Why I can’t be Calm…

On January 19, 2012, my husband was in the bathroom vomiting. We called 911, and he was taken to the hospital.

In the hospital, we were given a diagnosis of pancreatitis. Over the next couple days, he got worse, and was transferred to a hospital with ICU capabilities.

In that first hospital he transferred to, they told us his kidneys were shutting down and that he needed to be transferred to a hospital with dialysis capabilities.

We got to THAT hospital.

I went home that night.

The next day, I set up dinner in the crock pot, left my kiddos playing video games with neighbours as emergency contacts and headed to the hospital.

I thought, in my infinite, uneducated wisdom, that we would be going through the same situation we’d been through before.

You see, 3 years prior, he’d had two heart attacks.  A few days in the hospital, and we were home. New regime, new diet, new plan of attack, new medications.  Each time. A few days of driving back and forth between the house and hospital – about an hour each way.

So I thought that this would be the same.

But it wasn’t.

It really really wasn’t.

And just under 6 months and another hospital later I left the hospital for the last time, knowing that I would never be back there again, that my role of being a “patient’s family  member” were over.

Except it’s not.

In just under 3 weeks, my youngest, my baby, my gorgeous amazon woman of a daughter will undergo a craniotomy to remove a brain tumour. In all the reading, all the literature, it says that they will go in, do the surgery, she’ll be transferred to the ICU and then after 3-5 days she’ll be sent home.

3. to. 5. fucking. days.

Are you KIDDING ME?

I’m supposed to be ok with this?

I’m not. I’m not on any level.

3 – 5 days and then she’s sent home?

I don’t know how to make my brain go back to that uneducated, naive view of life that will allow me to say “she’ll be fine. It’s a couple days, maybe a week in hospital then home for recovery.”

BECAUSE THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN THE LAST TIME.

The last time someone I loved went into the hospital they FUCKING DIED.

And so I’m in a constant state of panick. I’m trying desperately to be calm and keep things normal and be positive and upbeat but…

HE DIED.

HE DIDN’T COME HOME.

And I don’t know that I will survive it if she doesn’t.

My Kid Has A Brain Tumour

My funny, creative, intelligent, gorgeous amazon woman turned 18 a few days ago.

She has a brain tumour.

We spent time shortly after her birthday traveling from home to a major centre 8 hours away to speak with a neurosurgeon who laid out a plan for my kid and her brain tumour.

My mini-me to her Dad, punny, quirky redhead has a brain tumour.

The neurosurgeon is going to shave part of her head.  Cut open a flap of skin on her head, cut open part of her skull and then remove the tumour.

Officially, it’s called a “craniotomy and tumour resection”

My kid has a brain tumour.

If I say that often enough, will it become real?

If I say that often enough, will I become numb to the realities of what has to happen to her?

If I say it often enough…  will that sentence start to make sense  Actual, real, sense?

My kid has a brain tumour.

Her father isn’t here to see it.  To walk me through it. To be her rock.  That’s on me.

My husband is my rock. And I have to be hers.

Because my kid has a brain tumour and I don’t have any idea how to deal with that reality.

I already went through the whole process of hospital, doctors, ICU’s, surgeries with her father.  I’m not ready to do this again. I can’t afford it again.  My older daughter set up a go-fund-me to help with expenses. There will be a week or so of travel and hotels and eating out.

I’m more than equipped.  I just. don’t. want. to.

My daughter is at the beginning of her life. She’s a late bloomer who we’re letting figure out what she wants to do and how she wants to do it. And everything stops.

Because she has a fucking brain tumour.

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