June 17, 2005

"You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, or the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or the destruction that wastes at noon."

Friends:

The monks sing Psalm 91 in gregorian at compline, laying themselves down to sleep in the freedom of trust. We've been reading it from the BCP at Jeanie's bedside in the Intensive Care Unit for over two weeks now. O Lord, Come to our assistance. Make haste to help us.

This has been a difficult spring. Since we last wrote there have been several hospitalizations and one all night Emergency Room experience. She had been declining incrementally. Joining me, several weeks back, with Word and World folks on a planning retreat, she was needing to be lead round by the hand, all but ceased eating, was losing control of her functions. A trip to the hospital on my 56th birthday showed that the shunt had failed and she suffered hydrocephalus. Just looking at my own journal, I'd been raising this each hospitalization going beck five weeks! These symptoms were familiar from times past. Still, we rejoiced to know the cause, signed off for replacement surgery the next day, and went home to a happy window for birthday dinner (manicotti, salad, garlic bread, and brownies) all made by the girls and served candlelight on our upstairs back porch inside the big pine. They each presented me wondrous poems as gifts, and grace upon grace, Lydia had the foresight to have Jeanie make me a card the Sunday prior, for which she necessarily needed to summon her inner resources to focus and write: "Hey love: You are my favorite!! Happy Birthday! I love you so much! Do you know that? Thanks for sharing the last 20 years with me. Love, Jeanie" Colored pencils and all. It uncorked my tears on the spot. Then. The hospital called shortly to report that her cranial fluid had bacteria in it and they needed permission to do an emergency bedside procedure (in effect a blind surgery, sans O R) to install an external shunt to drain fluid. Jeanie had gone completely non-responsive. The operation next morning would only be to remove the infected device. Our beloved surgeon warned soberly that she might not wake at all - and if she did, the "meningitis" would severely compromise her. It was among the lowest points of the last seven years. Endgame seemed upon us and we're told that won't be pretty.

But she woke. She smiled. She said Hi. She swallowed pills and fed herself meals. The infection it turned out had not yet inflamed the brain. It was only ventriculitis and the remedy was to keep draining excess fluid and sterilize that remaining with bigtime antibiotics. She improved daily for a stretch. Then began to decline yet again. She stopped talking and had trouble swallowing. Graciously, for the sake of my heart, her eyes never stopped communicating. But the medicos had no explanation. The idea of "micro-tumors" was floated, too small to show up on MRIs. Right, says Lydia, they don't know what's going on so she must have invisible tumors! After several delays Jeanie had shunt replacement surgery yesterday (6/17) - this time on the left. (Her skin on the right is just too stretched and scarred to cover another wound). It turns out as per a CAT scan two days prior, that her ventricles were once again enlarged. Even while fluid was measurably cumulating in that little plastic bag near her head. Don't ask me.

Last night she smiled and kissed and stroked our hands. This morning when the surgeon came round and asked how she felt, Jeanie replied, "Particularly well". God knows. Or so we trust. We ourselves doníƒÙt know what's to come. The medical prognosticators are playing it close to the chest. They purse their lips and warn of expectations too high. For having said no more cutting, we've now had four surgeries in as many months. Each what the neurologists call an "insult" to her brain. She'll certainly need physical therapy and more to get herself back home. But I know of noone with a stronger will. And the woman has one helluva resilient brain.

It's been a long stretch. My emotions have been blessedly near the surface. Tears get triggered by things turned up in a pile - or reading Psalms at her bedside. The girls do well, though their tears have yet to find its tap. They worry about me, locating knots in my back and rubbing them into quiet submission. I worry about them, but they've thrown themselves into a project spring cleaning our flat, as organized by dear friends on the block. I come home from the hospital to rooms transformed. And I'm forced to sort papers one step ahead of them, lest my known disorder dissemble before my eyes. But the place feels stripped and simplified.

Wish had more to offer about Jeanie's hoped for recovery. I write now because I have access to a wider sending. And because your prayers can be timely for her.

"When she calls to me I will answer. Protect her for she knows my name."

Abiding in the shadow
of the Almighty,

Bill