Saturday night is filled with fear and tears, “if onlys” and “buts.”
On Sunday, Cass and I meet with the neurosurgeon, Dr. Brum, at the appointed hour. He takes a minute to update Cass.
“Eve suffered a level-five brain aneurysm Thursday. That, combined with the grand mal seizure, created a life-threatening condition. I operated that night to clip the aneurysm. The surgery was successful. The patient's recovery was going well until Saturday afternoon. A sudden fluid buildup exerted pressure on the brain, requiring emergency surgery to relieve the pressure to save her life.”
Turning to me, he says, “We don't know why that happened, but she is unconscious now. Since you weren't here to consent to the surgery, I based my decision on our conversation Thursday night. We had to give her a chance, right?”
I believe the man's eyes are misty with emotion. No doubt, he did what he thought best. I do trust him.
He continues. “But, now, all we can do is wait. Hopefully, we will know more about her condition by next weekend. There's nothing you can do.”
But pray, I add to myself. Pray for what? I do not know. The 12-Step program is so ingrained in me that I long ago gave up on praying for an outcome of my choosing. Instead, I pray for acceptance of life on life's terms, and the strength to act accordingly.
Codependently enough, I find myself saying consoling words to the doctor. Simultaneously, I'm trying to make myself believe that I can actually walk through the week and leave the outcome up to God, without overthinking medical strategies I know nothing about.
Before he departs, I ask the doctor if he will accept a call midweek from another of Eve's cousins, a physician in St. Louis. I know he is fond of Eve and my thinking is that he can interpret the medical facts in a way I can understand the situation better. Dr. Brum readily agrees. Then he's gone, and Cass and I are left standing there to stare at each other.
“Let's see if the new shift of nurses will let us in to see Eve,” Cass wryly suggests. Why not? So off we go for another uneventful visit with our comatose friend.
Later that evening, I make some more phone calls, including one to Eve's physician cousin. After he agrees to call the neurosurgeon, he relates the story about one of his physician friends who had spent many years caring for his post–brain aneurysm vegetable wife. This doctor employed a paid caretaker by day and attended to her at night. The woman had finally died, which—I gather from the tone— was a blessing for all.
That phone call is followed by one to Eve's late husband's sister, Arlene, and her husband, Jim. They offer some helpful suggestions on communicating with an unconscious patient. They should know. They are in their eighth year of caregiving their adult son who suffered traumatic brain injury in an auto accident.
After I hang up, I turn to Cass, “Guess I'm not the only one in the world with problems.” That insight keeps me from feeling sorry for myself for the rest of the night.
Monday morning, Cass orders me to stay home, preferably in bed, to hasten my recovery from the bronchitis. “I'll drive to Green Bay for the next couple of days. On Wednesday, I'll stop at the hospital but then head back to Chicago. I need to go to work and you need to get well, to handle this routine on your own.”
That inspires a pitiful coughing fit from me. How manipulative can one be? Gosh, I don't want to be alone. Ever-cool Cass simply raises an eyebrow to warn me not to try that ploy again.
“You can spend Wednesday cleaning up the mess I've made,” Cass says, unable to resist the dig. “Perhaps today you could glance at Eve's insurance policy to see exactly what it will cover, then report back to me so I'm sure you understand. Okay?”
“You're so right,” I say. Now that's the kind of friend I need in a crisis. We both know that if I allow myself to go down emotionally, it's a long, hard trip back up to the level of normal functioning. I can't afford self-pity now.
The next couple of days proceed according to Cass's plan. Together we make sense of the insurance policy, and I receive a lesson in the pitfalls of catastrophic coverage. “Hmmm. No matter how I read this,” Cass says, “it still comes out the same. Eve is entitled to a whopping 12 days of nursing home coverage.”
I respond. “Well, let's hope we don't have to go there. Why look for trouble we don't have yet?”
“Most people try to plan to avoid trouble, Donna, but not you two Pollyannas.”
I cringe at the shot. Can't argue with the truth.
“Anyway,” she says, “the good news is they'll cover that month of in-hospital rehabilitation that Eve's surgeon told you about. Maybe you can ask Eve's cousin to explain that to you.”
Good idea. He had promised to call the surgeon the next day and get back to me that night.
“One final sticky point about this wonderful insurance coverage of Eve's. You do realize that the $5,000 deductible goes into effect again at the beginning of the next calendar year? You better pray that Eve's out of the hospital by December 31. That's less than two and a half months away.”
Her words make me realize I am secretly expecting Eve to snap out of her coma this weekend and be back on her merry way to health. Absolutely no one has alluded to that sort of outcome since Saturday's debacle.
“Uh-oh,” I respond. What else can I say?
Cass bids farewell to me on Wednesday morning. “I'm concerned about you,” she says. “You still look a little sick, or maybe it's shell shock. Keep busy with the mundane tasks today. Do two loads of laundry, mop a floor. I'll call you when I get home. I'll expect you to tell me that you functioned all day. Deal?”
“Sure, Cass.” I can barely conceal my fear of the day ahead. Will I function, I wonder?
Surprise. I do. Knowing that Cass will call motivates me through the day. Slowly, my shaken confidence is returning. I really don't understand why an event beyond my control would destroy my confidence in the first place. But it has.
That evening I enjoy the leftovers from one of Cass's meals. I toss the final load of laundry into the washing machine and amuse myself with computer solitaire. I promised Eve's sister-in-law, Arlene, that I would wait at least a week before I went sleuthing online for brain aneurysm facts. I agreed with her that the addictive action of searching might shove my brain into “information overload.”
Anyway, I am hoping for enlightenment from Eve's physician cousin. I anxiously anticipate his phone call. Any minute now, I say to myself as I eye the clock. It's 7 P.M.
Solitaire. Hearts. Free Cell. I've played them all tonight. Now it's approaching 10 P.M. I called Eve's cousin at 8 P.M., but all I got was an answering machine. Man, where is he? He promised. The combination of anxiety and super-drugs is making me sleepy.
R-R-Ring! The jangle of the telephone shoots me to the ceiling. It's 11 P.M.
“Hello? Dave?” I say tentatively. Yes, it's him all right.
“You blew it,” he growls. His anger and frustration fill my ear. “You should have pulled the plug when you had the chance. Now you're stuck with a hopeless vegetable.”
At first, I'm speechless. Then I protest, “But I never had the opportunity to pull the plug. I told them no extraordinary measures. But I wasn't there and . . .” Oh, hell, what's the use? “What can I do now?” I whimper.
“Pray for pneumonia,” he says, “then pull the plug.”
Huh? What is this man saying? I know he loves Eve. “What happens if I can't do that?” I ask, knowing already that I don't want to hear the answer.
“You will be caregiving a vegetable for the rest of your life—or Eve's. If it was difficult for my wealthy doctor friend, it's impossible for you. What kind of nursing home coverage does Eve have?”
“Next to none,” I respond. My voice is trembling. In fact, just about every body part is shaking to some degree.
“Then you'll have to dissolve all of Eve's assets and put her on Medicaid. Luckily, you two own the house jointly, right?”
I am going to throw up. “Actually, no,” I say. “I sold my half back to Eve for a dollar six months ago. It made getting the mortgage an easier process. It was all very legal, a quitclaim deed thing with a lawyer. I feel sick.”
“Yeah, you don't sound so good. The wife and I plan to come up and see Eve the weekend after next. See you then. Better get to bed now . . . and think about what I've said. Refuse treatment for pneumonia. Good night, now.” He signs off.
I am sick. In a daze, I travel from the dining room to the bathroom to the bedroom. I turn out the lights and collapse into bed. My brain is audibly buzzing. The head noise intermingles with the sound of the lake through the open window. I listen.
Waves are rolling in, splashing the rocks along the shore. In . . . out. In . . . out. The lake's siren song is calling me. “Come on in. I'll carry you out and away from all your woes.” In . . . out.
“Stop it,” I yell, startling the cats at the foot of the bed. Their eyes are glowing in the moonlight. In . . . out. Are the waves getting louder?
“Damn it, please die, Eve! Make her die, God.” Christ, I can't pray that prayer. What am I going to do? I can't caregive a vegetable for the rest of my life. This is too much, God. I can't. Please, let me die, instead. Take me now.
In . . . out. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed now, holding on to my head. Got to keep my mind inside my head, but it keeps leaking out and floating toward the window. In . . . out. Stop it. Try and think of something. I do, but as quickly as a thought comes, it slithers away. I just can't hold on to it. Maybe I'll try praying.
“Mom?” I pray. “Please help me.”
No response.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, God?”
No response.
“Mommy?” I try again. No? Well then, how about Eve's mom? “Sophie? Are you there? Yes?” Yes, I think she is. “Hey, listen to me. Dave said I've got to pray for pneumonia . . . and I will,” I threaten her. “So if you want your daughter to live, you better help me save my mind tonight. I think I'm having a breakdown. I don't know, I've never had one. But Eve isn't going to make it very well without me. You've got to help me make it through the night. PLEASE.”
I feel a smidgen of calmness. Get up, have a cup of tea, a voice says inside my head. Okay. I obey. Yes, I can walk down this hall. Yes, I can heat water in the microwave. Yes, I can taste the tea. I'll just sit here at the dining room table until dawn comes. Got to hold on to my mind until 5 A.M. Then I can call Cass. Yes. That's what I'll do. I lay my poor head on a place mat and drift off into the twilight zone.