by Renee Dyer
It didn’t work. I’m not better. My prayers haven’t been answered.
Nick
It’s like a swarm of ants. Never ending motion. In one room, out the other. Check on this patient. Alarms sound out. Run to that patient. Visitors crying, begging for answers, praying for loved ones to get better. I want to scream from it all.
I’ve been told too many times that it can be days before Brenna shows improvement. The fluid levels need to go down in her brain. But watching her still vomiting, crying, hearing her raspy voice begging for someone to help her is breaking my resolve. I was so sure I was doing everything I could for her at home. That I was making the best decisions.
I was wrong.
I failed her.
Brenna – ICU Day Three
It’s been a couple days of alternating between sleep, being picked and prodded at, getting sick, and pain that refuses to give up. The silence when my door closes is frightening. Monitors still beep, but not hearing people walk by, or the nurses talking to each other, makes me feel completely alone. Nick hasn’t come to visit yet. I never realized how confining four walls can be.
As much as I miss Nick and being home with him, I’m glad to have the break. Since I got sick, his voice is sad and the circles under his eyes take away from his handsome face. He looks at me, but he’s not seeing me anymore. He sees the illness, the broken woman I’ve become, and I detest the heartbreak swirling in his eyes. There’s a crack in our relationship I’m frightened we won’t be able to fix when…if I get better. Each day I remain here puts a deeper strain. He tries not to say anything, but when he thinks I’m sleeping, his heart overflows, breaking mine.
I can’t blame him. He’s scared.
I can’t tell him I am, too.
I’ve been living inside my head. The people around me don’t understand that. They see the physical effects, but they have no idea the mental storm bashing through my skull. Every moment I’m aware of my surroundings is torture and it has nothing to do with the pain. Seeing my family in anguish, the combination of fear and exhaustion on their faces…it’s changing me. I used to be able to shake things off. Understand that life happens and you handle whatever it throws at you, but too much has happened too quickly and it’s because of me—my body—that my family is suffering. Guilt makes it hard to look them in the eye…that and my inability to straighten my neck. The muscles being locked in this position is a blessing in disguise. Sometimes, it’s too much being in this tiny room, swamped in my emotions with them staring at me, examining me, and all I want is to get away.
I fucking hate being in this bed.
I still can’t get up. I haven’t thrown up since last night, but the nausea is still awful. Dr. Wendell explained again yesterday that the tube sticking out of the top of my head is draining the fluid. I feel like a damn idiot every time he or one of the nurses re-explains shit to me. I know I’ve been out of it, but I’ve been a lot more involved in the conversations the last twelve hours. Around dinner time last night, I felt a little shift in how I felt. I can’t say I suddenly felt great, ‘cause my head still wants to explode and the waves are rolling around, making me want to pass out, but the chicken broth stayed down. This morning, I managed a cup of tea. I’m not so hollow.
“Good morning, Brenna.” A nurse walks in with a cart. “Would you like to get cleaned up before you go for your scan?” she asks, smiling at me.
That’s right. Dr. Wendell mentioned I would have a CT scan this morning to check fluid levels and he would be changing the position of my bed to see if the fluid may drain faster.
“Brenna?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Yes, I’d like to get cleaned up, please.”
She pulls the cart up next to me and gets to work unbuttoning one side of the Johnny. She’s quick at washing down that side and drying it, pulling the clean Johnny over my washed skin. She moves down to my legs and repeats the process, letting me know she’ll change my bedding while I’m gone for the scan. Having her move my body around makes me nauseous, but I breathe in and out deeply, begging my body to behave. She washes up my other leg and I expect her to pull the blankets back over me. The warmth of the wash cloth wiping up my center causes me to jump, a loud, “Whoa!” dropping from my lips.
“I’m so sorry.” Her face flashes red. “I’m used to my patients being comatose or close to it. They aren’t even aware I’m bathing them and they have to be washed everywhere. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. I should have asked if you wanted to wash there yourself.”
“Or at least told me your name,” I joke, trying to ease the tension in the room.
“Crap, I’m really screwing up this morning. My name’s Debbie. I’m going to give you this cloth and I’ll use the other one to wash the rest of you.”
“Nice to meet you, Debbie.”
“Thanks for not making this awkward,” she says, continuing to bathe me as I shiver in the exposed air. “Would you like me to braid your hair? I can do that around the tube. I can use some dry shampoo and then have one of the nurses help you sit up while I comb and braid it.”
“I would really like that,” I answer, feeling choked up. Maybe this will make Nick see me more like the woman he has always loved and less like the woman still stuck in this bed. “Thank you.”
Nick
Another day of driving to the hospital, walking through the cold air, wishing I was with my son, at work—anywhere but here. The last two days have sucked. This surgery was supposed to turn things around, but all I’ve seen is more of the same. Brenna is still getting sick. Her pain is out of control. She sleeps more than she’s awake. Every time my cell rings, it’s a direct hit to my heart. I don’t know how many more times I can say she’s not better before the last piece of it falls away.
I’m losing hope.
“Hey there, gorgeous. Why so glum?”
Hazel eyes bore into me, straight into my soul, pinning me in place. I can’t speak. Can’t move. The bed has been raised. She was never lying flat, but now she’s mostly sitting up. Her hair is braided. I can see her face. See her. There’s no stringy hair hanging down, making her look…fuck, like a sick mess. It’s just my Brenna in all her radiant beauty with that damn smile that makes me willing to give up anything.
“Hi.”
How fucking lame am I? For the first time in weeks, I see a spark of the woman I fell in love with and that’s all I manage? I have officially lost all the cool I gained from being with this woman. The lack of her being here has reverted me back to the geek I used to be.
“Hi,” she says, a tear falling down her cheek, her smile never disappearing. “I was starting to worry I’d never see that look again.”
“That look?” I ask.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but to a passerby, it would appear you’re looking through me. I used to think the same thing, but one day I realized that one side of your mouth quirks up and your eyes start to almost sparkle like a child who just got a wonderful idea. It makes me feel beautiful. I needed that,” she says, her hand going to her hair.
Without thinking, I go to her, pull her hand down, and wrap our fingers together. “You are beautiful, Bren. First thing in the morning. After giving birth to Brady. Even now, when you think you look your worst. All the times I know you question how I see you. Know this, there is never a time I don’t think you’re beautiful.”
Her breath catches and she squeezes my fingers as she whispers, “I love you, Nick.”
I press my forehead to hers, and with all my heart, tell her, “Love you too, babe.”
Brenna – ICU Day Five
“Who do you think will win?” Jamie questions me.
“I don’t know who will win, but I like Blake Lewis. His voice isn’t the strongest, but I love when he bee-bops. American Idol hasn’t seen anything like him yet.”
“It’s so much fun having a patient who talks back. The other nurses are jealous of me, ya know?” She giggles and dives into her dinner. I shake my head, loving that it
doesn’t create any kind of ache. I still can’t lift my head, but I’m starting to be able to move from side to side a little. The nausea has passed and I haven’t been sick in two days. I’m thrilled to be eating some real food.
“They’re welcome to come watch TV with me if they want. I don’t mind the company.”
“Careful what you say, woman. You’ll get flooded with ladies, ready to blabber all night. You have no idea what it’s like to work in a unit where most the patients never say a word.”
“That’s so depressing.”
“It can be. I’m glad you’re getting better, but I’m gonna miss you when you head downstairs. I’ll hafta start eating in the break room again.”
“Well, that little dial over there says I still have some fluid to get rid of, so I think you have me for a couple days more. I am glad not to feel so shitty, though.”
It’s an understatement, but I get way too emotional when I start to think about it and I hate to cry in front of people. I hate to cry in general, and it’s something I’ve done far too much since finding out I have Chiari. Just thinking about it is pissing me off. Only five months ago I found out what was causing all my issues, but even then, I got the run around.
The first neurologist was terrible. She put me through a multitude of tests to prove Chiari was causing my issues, only to tell me I had migraines. I felt like she was wrong, but she was a neurologist, she specialized in the brain. I wanted to trust her, so I went on the medicine she said would make me feel better. What a joke. Weeks of a downward spiral, calls into her office to be told it takes four to six weeks for the medicine to take full effect, and I continued to get worse.
The black-out spells increased. Sudden sensation loss in my legs would cause me to fall. Unbearable pain started radiating down my arms and legs. The final straw came when I blacked out at the wheel, going through two lanes of traffic, and coming to on the other side of the intersection. Nick and I became convinced I had a guardian angel watching over me. How else I survived that, we have no explanation. But I walked away with no scratches on me or my car. My emotional state…that was a different story.
That was when the journey began for a new neurologist. Online research. Calls to neurologists to ask them about Chiari. I didn’t understand the condition myself. I was shocked at how many didn’t know what it was. I became frightened. If the neurologists didn’t know what it was, how would any of them help me? Finally, I talked to one who not only knew about it, but his credentials online looked good. I called my doctor and got the referral. The day after Christmas, I met Dr. Nugent.
All the crazy I had felt since the previous April melted away. Other doctors made me feel like I was begging for something to be wrong with me, but Dr. Nugent explained how Chiari often goes misdiagnosed because the symptoms mimic so many other conditions. I was able to breathe for a few moments, until he told me I needed to see a neurosurgeon. My world fell off balance, and this time, it wasn’t because of my symptoms. I tried to argue with him. I told him Dr. Lauzier said I didn’t need surgery, but he politely told me a neurologist can’t make that call.
What I thought was the beginning of me getting answers became the beginning of more questions.
Family, friends, co-workers…everyone wanted to know what the hell I needed to see a surgeon for. Was I going to have to have surgery? It was a never-ending cycle of phone calls, visits, people stopping me when they’d see me, asking me questions I couldn’t answer.
Then, I met Dr. Wendell, and we found out surgery was a definite. The cycle began again. If I could have ran away, I would have. I always considered myself a strong woman, but the week leading up to surgery, I contemplated something I never thought I would. I wondered if Nick and Brady would be better off without me. One of the things Dr. Wendell said in his office when I was there with Nick and our moms stood out.
“Recent studies show this surgery has an eighty-twenty success rate. Eighty percent of those who have it go on living normal, healthy lives. Twenty percent, it either doesn’t work, or the tonsils re-descend.”
I kept thinking, what if I fall in that twenty percent? Will I be sick forever? Is that the life I want to give my husband and son?
For the first time in my life, I thought of ending it. I’ve often heard that suicide is the coward’s way out, but I learned on that day, as I sat there trying to figure out how to do it, it’s much harder than people understand. Taking your life should never be an option. It allows those who are feeling weak to contemplate making a decision that affects more lives than our own. All the people you love filter through your mind. There is an ache so large, I’m surprised it doesn’t swallow you whole. I know now, I’ll never be able to make that decision. I couldn’t hurt the people in my life that way, leave them questioning how they missed the signs. Thinking of Brady stopped me. I didn’t want him to grow up with people asking him about his mom and hearing people say I didn’t love him enough to fight for my life. I couldn’t do it to him.
So, I stayed, and now look what I’ve put him through.
“Hey, Brenna. Where’d ya go? Woo hoo.”
Whistling brings me from my thoughts. “Sorry, just missing my son. Thinking about going home to him.” I hate lying to Jamie, but I am not exposing my demons to her or anyone else.
“Is Nick going to bring him to visit you when you move downstairs?”
“Yeah,” I answer, smiling. “I can’t wait to see him.
And I can’t. For four weeks, he’s been staying with his Meméres because I’ve been too sick to take care of him. It’s time for my baby to come home.
Nick
“Daddy!”
“Hi, buddy.”
His little arms wrap around my neck as I scoop him up. Nothing is more therapeutic than spending time with him. I feel bad for taking the day off from visiting Brenna, but I’ve been missing my boy and I need more than just an hour here or there with him.
“You ready to spend the day with me, big guy?”
“Yay! We build snowman?”
“I think it’s a perfect day to build a snowman.”
The snow is hard and crusty now in March, not great for building snowmen, but I’ll try my damnedest. I’ve missed getting outside and playing with Brady. I’ve missed just being his dad. His smile and his tiny voice are already warming my heart.
When he grabs my hand and starts pulling me excitedly, I have no choice but to follow. I love the sound his feet make slapping off the hardwood floor. “See what I made for Mommy?” he squeals, pride in every word.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I look over my shoulder at my mom. She nods, knowing I can’t handle a big display of emotion right now. She helped Brady make a Welcome Home, Mommy banner. He tried to color it, his scribbles all over the letters. What makes it more special are the pictures of the three of us glued all over it. Everywhere I look, I see Brenna from before our lives were up-rooted. Before I had to question whether my wife would survive. Before I had to wonder if I would be raising Brady alone. Until a couple days ago, I was starting to think I was going to be planning a funeral.
I hate myself for ever doubting Brenna’s strength.
Brenna – ICU Day Seven
I’m getting sprung from the watch my every move unit today. I should be thrilled, but I’m a little freaked out. I’m scared the hydrocephalus will return. I know I have a couple more days in a regular room, but I’ve gotten used to having a nurse right outside my door. Dr. Wendell still has to come in and remove the tube. It’s one more thing that has me anxious.
And Nick has been spending less time with me each day.
I know I told him to be with Brady, get him ready to come home, but it feels weird not seeing him. I’m being paranoid. I keep telling myself that, but he hasn’t even called this morning. I thought today of all days he would check in first thing…ugh! When did I become this girl? The one who needs her man around? Breathe, Brenna. You fucking survived two brain surgeries. You’ve got this shit.
&
nbsp; Looking around the room, I become fixated on all the machines. Watch little lines blip across them—red on one, blue on another. They all monitor something, but I couldn’t care less what they mean. Anger over being here, getting sick, putting my family through this hell, has made me resent the constant beeping on those damn machines. Now that I’m stable, I see no reason to still be connected to them. Protocol. The word gets thrown around like a child throws a ball, easy and carefree, on this floor. It seems to be their go to answer for everything. I’m tired of protocol. I’m tired of being here. I just want to go home.
But then…that scares me, too.
Is my life at home going to be the same? Can it be after all that’s happened? I can’t even remember large chunks of the last few weeks. Nick has told me about visitors I’ve had, but I have no recollection. He was bathing me, feeding me, bringing me to the bathroom. My God, I was fully dependent on him to do everything. He had to send our son away. Because of me. Can he forgive me?
Will I ever stop feeling weak?
“Are you ready to get out of here?” Dr. Wendell walks in, his cheerful, yet calm, voice following him. How I wish just once, his voice would waver. Maybe he’s a robot, I think, amusing myself.
“Sure,” I answer, with no enthusiasm. Not hearing from Nick has taken all the wind from my sails. I hate to even mentally admit it.
“Your mom is in the waiting room. I saw her on my way in, but asked her to wait until I have the tube taken out.”
My spirits lift a little. I didn’t want to move alone. It’s stupid, but I need someone here with me. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want to watch this anyway.”
Jamie walks in and I give her a weird look. This isn’t her shift. She shrugs. “I wasn’t missing your big send off, so I switched shifts. Who needs sleep?” We both chuckle to cover up how much we’ll miss our dinner dates at my bedside. It amazes me that you can find friendship so quickly, especially under this kind of circumstance.
