The next thing I knew, everything was fading to white and I was vaguely aware of falling sideways out of my chair.
When I came to, I was lying on my side, wildly disoriented with a killer headache. I didn’t know where I was or how much time had elapsed since I fell out of my chair in the kitchen. My tongue was sore. I tasted something metallic. Was it blood?
Where was I? What was happening?
Growing increasingly panicked and agitated, I blinked a few times and tried to focus on my surroundings. I still couldn’t seem to move my body.
There was a blue curtain…
The room was brightly lit…
I couldn’t make sense of any of these things, however. I realized I was drooling.
Then my mother’s face came into view. “Jenn, can you hear me?”
Huh?
I was comforted by the sight of her, yet I couldn’t comprehend her words, nor could I form a reply.
I felt very depressed and my muscles hurt.
“You’re okay,” she said. “You’re in the ER.”
I couldn’t figure out why I was in Emergency. Nothing made sense to me.
“You had a seizure,” she added.
I became aware of people talking to me and asking questions. They were strangers. “Hi Jenn. Can you tell me your name?”
I couldn’t.
“Do you know what day it is?”
All I could do was mumble, “Huh?”
“You’re all right,” someone else said to me, “but you hit your head when you fell.”
“We had to call an ambulance,” my mother told me.
“We’re going to do some tests,” I heard. “How are you feeling? Can you say your name?”
I was only vaguely aware of what these words meant or where I was. My eyes fell closed and I drifted off to sleep.
*
The next time I woke, I was lying on my back in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen. I was too weak to move, but I was able to turn my head to the side and look at a blue curtain. I heard other people talking and I knew I was in a hospital ward with other patients.
Again, my mother’s face came into view. “Hi sweetie,” she gently said as she rubbed my cheek. “It’s nice to have you back.”
The headache had diminished, but I was still groggy and weak. “What happened?”
“You had a seizure this morning,” she explained. “By the time the paramedics arrived the seizure was over but you wouldn’t wake up and your head was bleeding so they took you the hospital. Then you had another seizure in the ambulance. They gave you some sort of IV drug that made it stop.”
I wet my lips. “My tongue hurts.”
“You bit it when you were seizing.”
“Where’s Sylvie?” I asked.
“She just went to the cafeteria to get something to eat. She’ll be back soon.”
I lay quietly for a moment, struggling to understand all this. “How long was I asleep?” I asked.
“About six hours.”
Still extremely fatigued, I closed my eyes again. I must have drifted off because I woke to the sound of Sylvie’s voice.
“Jenn, the doctor’s here. Can you answer some questions?”
I opened my eyes to discover a handsome male physician, possibly about forty years old, standing over my bed. “Hi Jenn. I’m Dr. Samson and I’m a neurologist. How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I replied. “Mom said I had a seizure.”
“That’s right. Two of them, actually. Do you remember any of that?”
“Not much.” I wanted to give him as much information as I could, but I had to speak slowly. “Just a weird buzzing in my head before it started. It felt like my brain was twitching.”
“What else do you remember?”
I blinked my eyes and focused on the ceiling. “I was anxious and couldn’t talk or make my body move. Then all my muscles started to tense up and I fell off the chair. I don’t remember anything after that.”
He nodded and wrote something down on my chart. “While you were sleeping this afternoon, your sister and mother were able to tell me a few things about your medical history and the fact that you had a miscarriage recently?”
I swallowed and nodded my head.
“Sylvie also told me you’ve possibly been suffering from some memory loss and personality changes—that sometimes you can’t think clearly. Or you say or do inappropriate things. Can you tell me how long that’s been going on?”
Continuing to blink up at the ceiling I struggled to remember when it all began. “It’s difficult to know. I was pregnant so I thought that’s what was causing it. I guess about a month or two.”
I described things like leaving groceries in my car and possibly smashing my honeymoon picture, but having no memory of it. Judging by the doctor’s lack of a reaction, I suspected Sylvie had already told him about that.
“Was today the first time you’ve had a seizure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He wrote something else down and I looked at my mother. She moved quickly to my side and squeezed my hand.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked. “Do you know?”
At last, the doctor stopped writing and lowered the chart to his side. “Yes. After you came in, we put you on a Dilantin drip to prevent any more seizures, and we were able to do some tests. We also did a full round of blood work and a CT scan.”
“I didn’t wake up for that?”
He shook his head. “No. You had what we call post-ictal fatigue. It’s common for patients to sleep very deeply after a seizure.”
I glanced at my mother again. She was looking at me with great compassion while Sylvie stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me with concern.
“Do you have the results of the CT scan?” I asked with growing unease.
The doctor regarded me intently and paused as if to give me a few seconds to brace myself. “You have a tumor on your brain, Jenn. It’s pressing on both your frontal and temporal lobes.”
Stark white terror shot into my core. Had I heard him correctly?
I glanced at my mother again. She squeezed my hand tighter.
“Am I going to die?” I asked.
“Not if we can help it,” Dr. Samson replied.
“Everything will be fine,” Sylvie promised.
I had a hard time believing her, however, because nothing had been fine in my life lately. All the worst possible things that could ever happen to a person seemed to be happening to me all at once.
What next, God? What do you have in store for me next?
“Is this why I lost my baby?” I asked Dr. Samson.
He spoke matter-of-factly. “The two events were most likely unrelated, though it’s impossible to know for sure. Your sister mentioned you don’t remember having your miscarriage?”
“That’s right.”
Dr. Samson paused. “I’m sorry to hear about that, Jenn, but at least this explains why you might not remember. The pressure on your frontal lobe can cause all sorts of things—loss of memory, changes in personality and behavior, loss of inhibitions, confusion, distraction…”
“What can we do?” I asked. “Is it possible to treat it?”
“Yes. We’re recommending surgery.”
“
Brain
surgery?” I exclaimed. “You can’t fix it with radiation or something?”
He shook his head. “The neurosurgeon will be in here to see you later. His name is Dr. Phillips and he’ll be able to answer any specific questions you might have about the procedure, but for now I can tell you that surgery to remove it is your best option. Let me assure you that Dr. Phillips is highly skilled. He’s done hundreds of procedures just like this. You’ll be in excellent hands.”
I lay there for a moment, letting all this sink in. “I can’t believe it. When would it happen?” I asked the doctor.
“Tomorrow or the day after.”
What?
The breath sailed out of my lungs. I felt an instinctive urge to sit up on the bed, rip the IV out of my hand and run straight out of there.
“That soon?” I asked. “No…that’s not possible. I have to talk to my husband first.”
“I understand he’s in Afghanistan,” the doctor mentioned, consulting my chart.
“Yes, and I can’t get in touch with him right now. He’s away on a mission and said he might be gone for a week. What if something happens to me during the operation? I can’t do this without him knowing.”
And I have to tell him about the miscarriage…
“Can’t we wait a week?” I pleaded. “Would there be any additional risks to putting it off for that long?”
“Yes, there would be some risks,” Dr. Samson replied, “but we could put it off for a week. No longer than that, though. It’s a mid-sized tumor, but that could change. These things are unpredictable. I wouldn’t want it to become inoperable. And there’s the danger of seizures as well.” He gestured toward the bandage on my head. “You know what can happen if you fall. You were lucky this time, but you could have broken something.”
“I could stay home from work,” I offered. “I’d be really careful. And lots of people live with seizures, don’t they? People with epilepsy…”
He consulted my chart. “We’ve had you on a Dilantin drip since you came in this morning. As a compromise, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation just to make sure you’re responding well to the medication. If I see no problems with that, I can give you pills to take during the week to prevent any more seizures. And I’d want you to come in mid-week for a check-up.”
“That sounds fine,” I said. “It would give me time to contact my husband’s commander and let him know what’s happening. Maybe they can fly him home.”
Please, let that be an option
…
To my surprise and relief, the doctor agreed. I would be discharged the following day and my surgery would be scheduled for six days later.
Still fatigued from my seizure, I napped a lot in the hospital. Sylvie went to school because she was nearing mid-term exams and couldn’t afford to miss any additional time. It was my mother who stayed at my bedside, fetching me water, making cheerful conversation about the latest reality shows, and showing me pictures out of the gossip magazines.
I must have been asleep when Sylvie arrived late in the afternoon because I woke to the sound of her and my mother speaking in quiet tones.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” my mother whispered.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Sylvie replied.
I opened my eyes but didn’t move on the bed. I was able to watch my mother angrily turn the pages of her magazine. “You’ve come so far, Sylvie. Why stir the pot?”
“Because it needs to be stirred, Mom. I think it helps me.”
“How could it help you? I think you just enjoy torturing yourself, going to the nursery to look at those babies. After what happened to your sister… Losing her child and now this… Why do we even have to go there?”
“You mean emotionally?” Sylvie asked. “Dr. Ramone says it’s good for me to face my emotions and deal with them head on.”
My mother let out an angry huff. “Just keep it to yourself, all right? Jenn’s been through enough. She doesn’t need to hear about how cute they are.”
I closed my eyes and decided not to involve myself in their argument because my mother was right. I didn’t want to hear how cute all those newborn babies were. I was still grieving the loss of my own.
November 12
“Don’t worry,” I said to Sylvie over dinner the night before my mid-week checkup. “I’ll be fine.”
I’d been doing well since my discharge from the hospital and had experienced no seizures or memory lapses. The Dilantin was working like a dream.
My mother had traveled home the day before to tend to her dog, Chocolate, a six-year-old Shih Tzu she’d adopted after my father passed away. A neighbor had been taking care of Chocolate, but Mom needed to make other arrangements before returning for my surgery—and staying indefinitely afterward—which she fully intended to do.
“I’ll take a cab to the hospital and back,” I promised Sylvie, “and you can text me every hour, but I’m not letting you miss your exam.”
She pushed her salad around on her plate with a fork. “What time do you have to be there?”
“At 7:00 a.m. for blood work,” I replied. “Then I have to hang around until 12:00 to see Dr. Samson for the results and then there’s my checkup. I’ll bring a book and go to the cafeteria. What could possibly happen? If I pass out or seize—
which I won’t
—at least I’ll be in a hospital.”
Thankfully my sister didn’t argue. “Fine,” she said, “but promise to text me every hour, except while I’m writing my exam between 11:00 and 1:00.”
“I will.”
“And be sure to bring your phone charger.”
I laughed. “Good Lord! Everything will be fine and I won’t forget. I promise.”
“Good.”
We finished our supper. A few minutes later, just as we were rising to clean off the table, my laptop chimed from the bedroom.
I froze in my spot. “Do you think it’s Jake? Maybe he’s coming home.”
My sister met my alarmed gaze. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go answer it and find out.”