By Susan Tweit
Richard and I are home for a while, no small feat given the way our lives have been recently. We’ve been talking about how long it’s been since we’ve been home for more than a few days, enough time to reestablish any semblance of normal routine. (Whatever normal means when you’re living with brain cancer.)
Mid-December, I decided. Richard agreed.
Before my mom broke her hip at home while in hospice care and we began going to Denver every ten days to help, and then every week, and then every few days.
Before she died. Before Richard said, “I have a headache,” the day after Mom’s death and we drove home anyway instead of just going directly to the VA Hospital, not knowing that the headache was something much, much worse than a sinus infection.
Before the scary trip to Denver in the middle of the night just over a week later with Richard riding over the mountains in an ambulance, racing ahead of the increasing fluid pressure in his brain that threatened his survival. Before the temporary drain screwed into his skull that emptied out three cups of fluid, and he revived.
Before ten days after that, when he woke on a Monday morning and said, “I have a headache.” And he was six beats slow, with growing confusion as the day wore on.
Before that day’s trip to Denver, where at least I got to drive him over the mountains, and he was able to walk into the ICU, astonishing the staff. Before the next evening’s craniotomy in which his skilled neurosurgery team drained and cleaned his right brain in his third brain surgery in 16 months.
Before the six days in the hospital that followed that surgery, five of those in the ICU as the neurosurgery team monitored the fluid continuing to drip from his brain.
By the time we left the VA Hospital on a Sunday morning, I didn’t care that a storm was threatening, or that I was tired and the highway over South Park might be blowing-snow slick.
I just knew we needed to be home. Home where Richard could recover his ability to be the creative, sweet, and deep-thinking human being he is. (Not to mention recovering his juggling skills.)
Home to whatever was left of our normal routines, the work that sustains us, our kitchen garden, home to the yogurt I was making a week before when we left for the local hospital emergency room, from whence we headed to Denver. Home to whatever awaited us.
Home to relax, recover in all senses of that lovely word, home to recapture the grace and comfort in the ordinary, simple routines of daily life.
Having a home to come to feels like a great gift after all we’ve survived. Having our specific home in this specific landscape, a house heated by the sun, framing a view of the peaks over the roofs of town, full of Richard’s sculptural touches, and the opportunity to watch Richard smile, think, laugh, read, and practice juggling feels like some kind of miracle.
I hope I never forget what I’ve learned in the wild journey of these past few months: To treasure the simple gift of life, and to appreciate the grace in each day.
Award-winning writer Susan J. Tweit is the author of 12 books, and can be contacted through her web site, susanjtweit.com or her blog, susanjtweit.typepad.com
