Adversity Under the Surgeon's Knife

It’s February 10, 1993. A great big Park Avenue sedan has broadsided my car on my way home from work. The big SOB; I had just gotten my new ski rack for Christmas, too. So much for recreational downhill skiing. Now, the rack was bent in two, and worthless.

I was, too, for that matter. Using the Jaws of Life, I’m pulled out of the wreck of what used to be my car. In the emergency room, a blood clot releases from one of the dissected arteries in my neck and I suffer a stroke. The brain injury left me with a paralyzed right side, speech impediment, long and short-term memory issues, and the balance of a Circus fat lady trying to ride bareback on her tippytoes. Not a pretty sight. You should have seen me attempting my first shower without assistance. Hardly attractive.

Adversity? Yea -

But, eleven years later, any residual effects of that trying time were hardly noticeable. With the help of loving family and friends, and a lot of hard work, I’m almost as good as new.

Then, BOOM! Another blow; to the head - again.

I take a bad spill one Tuesday-after-Memorial Day morning and bash my head on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. Knocks me out cold. A couple of hours later, I’m in the ER getting prepped for brain surgery. A nasty brain bleed (subdural hematoma for all you medical students out there) has developed and needs attention.

No! Not now! I had just started my stint as a doting grandma, and was loving it!! God, don't take me yet!

Well, the good surgeon does a remarkable job of repairing the injury, sews and staples me back up, and pats himself on the back for saving another doomed patient by his talented hands and God-given, university-educated knowledge.

Healing is slow. Recovery is at a standstill and I’m not feeling any better as days go by. In fact, I’m at my worst. The incision keeps oozing what looks to be cerebral fluid, and my headaches are so bad that I’m ready to commit suicide. After two weeks, my mother realizes that perhaps a neck injury as a result of the fall must have happened and accompanies me to my next neurology appointment. (I need my mother – remember, I’m well into my forties by this time)

After hearing us plead my case, the surgeon concurs and prescribes physical therapy which gives me immediate relief. I can now throw away all the pharmaceuticals that have over-medicated me to the point of being a blubbering idiot and needing assistance to walk. Within a day, I’m worshipping the ground my PT walks on, asking if I can take her shopping.

The incision in my head, however, is still a problem. But, all tests are coming back negative when they check for infection. No fever, blood counts are within normal range, etc. I find it odd, but I'm totally at the mercy of the professionals’ opinions. I have nothing to compare this to. I don't know what's normal and what isn't. My gut, however, is telling me something's terribly wrong.

Fast forward: July 5th. It’s Monday and I’m off of work due to the July 4th holiday. After accompanying friends to an afternoon movie, I go home and take my daily nap. A couple of hours later, I wake with an excruciating headache, a broken fingernail, a scratch on my face, a bitten tongue, and I can’t for the life of me remember what day it is. Unable to reach my husband or my mother, I drive myself to the clinic, relay what happened, and I’m immediately admitted to the hospital. It’s obvious I’ve had a seizure while sleeping and now they’re taking me seriously about a potential infection in the surgical incision. Several tests later – yep, massive staph infection which has reached my brain, and I’m being wheeled into the OR for another operation on the grey matter.

Success; all trace of infection is removed. But, this time, a fist-sized piece of my skull is taken out because it’s been affected, too. Great, just great! I now have a hole in my head big enough for someone to put, well, pretty much anything in and scramble what’s left of my brain.

So, I get fixed up with a custom-made hockey helmet for protection, and a Pic line (an intravenous pump that shoots me with powerful antibiotics) to attack any nasty staph germs that may have squeaked through the cracks. I have to indulge these for four more weeks. In the meantime, my skull portion has been disinfected and is waiting for me somewhere under the pork chops in the hospital freezer.

Fast forward again: November 5, 2004. I’m healed! But, a third brain surgery is necessary to reinsert the cleaned skull fragment into my head. So be it. After I wake up in recovery, I feel like a new woman. My head is completely shaved like Sinead O’Connor, I have no noticeable concave spots in my skull, and the incision has been put back together with regular stitches this time instead of those unsightly staples that made me look like Frankenstein’s monster. I look in the mirror and feel good, almost pretty, and my surgeon oohs and ahhs at the wonderful work he’s done on me once again.

Has this made me stronger? I don’t know about that. Has it made me see things differently? Not sure. Am I the same person I used to be? All in perception, I guess – I personally note slight nuances to my attitude and demeanor. I can’t speak for those on the receiving end.

So – God’s aim hasn’t been all that great? My poor head’s been through the wringer and I shouldn’t be here? Or, should I?

Whatever the answer is, all this has only postponed the inevitable.

And that’s okay. I still have things to do.

Cindy Betsinger is a wife, mother and grandmother living in Wisconsin.
Writing has become a favorite hobby of hers in the last few years. She
is the co-adminstrator of a private writers' board, and has had her
stories and poetry published in several webzines. She recently
completed her first novel and is anxiously seeking publication.