Sea Sick

I’m sitting here in the surgical waiting room at Medstar Georgetown University (MGUH). So many of our friends and family offered to accompany me during this vigil. I couldn’t articulate why I needed to be alone, but I just felt like I needed to silently grieve what my wife was losing and I didn’t want to burden anyone with that heavy silence.

When I am stressed, I write. Ever since I was a kid, words were always my source of comfort in times of crisis and they were my source of memory in times of fun and excitement. But today, a day when I have such acute feelings of sadness, grief and gratitude, I find I’ve lost my words. I thought about why this was as I wandered (read: got lost) the MGUH labyrinth of buildings in search of food.

Finally finding the Chick-Fil-A, grabbing my food and swallowing my tears it hit me. I didn’t lose my vocabulary, there’s just so many layers to the sadness, fear and gratitude it's overwhelming and it's very close to the surface. Arriving at the surgical waiting room after a very, very, very long walk through many buildings, I sit here trying to dissect these emotions while I keeping an eye on the clock and the monitor that displays Mrs. Koog’s progress through the surgery.

Fear

I’m overcome with fear as we said good-bye before they wheeled her into the OR. Since finding out the surgery date, we had to confront some realities that were while not probable, still possible. That’s what was swimming in my head as each nurse, doctor, resident, med student and patient registrar asked about advanced directives and her medical power of attorney.  We had the conversation about wills and wants years before this situation. But now, it does seem like the unthinkable is the only thinkable thing on either of our minds. Talking without using any of the scary words she confirmed I knew where the wills and directives were in our safe and I confirmed we had adequate life insurance. All the administrative things were in order.

Since her diagnosis, we’ve also taken every opportunity to say “I love you”, to steal a kiss or a hug or to hold hands. We didn’t say the scary words but we didn’t leave anything unsaid between us either. We talked about our amazing life to this point and discussed the things we are going to do in the future. The possible, not probable was never uttered from either of us. But as she was rolled away, I had to walk toward the exit and not look back. It was the longest and loneliest walk I've ever taken.

The fear is all consuming today. I know she will come through this procedure. I know she will be back to physical health soon. I know it, she knows it and you know it. But that intellectual knowledge is not strong enough to keep the sadness and fear at bay sometimes, actually right in this moment it’s not enough. So, I take deep breaths and try to talk myself off the ledge. I assume I will do this hundreds of times today.

Sadness

I was trying not to lose it walking to the elevator when the oncology surgeon stopped to give me a pink pillow and gift bag. Apparently, survivors make these pillows and bags for new patients going through this horrible process. Such a nice gesture to reassure Mrs. Koog she is not alone. Dr. Son said something during that exchange that has been ricocheting in my head, “here’s a recovery pillow and gift bag from our survivor’s group. Not that she wants to ever remember this ordeal, though.” She’s right, Mrs. Koog will not want to remember this ordeal. But she will have a permanent souvenir to remind her she came out the other side.

During the pre-op, the plastic surgeon came in to mark up where he will make his incisions and reattachments. Looking at her marked up body, sadness washed over me. Every time she gets dressed, the physical scars will remind her of this experience. When the physical scars fade, she will always have the mental scars that take much more time to receed, if they ever really do go away. My hope for her is that she take the time to process getting, having and removing the cancer. She's been very focusers on removal and the physical reconstruction. The VA's inability to do anything correctly provided a daily tasks that  distract her from reality, and while I loathe the VA I am grateful she had this to distract her from the scary, possible but not probable outcome. There will come a time though those distractions, the next surgery and the next follow-up appointment will be done. That's when her sadness will kick-in. I will do my best to be sure she's taking care of her inner self long before that time comes.

Gratitude

While we’ve been handling the grief, sadness and fear over these past weeks there has been an abundance of gratitude as well.  The possible, not probable unthinkable outcome has changed the way we live day-to-day. We‘ve been living in the moment every day being grateful for each other, each kiss, hug and laugh. We’ve always been thankful for our little family, but now we’ve taken the time to really be grateful for each other, the boys and our life.

The outpouring of support from our family, friends and co-workers has been humbling. From gifts to meals to flowers to rallying t-shirts to treats for the boys and offers to do almost everything we could possibly need, it’s been unbelievable. We’ve had friends far and wide send text, email, call and FB message good thoughts and prayers. It’s hard to articulate how much this means to me and Mrs. Koog. It makes us realize just how much love and support there is for her and her recovery.

As I wait for word from the surgeons the emotions wash over me like wild waves, complete with nausea. I’m trying to focus on the positive and not the “possible but not probable“ unthinkable outcome. I hope she can feel the love coming from all over but especially from the surgical waiting room while she sleeps in the OR. I hope it leads to sweet dreams of restored health and reunion.