Seasons of Life: The Diagnosis

An unexpected seizure led us to discover my husband’s brain tumor and left him comatose in an unfamiliar hospital 500 miles from home.

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As each sleepless hour in ICU stretched into the next, morning came and medical staff shift change brought a wave of new faces in and out of our room.  Around mid-morning a gentleman in his Sunday best introduced himself and handed me his card.  Dr David Jimenez, as it turns out, is one of the top neurosurgeons in the nation.  With 30 years experience, a seemingly unending list of awards and accolades, and a demeanor of determined confidence Dr Jimenez is also a man of great talent and great faith.  He was kind and compassionate to me during the worst moments of my life.  His gentle manner and empathetic humanity amplified his skill as a doctor rather than diminish it.

His prognosis was that Calvin had a mass on his brain just above and behind the left ear.  Surgery for removal was required.  Once I made the decision to allow Dr Jimenez to operate, surgery was scheduled for Wednesday morning.  He was confident he could access and remove the tumor, and he was forthright with all the risks associated with this surgery.   I vividly remember him telling me, “[Your husband] could die.  That’s the biggest risk.  But there is a greater power than me that will decide that.  God is in control of this situation.”

Wednesday morning came, and Calvin’s surgery was first on the lineup.  Dr Jimenez came into the ICU room to consult with me before the anesthesiologist would wheel my husband to OR.  “How do you feel this morning?” I asked.  “Ready.  We’re going to go in, get the tumor, and it will be done.”  He was confident (not arrogant) and smiling with the full assurance that he knew exactly what he was doing.

At some point through the morning family began arriving.  I was surrounded with love and support.  Sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, and nephews flew in from Louisiana. And one special niece surprised me by flying in from California.  We gathered in the surgery waiting area and listened with baited breath as I received hourly updates from the OR nurse.  Everything progressing well and as expected.

When the surgical team was wrapping up, the nurse came out to tell me Calvin’s skull cap could not be replaced because there was some unexpected swelling.  The surgeon would be out soon to provide more details.  When he walked through the waiting room doors with a look of stone and pulled me into a consultation room, I was not prepared for what he would say.

“Too much swelling.”  “It is cancer.”  “I’m so sorry.”  “Glioblastoma Multiforme.  Primary brain cancer.”  “High grade.”  “I’m so sorry.”  “Swelling.”  “Cancer.”  “Keep him sedated.” “I’m so sorry.”

There were many other words, many other details and descriptions of the procedure; but all I heard were those snippets.  The high notes.  I’m sure there were tears in Dr Jimenez’s eyes.  He was disappointed, upset, crest-fallen.  The dr who had been so sure and optimistic of this procedure was apologizing to me.  He removed the tumor, just as he had promised; but the diagnosis was the worst it could be.  He didn’t want to tell me.  I could see it all over his face.  He truly was sorry.

I knew it was bad.  I had never heard of “Glioblastoma Multiforme” before; but I knew, based off of Dr Jimenez’s reaction and demeanor, that it was bad.  I could have had no idea at that point what we were facing.

I had no time to worry about cancer at the moment, though.  We had no idea if or when Calvin would wake up.  Or what would be left of his mental capacity when he did.  I could tell Dr Jimenez was unsure of the damage to Calvin’s brain as well.  I think he may have been more worried of that than of the cancer diagnosis.  There were so many questions with no answers.  Back in ICU the internist was telling me Calvin would remain in an induced coma at least until Monday.  We’d have to wait for the swelling to go down before it would be safe.

An MRI Thursday, then an eternity of waiting for someone to give me the results.  Finally, Friday around 11am (April 27, 2018), Dr Jimenez walked into our ICU room smiling as big as the sun.  “Wake him up!”  The MRI showed a significant decrease in swelling.  PA Perez began removing the tubes coming from the top of Calvin’s head while Dr Jimenez continued grinning from ear to ear.

Our Miracle Day.  We had made it over the first hurdle.

#prayforcalvin – Our run group supporting us from afar. ♥