Monday, December 19

I arrived this morning to find Greg seated in his chair, looking out his window at the Belledonne Mountain range. They are spectacular anytime they are visible, and this morning was no exception. Few hospitals have views like this one. (If you google Belledonne in the image section you’ll see what I mean). Not a bad sight for tired eyes. Greg had already done the hall several times, and he had also (over the course of last night and this morning) managed to read in its entirety the children’s book, “Wreck of the Zanzibar.” Written by Britain’s children’s laureate Michael Morpugo, and winner of the
Whitbread Award, it’s a great read for those of about eight years old to a hundred and eight (as all good kid’s books are). Our friend Iona Gaskell introduced us to the prolific Morpugo, and we have yet to read a book of his we didn’t like. Some are amazing (ie Butterfly Lion and Kezenki’s Island). The level of reading was apparently perfect right now for Greg and he really enjoyed it. But I was a little stunned: when I had my major surgery a few years back, it was about two weeks before I could read … and as some of you know, reading stories for me is almost easier than breathing! So this for me was especially good news, that Greg was both up for a bit of reading, and actually able to concentrate well enough to enjoy the story. Needless to say I already have a stack of more books in my bag to take in with me tomorrow.

Greg talked a little bit on the phone today with his sister and his parents, and then after resting some more, told me he wanted to go for another walk. First he asked our favourite nurse to fix his head bandage, for it had somehow gotten skewif enough to make him look like a French revolutionary. He joked about this with the nurse and then said: “OK, lets see how long I can stand the cold air!” So sure enough, off we went to the elevators, arm in arm, and descended 6 floors to walk out the exit of the hospital which faces the Belledonnes. We stood in the 0 degree sun – I in my thin shirt, he in his shorts, until I said that gorgeous as it was, I was leaving him out there, and he could come in and find me when he got cold. He decided he’d come in too- I thing he just didn’t want to be first! But three minutes or so as it was, he was so pleased to have breathed in the fresh winter air. We went back up, and he was exhausted, but after a rest he wanted to go down again – this time to the coffee shop.

The time there began humourously enough as the young chap serving me turned out to be the server I had become acquainted with over a year ago – the last time Greg was in the hospital. Needless to say, he was rather surprised to see me again! But then the venture became more difficult, as Greg attempted to drink from a cup for the first time. I am glad we had chosen a corner table, tucked away quietly in the back, so that Greg didn’t have to think about others watching. He was determined to finish that hot chocolate, regardless of how hard or exhausting the effort was … but it really was both. It was more like cycling a mountain as far as the effort required. Quite about spilled down his mouth and the dexterity it was demanding was almost more than he, with a half senseless mouth, could manage. But he soldiered on. He is not going to give in easily, my Greg.

He finished, but I wondered if he still had enough in him to walk back to his room. He did, just. Not long afterwards a friend showed up, which both distracted him from the former ordeal, but also gave him an opportunity to mention it. Greg believes strongly that bottling things up is not healthy or helpful, to anyone, and it was good to hear him be able to say that he had made the effort but that it was hard, and “kind of embarrassing.” To say it was probably as good as making the effort to do it – both were courageous.

Late afternoon a new room-mate arrived. He is very quiet, but we are reminded how fortunate we have been to have so much room to ourselves. The ENT surgeon told us that this new man also has a large tumour, so we felt for him all the more as no one had come in with him to help pass the time quickly.

The ENT surgeon. This was the first conversation with him post surgery. And it was sobering. He emphasized again how very difficult the operation had been: “a bad surprise, your tumour”. They had expected seven to eight hours, but it was closer to thirteen. For some time they even wondered if it was a facial nerve tumour, for by mid-afternoon there was a question as to whether he even had a facial nerve left at all, it had been so obliterated. The MRI had given no indication it would be this bad – but the problems were all things too fine for the MRI to pick up. In the end they found the nerve, and decided it was probably an acoustic neuroma after all. But it was a mess, especially because of how much it had displaced the brain stem cell and adhered to it. He told us that Greg’s facial nerve was also involved, and was compressed a bit, but they are confident that it will recover fairly easily. Not so the others (effecting eye area and mouth area) – as for these, the ENT surgeon said, “for sure, this will not recover completely”. What the doctors do hope, he said, is that the ability of the eye lid to close on its own will return, and that Greg’s mouth will eventually be able to work well enough that he can drink without problem from a cup, and that there will be no facial twitching. This, for the doctors, will be “good function” post-surgery. They do not expect, for example, for much feeling to return to Greg’s eye and mouth area, for him to be able to raise his eye brow, say, or have a symmetric smile.

The thing they want to keep an eye on now, though the days of gravest danger are past, is cerebral spine leakage. Apparently Greg’s tempur bone is more pourous than most peoples, which is why they want to keep alert to this for a few more days. If OK for this period, he should be fine on that front. The stitches that are keeping Greg’s eye partially closed right now, to keep it protected and moist, will be left in for several more weeks (he is given frequent synthetic tears, and at night the eye is capped, to keep it safe). Typically nerves grow a millimeter a day – Greg’s won’t grow that fast the surgeon said (I guess because they’ve been traumatized). He has about two centimeters to grow for the eye area and the surgeon emphasized that it will grow slowly. “Months, many months.” He is “relatively optimistic” that the “hoped for function” will return – but nothing more than that, he was clear.

How does Greg feel about all this? Well, he was worried about the surgeon’s pinched nerve that was causing a limp and, obviously, a lot of pain. And he was tired. But he says he feels positive. I think he is very aware that he is alive, and not paraplegic, thanks to the very hard work of these men. He has been fortified by the courage of some others he knows with similar challenges and so he marches on. Keenly reading and listening to notes of love from you all, keenly aware he is not alone.

He is active enough now that he fears the tedium of the next week in the hospital. He is more able to handle visitors, but often tires quickly. Do not be discouraged by this – just the sight of a familiar smiling face carries him forward a few more hours.

His bizarre sense of humour has not failed … it just bears the stamp of morphine now. And he is eager to get home, to get back to work, to keep trying to figure out how to live Well. I’m pretty proud of him.

Love,
Kirstin