Author: Ellie

Yesterday was a very long and difficult day, yet we’ve been told* that today, the official day after surgery, is nicknamed “Crabby Day” because the after-effects of surgery (anesthetic, swelling) are the worst.
*by our “brain tumor coordinator”…imagine a wedding coordinator, but substitute the white dress and flowers for a brain tumor and OR privileges.

This is a concept that’s hard to get my head around as my life paradigm doesn’t include a day thats actually worse than brain surgery, knowledge of malignancy/spreading, and taking turns laying on the PICU bed beside our son to keep him from thrashing or touching an incision wound that stretches hairline to hairline.

How do we even begin to wrap our minds around this?

Standing by Chase’s bed late last night, our dear friend and pastor wisely threw the lifeline.
Moment by moment grace.
Chase is crying right now, so we comfort him, and then the doctor comes in, so we speak to him. There is no tomorrow or next week or six months from now…just this moment and the grace God overwhelmingly supplies. And with that grace, often great joy. The smallest things become incredible victories.

Yesterday was a long and difficult day, yet our son emerged from fairly major brain surgery breathing on his own and tried to get up and stand/walk within a couple hours post op. (he also punched several nurses, but I hesitate to list “punching medical staff” as a serious cause for joy)

Yesterday was a long and difficult day, yet the area of blood at the front of the head seen in the post op CT scan -that worried the surgical team and led to discussions of needing to go back into surgery- stayed the same and even slightly decreased in a CT scan a few hours later and re-opening the head was no longer necessary at the time.

Yesterday was a long and difficult day, but we were overwhelmed with the love and support on every side, both in person and via texts, emails and social media. Truly a perfect blend of crying when we needed to cry and laughing when we needed to laugh (like the moment Chase’s grandfather assured a room full of people that he was fine and then tried to exit the room via the bathroom…though, in his defense, the hospital did put the bathroom door next to the exit door…)

And last, in this very moment, yesterday was a long and difficult day, but as I sit here writing in the pre-dawn hours of “Crabby Day”, Chase’s overnight nurse just informed me that he could have something for the pain if he wanted…because he’s had (and needed!) no pain management drugs since shortly after post op.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that words like “malignant”, and “spreading”, and “chemo” are all too big to understand in this moment, but that’s okay, because God is all over that, and I can just hold my son.

Grace.

Moment by moment…

“We will do surgery in the morning.”

It’s ironic how one sentence can bring such relief and fear all at the same time.
First thing tomorrow, Chase goes into surgery for an unknown duration.  In the words of his chief neurosurgeon …”As long as it takes.”

Later this afternoon while in an EEG, they discovered that Chase was having multiple “sub-clinical” seizures.  Meaning that his brain is seizing without any outward symptoms.  A team of neurologists watched him have a seizure while eating a french fry.  (warning: inappropriately timed humor ahead)  I’m just saying, if you have to have a seizure, you should definitely be able to eat french fries.

Because of his need for continuous monitoring, he has been moved to the PICU.  Every time there is a status change, and sometimes even more often than that, my heart sinks and I’m in a place of fear over faith.  I’m so very thankful for the moment by moment grace that I/we are being given.

Malignant or benign, removing all or some, what will be lost not to be regained, and what will the hours/days/weeks after the surgery hold?  All of these things are issues they can only discuss options on…not to be more fully known until after the surgery.
In moments of such great unknown, we feel so alone, and yet, as a friend (and mother of a child who survived heart surgeries) reminded me – sometimes that loneliness is good because it reminds you that all you have is Christ and that’s all you really need.

“I stand upon the mount of God with sunlight in my soul; I hear the storms and vales beneath, I heat the thunders role.  But I am calm with Thee, my God, beneath these glorious skies; and to the height on which I stand, no storms, no clouds can rise.  O, this is life!  O this is joy, my God, to find Thee so: They face to see, Thy voice to hear, and all Thy love to know.” Horatius Bonar, Scottish minister who returned five young children to this same God

Because of the size and nature of Chase’s mass, a nurse or doctor has to take his vitals and check his eye movements every hour.  Having said that, you can well imagine our night. 

Around 9:00pm, we got to meet with the surgical resident who showed us this:

Externally, we nodded and looked serious.  Internally, I think we both let out a panicked mental scream.  I wanted to jump up and say “Take him into surgery 5 minutes ago!” 

The amazing and astounding thing is that THAT is on the inside of THIS: 

 …who up until 3-4 weeks ago had no noticeable symptoms.  (that we’re aware of)  (could excessive wearing out of parents be considered a symptom?) 

We are currently awaiting several teams stopping by on rounds, after which, we will most likely be briefed on a surgical plan.  

Praying for peace …

At this moment, I’m sitting in a hospital room overlooking Lake Michigan, waiting for my baby boy (who is currently in a 2 hour MRI), having been up and functioning since my husband woke me around 4:00am with the words “Chase is having some kind of seizure.”

In this moment, our hearts and minds are almost too full to process what is happening to our son, but here is some brief info:

• Chase has a large mass in his brain.  This is what has been causing his illness and loss of language over the last weeks.  This is also what caused his seizure this morning.
• The biggest issue now is to keep the swelling on the brain down and medicate against seizures.
• As we are beginning to meet with the neuro team, they are very encouraging about this type of mass.
• The mass means surgery and surgery soon.

In this moment, we have SO many unanswered questions, but here are some that we know to be true:

• God can handle our fears and asks us to bring them to Him (Philippians 4:4-7).
• God promises peace (Isaiah 26:13).
• God knows and loves Chase and has been all over this happening in his life since, well, forever (Psalm 139).

We are so thankful for all the messages of love and encouragement.  In some ways, the seizure is the best thing that could have happened because they detected the mass and moved us to a higher priority level where Chase is getting great care.

Something tells me we are just beginning this journey…

More to follow soon…