hard conversation with you, honey,” I started in.

  “Is it about my stroke?” he asked.

  “Um…you know about that?” I said hesitantly.

  “Well, when I was on the vent some nurses came in to roll me over. They thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. I heard them say I had a stroke, I’m missing a chunk of my skull, and my left side isn’t working. But I’m okay, baby, really I am,” he stated simply.

  I don’t know if I was grateful he had heard the news that way or angry. Either way, he knew the truth, what lay ahead, and the hard part that was just beginning.

  Now that the tubes were out, physical therapy could begin. This was one of the hardest parts of the process but necessary. He had no function whatsoever on the left side of his body. That meant any task he could only do with one arm. He wasn’t able to walk, roll over, or sit up on his own. The stroke had also severely damaged the vision out of his left eye, making it nearly impossible for him to see unless he closed that eye completely.

  He had been hit hard. It was heartbreaking to watch. I wasn’t used to seeing my big, strong husband fully dependent on others to do the simplest tasks. But his fighting spirit hadn’t gone anywhere. He was determined not only to rise but to astound.

  Joel quickly made friends with the physical therapy staff and would c
rack jokes with them every time they came in his room. His attitude was amazing. Physical therapy was difficult, but never once did I hear him complain about how hard it was or even complain about the situation he was in. He continued to plow forward, working hard at his exercises and putting others around him at ease.

  One time he had a particularly hard day and was easily worn out, so they told him that he should stop.

  “No,” he said. “Again.” He was adamant.

  “Are you sure?” the therapist asked. “You seem tired…you’ve done a lot today.”

  “I can do it. I want to do it,” he said.

  He told me later, “The more I push myself, the quicker I can get home. That is all I want, to be home with you and Milo.”

  They didn’t know before, but the medical staff was realizing more and more what a fighter they had on their hands.

  The next night, we were finally able to bring Milo to see his daddy. I had been hesitant about this moment taking place because I didn’t want Milo to be frightened by all the tubes. We put Milo in his stroller and slowly pushed him into the room. Joel’s face lit up.

  “Hi, buddy!” he said, “Come here, buddy!”

  He looked over at Milo and lovingly grabbed his hand.

  “Oh, bubba, I missed you so much. Daddy loves you, bubba. Daddy loves you.”

  Milo was antsy in my arms, wanting to be down on the bed with his daddy. I gingerly placed him at Joel’s working side. As much as Joel wanted to hold him, he just couldn’t. He only had one arm that worked and hadn’t quite figured out the new way of doing things. Milo was frustrated, too. He didn’t understand why Daddy couldn’t roughhouse and play with him the way he always did. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to play with all the fun wires and tubes. Even though it was good for them to see each other, and good for our family to be together, it just wasn’t the same. I left Joel’s hospital room that day wondering if things would ever be the same for my little family again.