I said this line in the worst ever Arnold Schwartzenegger imitation as I drove my husband, Mark, to the ER a week ago last Thursday. It was my attempt at lame levity in an extremely grave and uncertain situation and it fell flat, not only because my husband was in a lot of pain, but because I didn't believe it. I was terrified that he did, in fact, have a brain tumor.
My husband, Mark, is a healthy, active guy. He golfs, bikes, jogs, and if he's not at work, then he's spending time with our kids - taking them to sports practices, playing with them, running errands with them. In other words, he's a super hero, and super heroes aren't supposed to get brain tumors.
Wednesday, in the middle of a work presentation, he got a sudden severe headache, and he lost partial vision in his left eye. His vision would come and go, but the headache stuck around. By Thursday morning, he was not only in a lot of pain, but he was disoriented and confused. I'm certainly not an expert, but I didn't know what else it could be, except a tumor.
At the ER, they hooked Mark up to an IV and ran a bunch of tests that took most of the day. He slept, thanks to the pain medication, and I sat in the deliberately dim room, trying to contemplate a life without him. It wasn't a good day.
I knew what it meant to lose someone unexpectedly. My sister died when she was 26 and I was 18. I didn't want to lose Mark. In fact, I've spent much of my adult life alternately (and uselessly) guarding against tragedy and preparing myself for it, but we were in the grip of something beyond our control. There was nothing I could do but wait and pray for luck and strength.
The diagnosis finally came in late afternoon: viral meningitis. While not great, it was a heck of a lot better than a brain tumor. It wasn't even the bacterial kind, which can be fatal. Viral meningitis is like the flu - it just has to run its course. By Saturday, Mark was back to his normal, healthy self. I was relieved, but my emotional recovery wasn't as quick. I wasn't sure it was over. He could have a relapse. More tests could come back with something bad on the radar screen. I was still haunted by the visions I'd had of a future without him.
Friday, the day after diagnosis, coming home from work late afternoon, I crested a hill and witnessed an accident. A deer, being chased by a coyote, ran full speed into oncoming traffic. The four-lane road was relatively empty, except for me and the car that hit the deer. The poor animal hit the windshield and its body and the glass shattered. The deer flipped high in the air, landing in the road where it would occasionally twitch. The coyote beat a fast retreat, safe in the grassy and vast open space.
Hand to my mouth, tears in my eyes, I turned my car around. The driver, getting out of his battered and bloody car, looked at the deer, locked sad eyes with me, and shook his head. For him, that deer had come out of nowhere. Unable to watch the deer twitch once more, I drove away.
I was tempted to label our brain tumor scare as unlucky, but we were extremely fortunate. Real tragedy hits as hard as that deer-to-car accident. It leaves you shocked and alone, sad and wounded. I know of a few tragedies that have hit others recently - a friend going through a divorce, a friend of my parents who succumbed to cancer - and while Mark and I had a glimpse of it, we were spared the full impact...this time.
Confronting mortality is a humbling exercise. There is an exquisite balance to life that I have yet to master: facing my fears while sustaining my courage, loving at the risk of hurting, living at the risk of losing. But I suppose that's what life is all about - counting our blessings and trying to figure it all out along the way. I am very grateful to have my super hero husband back, and to the friends and family who helped me through it. Carpe Diem!
