November 1996 ushered in the most challenging season of my life; I never saw it coming. I’d been experiencing infrequent shooting pains near my left temple, and had gone to see a neurologist about it. He ordered an MRI, said everything appeared to be fine, so my husband, Dave, and I left for a week’s vacation to Lake Tahoe. The night we returned, I listened to our voice mail. One message repeated 3 times. “Call for a follow-up appointment with your doctor.” I called him the next morning; what he said catapulted me into blind horror. “We see a mass in your brain.” My mind convulsed out of control!
I’d gone through a serious hysterectomy and another surgery for malignant melanoma during the prior 3 years -- not again! More tests, more odors in hospital corridors; the knowing and the not knowing of what was to come seemed to unravel my emotions over the days and weeks to come. Patience isn’t a virtue; it’s a vice.
“Don’t jump to conclusions”, I tried to convince myself. Another MRI was taken. “Focus, focus” became my mantra. What if it was a brain tumor? It was. It was large and life threatening. Don’t touch me, don’t come near me, and don’t hold up those skeletal x-rays of myself to the light! Do I reside in that gray matter? I was stunned while imagining the horrific sounds of my skull being drilled – sawed off. I covered my head with invisible hands and screamed voicelessly.
Contributing to the stress was that we had just sold our home and were in the process of having a new one built. Questions ricocheted: Where will I lay my head after being released from the hospital? Why be concerned? Will I know where I am, who I am?
Second and third opinions were obtained, the surgeon chosen and the date logged. Who will I be me after this fracturing invasion? Should I say “goodbye” to my loved ones, just in case? I sent a sealed letter to my best friend, asking her not to open it until after my craniotomy. In it, without my husband or anyone else knowing, I dictated that if I wasn’t ‘me’ after the surgery, I wanted to be put into a nursing home. My husband and I had only been married for 11 months when the tumor was found, and I didn’t want him or our children to take care of my mindless still breathing body; sacrificially losing the rest of their lives to nursing me. I felt a solid resolve after sending that letter. At the same time I became clutter and confusion.
The night before the surgery Dave’s and my adult children came for a sleepover. We rented two funny movies and ate popcorn. That night, while everyone else slept, I lay awake, not wanting to miss a single minute of being aware of myself, our family, home, and memories. I was afraid of losing everything; that I could still be alive but not realize it, not ever again… “Oh my God …!”
The next morning, in a caravan of cars, our children followed Dave and me to the hospital. We drove slowly. It felt like we were on a military mission. Amazingly, arriving at the hospital actually took on a party atmosphere. My mother, brothers, mother-in-law, aunt, uncle, and best friend were waiting for us at the entrance. After going through the admissions process, everyone joined me where I was being hooked up to IVs and speaking with the anesthesiologist. The beautiful smiles, nervous joking, and the conversations taking place in that waiting room sounded like an angelic choir reverberating through my senses. The nurses were kind and allowed 11 of my loved-ones to stay and visit with me. I’d forgotten to ask, but wondered when my head was to be shaved. I was relieved when a nurse told me that they'd be doing it when I was in surgery -- drugged away.
Can I ever describe the comical ride in the elevator, on the way up to the neurosurgical floor? I was laying on the gurney, attached to tubes dangling from above my head -- and there we were, all 12 of us crammed in the elevator. All of a sudden I loudly announced, “Heck, you guys all look like you’re standing in a ‘standing-room-only’ playpen!” We all laughed hysterically. The whole hospital must have heard us our elevator roared passed each floor on our way to the top.
Arriving at the surgical floor, I was rolled by a nurse into a parking space between other patients awaiting surgery. Right then I was tempted me to jump off that gurney and run away so fast I would have appeared a blur. I felt like I’d arrived on a planet awaiting annihilation; I kept averting myself from that nightmarish thought. Everything began to move with lightening speed. My nametag felt like dogtags soldiers wear around their necks … just in case. Under the influence of drugs dripping, I fought to keep my eyes focused, craning my neck backwards, scanning each face as I waved ‘goodbye’ while the foot of my gurney was pulled, triggering doors to open, leading to the cold sterile green-tiled operating room. And then the doors swung closed.
……………… .._

Straining through heavy eyelids, Dave’s face came into focus. He was holding my hand and smiling down at me. I could hear him saying that the surgery was over, successful, and that the tumor was benign. After 2 hours in recovery, I was moved to the Intensive Care Unit, and was surrounded by my children and family. “I know you all”, I thought to myself. I felt like Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life”, returning to the joy of being alive. I was really me and everybody was there. I wouldn’t have been surprised, if upon my awakening, a little bell would have rung because an angel had just received his wings. These precise thoughts flashed so powerfully through my mind -- the euphoria is impossible to describe. Without thinking, the first question I asked was, “Kids, are you sure you all had lunch today?” Everyone burst into laughter and joked, “Wouldn’t you know that’d be the first thing Mom would say after waking up from brain surgery – did we eat?” If I wasn’t so sedated, I felt like I could have danced all over the walls and ceiling!
I was able to go home after 1 week in the hospital. Moving day came 1 month later. Our new house was still under construction, so we needed to move into a small two-bedroom apartment for the two-month interim. My husband, 20 year old son David, our dog Freckles, and I tried to adjust to the new cramped quarters. I was ashamed of myself for feeling depressed after everyone went back to work and school. I had so much to be thankful for; I just needed time to recuperate. I was grateful to God, but felt lonely, where pain, weakness and a relentless discouragement became my daily companions.
I wasn’t permitted to indulge in that pity party for long; Freckles needed me. To keep the apartment clean I needed to walk him a few times a day. I was so shaky and weak that it seemed like a marathon to walk the five minutes it took for Freckles to relieve himself. The first thing every morning I put on my yellow sweat suit, white tennis shoes, and the ever-present yellow and white cotton checkered scarf on my head, ensuring privacy while my prickly hair sprouted back. Tail wagging, and leash secured around his neck, Freckles pulled me out the door and to the little park located behind our apartment.
After a couple of weeks, I was able to walk clear across the park. I began meeting people who walked their dogs everyday too. I laughed while watching Freckles, freed of his leash, run around the grass with his new doggy friends. Other days, while Freckles snoozed in the sunshine, I recalled how blessed I was to have him in my life. Our family had adopted Freckles from the S.P.C.A.12 years before; now he was taking care of me in a very special way. I observed moms and nannies tending their little ones. I reminisced about when I was a young mom, enjoying the pleasure of conversing with other mothers, and the fun of going up and sliding down slides with my giggling children. I watched the focused occupation of sandcastles painstakingly being erected, to be resurrected by future generations. I began thanking God daily for all I’d been given in my life, and started making plans for the future again. I got excited just picturing being able to bring my little grandchildren, Kristin and Jeffrey, to the park as soon as I was able.
My emotional and physical health was restored by my faith in God and the love of my family to be sure. My endurance and zest for life and laughter returned because Freckles walked me every day, pulling me further and further to a full recovery. Freckles truly earned his wings, because he gave me a new ‘leash’ on life.

Send your doggie love to Barb Drotar at DBDROTAR@aol.com