CHAPTER FIVE

Never Give Your Wife a Memo

LEAF’S NIGHTLY OUTINGS AND THE HOURS SPENT WITH HIM SLEEPING on my lap brought healing for both of us. He was bonding with me, and I was recovering from the loss of Taylor. By the time Dr. Lucas delivered the news that I had a brain aneurysm, the effects of those special moments had strengthened me emotionally. After my initial meltdown on the floor outside an elevator at my office, I was able to grant myself only a few more minutes of self-pity. I had to return to my office and try to get my act together.

I pushed my hands against the wall and managed to stand up. My mind raced as I thought, Walk slowly. Try to understand what just happened here. Focus. Since my reaction to the doctor’s news had been so emotional, I dreaded the effect it would have on my wife.

While Linda had shown amazing strength through her own challenges with breast cancer five years earlier, she is especially sensitive to any pain of mine and of our children. If I told her my news, I feared she’d fly into a panic. Would there be uncharacteristic over-the-top drama? She might become unreasonable. What if she cried? I never knew how to handle it when she had what to me was an emotional reaction. I would tell her, “Everything will be OK.” But would everything be OK this time?

I decided not to tell her. I’d convince her to visit her parents in Texas and schedule the operation while she was out of town. But if she found out I had surgery while she was gone, she’d go ballistic. Alright, I told myself, she’ll be upset for two or three weeks but then she’ll be OK. Then again, it could be a sore point for many years. Maybe even a lifetime.

Yes, I was having a crisis. But since facts, statistics, and options had always been my first and best resort for handling crises, I decided to make a plan. Any challenge could become manageable with rational, deliberate analysis, I reasoned. What would Spock do? This new way of viewing the news brought relief even though I was angry at my brain. How could it let me down like this? A broken brain? Seriously?

When I googled “brain aneurysm,” hundreds of entries flooded the screen. There were horror stories of botched surgeries, lifelong disabilities, and blood bubbles that caused people intense suffering and pain. The more I read, the more miraculous I realized it was that mine had been found before it burst. Dr. Lucas was right. I was one of the fortunate ones.

None of these websites were going to make it easy to tell my wife about any of this. My anxiety started to rise again, so I clicked onto the Angel Animals Network website, where I could look at photos of Leaf playing in the snow during his first winter with us. What was it about this troubled little guy that calmed me?

Suddenly an idea, a brilliant idea, came to me. My job as a computer-software analyst often required me to perform “information management” of collected data. For my wife, I’d design a fact sheet about brain aneurysms and surgery. It would include an easy-to-read overview, definitions, possible options, and most importantly, success stories. I’d leave out the horrors and unsettling statistics. It would be information manipulation management. The fact sheet would ease Linda into my new reality. For the first time since Dr. Lucas’s call, a slight smile flitted across my face. I was taking charge.

I constructed the report with as much care and detachment as one can when talking about brain surgery. I played around with descriptive words to make it sound less serious. In a stroke of genius, I decided to refer to the operation as a “surgical procedure.” I thought the lighter terminology might help Linda ease into the situation. With time, she’d adjust, and then we could have a reasonable discussion about how to proceed.

I also researched the neurosurgeon to whom Dr. Lucas referred me. Dr. Eric S. Nussbaum had impressive credentials. He had authored numerous journal articles and a book on the innovative procedure he developed for clipping brain aneurysms. I called and made the appointment. I appreciated Dr. Lucas’s referral to the best neurosurgeon in the Midwest. Perhaps the best in the country.

By the time I finished the fact sheet, I proudly viewed it as a masterpiece of practical understatement. I planned to present it to Linda that night. I figured she’d read it and not give the news too much more thought.

“You’re telling me you have a brain aneurysm? You’re going to need brain surgery? And you gave me a memo?!” Linda shrieked at me as she glared at the fact sheet on the dining room table.

“I have an unruptured brain aneurysm,” I explained.” The factual information I presented was to reassure you that all could be handled within the realm of reason. And without emotional drama.” I sort of choked on that last statement as I recalled my near breakdown earlier that day.

“This is not a memo situation!”

Without thinking, I said, “When I found out, I wondered if you needed to know, that maybe I would be able to …” I looked at her and realized it would probably be best to stop talking.

Instead, I reached out for Linda’s hand. We walked into the living room and sat on the couch. There, we had an honest conversation about everything that was at stake. I told her what I remembered from the conversation with Dr. Lucas. I said I’d made an appointment with Dr. Nussbaum for an evaluation. We talked about how we would get through this—together.

I held Linda in my arms while tears filled her eyes. The no-drama idea went out the window, as it probably should have from the onset. I realized that when you have bad news, it’s better to hold hands and talk about it rather than present your wife with a well-constructed, typed, and printed document.

While Linda and I discussed what could be a dismal future, Leaf stretched out on the fireplace hearthstone nearby. Mary, the animal communicator we consulted, had told us that Leaf referred to this spot as his “carved-out place.” If he needed privacy to process whatever was happening in his life, his carved-out place became his personal refuge. We always respected his need for space and didn’t touch or try to engage him when he retreated to the hearthstone.

Tonight, he listened to us talking with his head resting on his paws. He seemed to be taking in our emotions and pondering the situation. Even though he couldn’t convey concerns in human language, I sensed he understood that a funnel cloud barreled toward our home.

What could a young pup do to avert disaster for him and the people he had come to depend upon?