Emotions

Hospitals are all emotional places. They just are, by their very nature, and the hard reality of what happens there. It's not all bad - it's where new lives enter the world and people hear the phrase "We think we got it in time, she's going to be okay." But it is also where just words...not even a phrase, but just the two words "brain tumor" get uttered. Among millions of other phrases, and words, and sentences.

My amazing and incomparable wife, Laura, is a medical social worker and spent years working in the ER at a Level I Trauma Center. She, more than most, is acutely aware of the emotional nature of hospitals.

I was thinking about that today on my drive home from Walter Reed. How much of an emotional whirlwind the last 5 months have been. The challenges we have faced, the fears, the hopes, and prayers. I even started thinking - not that it is in any way measurable - but I wonder, I just *wonder* how many gallons of tears have been shed in Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. The good and the bad. The "I'm sorry, we tried all we could, but he didn't make it." And some of those tears are mine, I happily and readily admit, like the ones that followed "Would you like to cut the cord, Mr. Atkins?"

I had my MRI on May 20th. I'd e-mailed my Doc, and he had already told me that things "looked good," but nonetheless I still had a follow-up appointment to go in and see him, and talk about moving forward, etc. I've raved before about just how incredible MAJ Theeler is - well, he proved it again when he met me in the waiting room and said "Yeah, let's go back and we can talk about Sylvia." I mean, he remembered the damn tumor's name.

Sylvia is, for better or worse, mostly dead. Of course, mostly dead means partly alive, but unlike Westley we're not trying to revive her. Bits and pieces, tiny chips, had to be left in. They were attached to things called "brain stem" and "hypothalamus" and otherwise described as "important brain." Given I enjoy breathing, and controlling my own bowels, I support the notion that we did not risk chopping into those areas.

But Sylvia is "stable." Those remnant pieces are not growing, are not changing, are not showing any adverse reaction to the surgery. I will require follow-up MRIs to continue - again in August and then December. But Doc is hopeful and says every indication exists that this can be safely placed in my rear-view, with the ever so minor inconvenience of an occasional MRI. In fact, reducing down to once every 6 months starting in January.

Something related, and I've made brief and vague references to on here, is that as a result we (as a family) are looking at a possible relocation to San Juan, Puerto Rico. I need to transfer some time. And for reasons I won't bother going into, there is hope that I could get orders to San Juan for a December report date. When I brought this up with Doc, he chuckled.

"Yeah, San Juan would be fine, I can't see any barrier to going there. You just need to be somewhat near a doctor who has 'neuro-' in front of his specialty. Neuro-oncology, neurosurgery, neurology, etc. And actually, I've got a good friend who's down there. We did our fellowship together, great guy. I just spoke with him a few weeks ago. If you DO wind up in San Juan, let me know and I'll type up the referral to make sure you get to see him."

So. Ah, there it is. There's still plenty else going on, and other things that need to happen or be done, but...for now...we're doing good.

And as I walked out of his office, and stood waiting for the elevator, I thought about the past 6 months. I thought about all we've been through, the rollercoaster ride. And I cried. (Crap, now I am again.)

I need to see my Coast Guard doc, and pass all this info along to her. Paperwork needs to get filed, I need to get cleared. I need to talk to my assignment officer.

This Blog will continue, at sporadic intervals. But while the name will remain unchanged at "Death to Sylvia," I think I can safely report: Mission Accomplished.