10.) Sitting in the office with Dr. Lieberman, (the greatest Neuro Surgeon with God given talent), with serious undeniable tension surgical talk of Phil's first surgery, his sacral reconstruction. The intense listening of what the surgery will involve. It was beyond our comprehension of titanium plates and rods on an irradiated and shattered sacral bone, removing a rib and implanting it good God where!? It was more than what we anticipated for a visit with our surgeon that day. It was filled with fear and possible complications that could happen as a result of the surgury. And even the possibility of never walking again. At that moment when you feel the tension is building, and you cannot possibly tolerate anymore stress. What could happen next that causes more laughter at the right moment you ask? Phil's phone starts ringing "It's peanut butter jelly time, It's peanut butter jelly time." A ring tone that if you have not heard, you must experience. A tension breaker of laughter poured out from all of us, still to this day, I know Dr. Lieberman is still laughing, and so are we.
9.) After leaving a full day at the hospital, tired from a long day, and armed with new prescriptions that will hopefully help ease Phil's pain. Unfortunately only to realize that you are now mandated to drive 40 minutes to the approved pharmacy by your insurance carrier to get prescriptions. Arriving to the new pharmacy, wait in line, and finally you hand the pharmacy tech the prescription. She is suddenly startled by the amount of milligrams of pain medication prescribed to your husband, and she says in a loud voice for all to hear, "WHAT, has he been on THAT amount before? I have never seen a prescription for morphine for THAT many milligrams." I am now utterly annoyed not only with her uncaring voice, and that the people behind me have heard her say that in a tone I was not happy with, but I see Phil's heart sink, and his emotions spiral downward. Now armed with fatigue and annoyance I let my sarcasm flow out which I probably should've refrained from, however, she was so rude and unprofessional. So I reply, in that sharp tone, "No they just prescribed that amount TODAY for his stubbed toe." and she says, wait for it, wait, you bet, she says, "What?, Really?". Now I know I shouldn't of said this, but it snapped out of my mouth before I could stop it, "Do you have the medication? The CANCER is NOT ONLY EATING HOLES IN HIS SPINE, BUT ALSO FORMING TUMORS as we speak, and he really needs those pain meds today."
8.) Leaving Dr. Chouhan's office, on the evening of the "official M.R.I reading" appointment and trying to digest news of a tumor in Phil's spine. After approximately three minutes of driving, which felt like an eternity, in a semi-catatonic state of mind, barely processing the not-so-good news and diagnosis. I just had to pull off the road for a minute. It had just started to rain, and it seemed as if there was a lot of traffic on the road, and the world was just spinning around us. At the same time it was all just standing still. Phil looked at me in that are you trying to kill us pulling over here and said, "What are you doing, you can't pull over here?", I said, "I am realizing the path that lays before us, and wondering how we are going to tell our daughters this news". Phil looked at me, smiled, and said, just tell them "tumor is riding shot-gun". Now for some of you that may seem morbid, but it was what the Doctor ordered, we laughed until we cried.
7.) After one of Phil's surgery's, he is placed in one of those lovely two patient rooms, and I'm attempting to sleep on two chairs pushed together. Phil's roommate, divided by one of those lovely pull curtains is sleeping away at 2:00 am, with his C-PAP on (a noisy device that sounds like Darth Vader breathing). Not only does he have the device but he SNORES through it. "Darth Vader breathing, ungodly snore, Darth Vader breathing, ungodly snore, Darth Vader breathing, ungodly snore." Phil and I are coughing loud, hitting the wall, and basically over-tired and at our wits end trying to come up with an idea to get him to stop snoring at least for a moment. I finally figure it out, I tip-toe over and get his phone extension number, and then tip-toe back only call his phone extension. "Ring, Ring, Ring", other patient scrabbling to find his phone picks it up, "huh, what, hello". Click, I hang up. Phil gives me a high five, snoring stopped, and we get some sleep.
6.) Explaining to Phil that "Getting a Port" (a device placed in his chest for his bone marrow transplant) unfortunately does not mean a place where you dock up to and get off a boat and explore an exotic island.
5.) On a more sensitive note. I will never forget the look in Phil's mom's eye's, as we were waiting in the hall for Phil to be prepared for his first surgery. The uncertainty we both shared, the quietness of love and support, and the pain we felt for what was about to be performed. I looked at her and said, "I am his wife, but I can only imagine what your feeling as his mom." Her eye's filled with tears and no words needed to be spoken, for I could see Mom holding her little boy in her arms.
4.) Sitting in the waiting room, watching Phil fill out those wonderful questionnaires? Where is your pain? How does affect your mood? How does it affect what you do? Each questions Phil looks at me well what do you think, rating it from 1 through 10 for each question. What is your pain now? Phil says, well I just downed two cups of coffee, walked a mile to get here, ate a pile of pills, and my hips hurt, my spine is radiating like a piercing hot tire iron through the center, and everything is getting on my nerves already. So I think its a "three". Realizing the pain that he suffers each day to survive at a number he states calmly as a three. I am humbled by his will of survival and determination, and embarressed that my hang nails are a three.
3.) Receiving the out cry of support when Phil was first diagnosed with his spinal tumor. We have received donations from our co-workers, Indians tickets, gift cards, games for Phil's for X Box, a lift chair, gift baskets, prayers, cards, two of my neighbors will plow our driveways when the snow belt is relentless on us, both our moms taking time to prepare meals, fundraising events and the general overflow of love and support from friends, family, and even people we didn't know. Which somehow "Thank you doesn't seem enough".
2.) Watching my own mom cry the day Phil came home from his sacral reconstruction surgery. Phil had to use a walker at this time to make it into the house. She was so saddened to see her son-in-law struggle. She stated, "He is such a good man, and doesn't deserve this. I have watched his strength over the years, and he will conquer this disease."
1.) Learning to enjoy Phil's early retirement in life, taking more from and appreciating those special moments in life that you may sometimes take for granted. Feeling so appreciated and loved for the things I do for Phil without ever needing one word being spoken between us, just seeing it in his eyes. Ultimately realizing how that with God, somehow, it all works out when you feel like you just don't know how to go on. It is handled and taken care of by His grace.
