Christmas lights...a holiday memory

Tomorrow it will be the third anniversary of one of the most bizarre days of my life, when I took The Engineer to the ER and we found out he had "something" bad on his brain. Thankfully, that "something" (an abscess) was successfully removed on January 2, 2007, and today he has no lingering aftereffects. We are so thankful!

The Engineer was admitted to the hospital that day, December 19th. I took Chickie with me to spend most of the day there each day, until he was released on the 23rd.

One of those nights I drove home in the dark. I was weary. It had only been a couple of days, but I was feeling the physical and emotional fatigue that overwhelms someone who has been suddenly knocked over by the sledgehammer of family illness.

I drove through our neighborhood, seeing the lights people had put on their houses. We hadn't put lights on the outside of our house, but I liked seeing our neighbors' decorations. I turned the corner onto our street.

And there, on our lawn, were two decorative deer, brightly shining with white lights, welcoming me home. I immediately burst into tears. I had no idea who had put them there, but they were just the lift my heavy spirit needed.

Several days later I found out which neighbor had put the deer on the lawn. He nervously asked me if that was okay. I don't think I managed to adequately convey to him how much the gesture had meant to me. Hopefully he was more convinced when, after New Year's, I repeatedly turned down his offers to take the deer off the lawn. By then The Engineer was recovering from surgery, and some days I was still coming home late at night from visiting him. The shining deer sat there, longer than Christmas decorations really "should" be out, bringing light not only to the neighborhood, but also to my heart.

Thanks, Marc and Melanie. Three years later, your gesture of kindness remains as one of my most treasured holiday memories.

Yeah, you can pretty much buy anything online

As we approached yesterday's big anniversary, I searched online for a meaningful gift to commemorate the day.

So imagine my delight when I discovered a plastic mold, designed to be used with chocolate, in the shape of...

...a brain.

I put it in my online shopping cart, added chocolate pieces meant for melting, threw in some coconut filling, and eagerly awaited January 2, brain-making day. (If it surprises you that I'd make dessert in the shape of a brain, you haven't been reading this blog very long.)

Yesterday morning, I found online chocolate-molding instructions and got to work.

I didn't have a double boiler for melting the chocolate, so I had to make do with what was in my kitchen. Thank goodness for Google; the search phrase "don't have double boiler" provided me with plenty of ideas for alternatives.


That's a small pot resting on a steamer in a big pot. It did the job.

I then used a pastry brush to paint layers of chocolate into the top and bottom portions of the brain mold, keeping it hollow inside. I ended up totally filling the bottom with chocolate, but I left a good-sized cavity in the top, and then put the coconut filling inside.



After covering the coconut with a layer of melted chocolate, I put the bottom of the brain on the top, let the still-wet layer of chocolate act as a "glue," cleaned up my messy seam, and wondered why, with my obvious neurology expertise, we didn't just save a bunch of money by me doing the actual surgery in the first place.



After freezing it briefly to make sure it was set, I popped it out of the mold, and admired the tasty-looking wrinkles.



We met friends at a restaurant for dinner to celebrate The Engineer's birthday a few days late. When The Engineer was away from the table, I hunted down our server, gave her the brain, and asked her to bring it out for dessert. I suppose it was one of the strangest requests she's gotten, but I briefly told her the reason for the chocolate grey matter, and her response was enthusiastic. "That's awesome," she said.

After dinner, the server brought out the brain with a flourish, and I was thrilled to see that she'd improved greatly on my waxed paper-wrapped presentation.



The Engineer loved his gift, even when our friend Kevin asked him if it was life-sized. He was surprised and thrilled.



When he saw the chocolate brain, Kevin commented that it was good The Engineer's surgery was on his head, not "the other end." I'm glad too--a Google search for "chocolate mold colon" did not provide any relevant results.

We polished off the cookie at the restaurant, and later on at home we each had a slice of chocolate and coconut.  The Engineer pronounced it "one tasty brain," and I'm pretty sure we each gained a couple of IQ points by ingesting it.

Countdown, part 5: Two years ago

O LORD my God, I called to you for help
and you healed me.

O LORD, you brought me up from the grave;
you spared me from going down into the pit.

Sing to the LORD, you saints of his;
praise his holy name.

-Psalm 30:2-4 (NIV)

I really try not to be "preachy" when I write my blog posts, but I'll ask you to indulge me a bit today. As I celebrate having a healthy husband, on the second anniversary of his brain surgery, I find myself wanting to publicly give God thanks for His loving hand of healing. My Father, my God--thank You.

One of my treasured memories of that day is the support from those who came to wait with us at the hospital while the operation was taking place.

Herb and Georgia sat and talked with us, and knowing them, I bet they were praying the whole time too.

Ann was supportive with her sweet presence, and I knew she understood, since her husband had cancer.

Virgil took orders from everyone present for a coffee run, and then sat and talked to me about non-surgery related things like the controversy over whether or not Wal-Mart should build close to his house. The time went quickly as we chatted. I didn't even know Virgil that well, but on that day he established himself in a very special, permanent place in my heart.

My parents were there, loving me, ready to do whatever I needed (including taking care of Chickie, who was almost one),

My sister would have been there, but she'd had a baby the day before--happy birthday, Molly!

I wish everyone would have the opportunity, sometime, to feel the type of love I experienced that day, and on the days before and after the surgery. We experienced true, pure community, and until then I'd had no idea how beautiful of a thing community can be.

I could write a long post with all my other memories of that day, but the medical stuff really isn't that important now. Surgery went well; recovery did too. Physical aftereffects have faded into nothingness.

But our lives still bear the imprint of that time. Two years later, the aftereffects of our most stressful family experience are love and gratitude, toward our family (in the broadest sense of the term) and toward our God. If you were one of those who was there for us through that experience, my heart bursts with thankfulness to you, even two years later.

Countdown, part 4: Cookies & Cake

Well, I realized as I was walking this morning that we have reached T-minus one month until the big two-year anniversary of The Engineer's brain surgery. I was going to skip my Countdown post since I did one a couple of weeks ago. Then I saw today's Cake Wrecks post about a disturbing cookie cutter and decided I had to get in here and write, not about gratitude or anything else serious, but about cookies. Weird, yummy, kinda creepy cookies.

You see, once The Engineer was released from the hospital, I threw a big Brain & Birthday Bash. We celebrated The Engineer's brain health and Chickie's first birthday. (Her actual birthday had been pretty low-key since it had been 12 days after Daddy's surgery.) The Engineer kept a good sense of humor about his health issues, so I decided brain-shaped cookies were in order. Yes, you can buy brain-shaped cookie cutters online. Heck, you can buy anything online.

They turned out very cute and even tasted good. I'm sure some guests shied away from them because of the pure weirdness factor, but I love sugar, and biting into sweet gray matter doesn't take away my appetite.



Chickie had an adorable cake, made by our friend Leslie. She even made matching cookies, some attached to the cake and some on the side, which our more squeamish guests undoubtedly appreciated. This is one of my all-time favorite Chickie pictures.



That day was wonderful, a day to celebrate all that God has given us. Looking at the pictures makes me smile. I think God probably liked my celebratory brain cookies a lot.

Countdown, part 3: Big thanks

As I blogged about on September 2nd and October 2nd, we're approaching the second anniversary of The Engineer's brain surgery on January 2nd. I've gotten off-track on my 2nd-day-of-the-month postings on this topic, but life lessons don't always happen on a schedule.

Last week one of the fellow moms in my local playgroup lost her husband to a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in the lung.) At an age far too young, she is a widow. Her daughter will be three in December, and her daddy is gone. I don't know them well, but my heart aches for them.

I keep thinking, "I could have gone through all of this." About a month after The Engineer's surgery, he woke up in the middle of the night with chest pain. At the ER he was diagnosed with pneumonia, which was causing the pain. It was the most fortuitous case of pneumonia we'd ever heard of, as their examination also revealed a pulmonary embolism. Had it not been for the pain from the pneumonia, the clot might have traveled to his brain, and I might have been a widow, with a fatherless daughter.

I knew that intellectually, but it struck me more deeply this week. Twice in a short period of time, God, in his infinite yet unexplainable grace, kept my husband alive, despite a brain abscess and a blood clot. A few months after that intense time, I was pregnant, and soon my completely healthy husband and I had a second child. Life went on. And gradually the miracle of that simple fact--life went on--lost most of its luster.

I don't know why this other dear woman lost her husband when I didn't. And I know there are no certainties for tomorrow, and next year, and the years after that.

But I know how grateful I am. Last month I talked about being grateful for everyday things. Today I'm reminded to be grateful for the BIG things, the things I take for granted, the things I forget could have been gone two years ago and aren't guaranteed to be here tomorrow.

So, God, thank you.

Thank you for my husband, who I love and am in love with.

Thank you for my healthy, beautiful daughter.

Thank you for my healthy, adorable son.

Thank you for parents and siblings and grandparents who enrich my life.

And the one thing that can't be taken away--thank you, God, for your Son Jesus and His life, in me.

That's the big stuff. However long I'm here, and however long I've got this beautiful family, may I not forget to be deeply grateful.

Countdown, part 2: It's not brain surgery

October 2, 2008

It's three months until the second anniversary of The Engineer's surgery. Sometimes when people are talking about something simple, they'll say, "Hey, it's not brain surgery!" As we were preparing for the operation, we used to laugh at that. Thankfully he was at the hands of a skilled surgeon and it was fairly simple as these operations go. So while it was brain surgery, it wasn't rocket science.

As promised, over the last month I've been thinking about that time, and trying to learn from it. Any health crisis is enormously stressful. Yet I remember seeing so many of God's miracles and blessings through that time, and being so grateful for them. I'm trying to learn to see every day situations in that light. When I flooded the bathroom recently, I decided to be thankful that Zoodle slept through the roar of the shop vac, and that I was able to read a magazine while I moved the vacuum hose from spot to spot.

If I can be thankful when our family has a crisis, or when I make crazy mistakes, I can also learn to see blessings and miracles during everyday things like Chickie's tantrums and Zoodle's crying.

I know I can learn to integrate this thinking in my life. It's pretty simple, right? I mean, it's not brain surgery.

Countdown

September 2, 2008

20 months ago, on January 2, 2007, they shaved a strip of hair on the top of the patient's head. Other little spots around his head were also shaved. "Targets" (described to him as looking like little Life-Saver candies) were attached to the little shaved spots.

An anesthesiologist put the patient to sleep. A bright, youngish surgeon cut out a small portion of the patient's skull, on top of his head. The doctor separated the two halves of the brain. An MRI machine worked along with the targets to help the surgeon get to just the right spot, where he made a small incision, then drained the abscess that had been growing in the patient's brain, affecting his motor skills. The piece of skull was replaced and reattached with small titanium screws. The skin was sutured neatly.

The patient slowly came out of his drug-induced sleep and was transported to the ICU, where he was surrounded by other patients, most of whom were probably at least twice his age.

A little while later, I met the surgeon in that ICU room and was told that my husband The Engineer's surgery had gone well. But when it's brain surgery, recovery can still be a bit dicey. I remember The Engineer waking up the next day, unable to move most of the right side of his body due to swelling at the surgery site. I vividly remember my heart racing as I called a nurse into his room a day or two after the surgery, when The Engineer's smile suddenly was lopsided and for a couple of minutes he had an odd numbness on the right side of his face and body.

I remember the frustration of finding out that he'd be in a rehabilitation hospital for three to four weeks, working on walking and using his right hand, and all other sorts of things that should be easy for a 37-year-old man to do. I recall his frustration, as he realized that the trauma of the surgery itself meant that his body was far less mobile than it had been the day before the surgery. I think how amazing it was that the day after The Engineer had taken his first post-surgery steps, Chickie took her very first steps. I remember the elation and pride when my hard-working, determined husband was released from that rehab center after only 13 days.

And mostly I am joyful, remembering how incredibly supported I felt during the most difficult time of my life. I couldn't afford to doubt God; I needed Him too much, and He was so real to me. Friends became family as they fed us, cleaned our house, took care of our one-year-old, and encouraged me every day. Family became so precious as my parents dropped everything to fly out for the surgery, then flew directly to my sister to meet their brand new grandbaby.

In the midst of the crazy stress of an unexpected health crisis, I felt more loved than I had ever felt before. I was joyful even as I was going a little bit crazy.

As I look back on that time, 20 months ago, I find myself wanting to recapture some of the positives. Think God could spare me the stress but give me some of that intense love? I bet He could. I know that I sought God deeply during that time, and He was there. I bet if I sought him that deeply now, I'd recapture some of the miracle of His presence. I was amazingly touched by friends who were there when I needed them most. Maybe if I can put a little more effort into my friendships now, then I and my friends will reap joyful relational rewards.

I've decided to try to journal every month as we approach the second anniversary of The Engineer's surgery. For almost a year and a half, life has been back to normal. The Engineer's healthy without lasting physical effects of the abscess in his brain--the brain's capacity to recover is truly amazing. He doesn't even have to see the neurosurgeon again; the abscess shouldn't ever return.

We've added a child to the family and honestly, most days we're just in that rut of living our everyday lives. I experienced the miraculous during our time of crisis--miracles of love and support and healing. As we get closer to the two-year milestone, I want to learn to see those miracles more in my every day life. I wouldn't think it was fair if I emerged from such a crisis without being changed permanently, without actively seeking to hold onto the gifts I was given during that time.

I'll post about this again at the beginning of October. Let's see what God can teach me in the next four months. I'm excited.

Oh, and my goal of making my blog posts shorter? Consider that suspended for these monthly posts. Just thought you deserved fair warning.