CHAPTER 1
My hope is that the words that I share will help someone along the way see hope through my husband's struggle. It's the struggle of a man full of life and spirit — a Peter Pan. A man that did not want his life to be remembered by cancer treatments. In my experience with people in recovery, some of them that want to change their lives for the better try to give back something. This was my husband, Bob. He wanted to give his experience of where he was going and where he had been back to the clients in the treatment center (the program). Well, that was where I first saw Bob. He was coming from the dining hall/meeting room. He had just finished the evening lecture for family night at the center. I was working the Safe-House down below, a center for abused women, similar to the "Alive" program we have here in our county. His appearance was that of a hippie lost in the sixties. Long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. His hair did not complement his mustache even though it looked like it had not been trimmed either. He was wearing an overstarched yellow shirt, with the sleeves cuffed and rolled halfway up his arms. His blue jeans were faded but razor creased down the front. Flashback from the past and lost in the future was where my thoughts took me. He did not walk across the sidewalk or the grounds; no, Bob's walk was a bounce of energy that lifted him up. Each step was a portrait of the energy of life. I peered at him from another building. We had not met at this point. Someone had told me he was married to a woman that also worked at the center. They had both finished treatment at the center about the same time. Pattie, Bob's wife, was a staff worker there. They also informed me Pattie and Bob had gotten married shortly after they met at work. They had rules against this, but Bob did not like to follow rules. He would always find a loophole in his favor. However, the rule was two years in separation and no contact before you could date another worker. Bob was certainly a rule bender, not a sitter.
Every morning I would wake up and tell myself I won't see the reruns anymore — the View-Master clicking away with no one pushing the button or changing the slides. One reel after another. The ones I remember the most are all the episodes when Bob was sick, (There were few days when he was not sick.) They say you always reflect on the bad things before the good ones. With all my education, I cannot understand why the bad has to outweigh the good and why with so much good in our lives the View-Master keeps flicking the reel of days when I thought I could not take it anymore. View-Master, for those of you who remember, did not have sound. It was an all-silent picture. One slide after another. The pictures that run through my head are with sound. Voices, bells, sirens, life-support machines, crying, and good days of laughter. If I remember right, when I was a child I could choose where to start the slides. Right now, the episodes I am viewing are stuck. It won't go forward or backward. It just keeps flashing in my head. I believe one should have control over the memories as he or she chooses.
As I was going for a doctor appointment, I passed a woman that looked familiar to me. I stood there looking at her, and now I can't remember her name. The words came out of her mouth like hot liquid burns your mouth and the hair dryer burns if gotten too close to your ears when turned on high.
She said, "Hi." As we passed each other, she spoke. "Brenda, right?"
I know we both have put on some weight, but the faces of people I meet never leave that reel in my head. However, remembering names is not my best suit. We both shared a piece of our lives trying to catch up on what we had both missed. I told her about the injury to my ankle and why I was on a knee scooter. She shared with me about her experience on her knee scooter. Small talk.
We had gone to the same church as her and her husband, and we always sat in the same pew. When Bob and I got married, they had given us, for a wedding present, a large entrance mirror. It was a beautiful mirror. We hung it up in our living room, and when I looked at it, all the good memories would resurface — the times at church with our church family. The same church in which Bob and I were married.
I stood there looking at her, and now I can't remember her name, but her pleading, strong words flashed through my mind.
"Brenda," she said, "are you sure you want to marry this man? He is so sick, Brenda, and it would be a lot to take on in a marriage."
Our Love
We asked ourselves why we are so much alike.
We have walked the same path as we listen to the same sounds.
We have not just become one.
We have become one beat to the same drum.
"Yes, I want to marry him."
I knew love had outweighed the need for me to look at the whole picture, but our love was strong.
Bob had gone through a liver transplant seven years before we had married. His checkups and yearly visits had all been as good as it could be. Bob was always so frail-looking, and the love for him was solid in my heart, soul, and mind. I knew we could conquer anything that came up. So there was not any doubt in my mind that this man was the man I would marry.
Bob and I both had been married before; my marriage was over after twenty-six years, and Bob's wife (Pattie) had died from cancer. It was a long struggle with the disease and death. She spent most of her time in the hospital, and it was told that Bob spent most of his time beside her. She was a beautiful and kind person. I had gotten to be friends with her and Bob at the drug center. She liked (candy) divinity, and every Christmas I would make her a Christmas tin full of it. She would always offer to pay me for it, but I wouldn't think of it. She was a staff aid, and their pay came from the bottom of the barrel.
Bob and a friend of mine would go fishing together. Bob loves to fish. He would live on the water if he could. He had told me once he had thought of getting a houseboat when he lived in Key West. He had a bass boat and a canoe. The first time we put the boat in the water, I watched him knowing with all my heart this man would not be able to do this by himself. For those of you that know nothing about putting a boat in the water, first you have to back the truck, trailer, and boat into the water. After the trailer is backed into the water, the boat is released from the trailer. The boat would be driven over to the shore to be tied up until you could pull the trailer out of the water and park the truck. I watched him, and there was never a time I did not grind my teeth. The fear was that the boat would float away before he could get into it. After several trips fishing, he started asking me to tie off the boat. The boat just seems to hang in midair, half in the water and half out. I always looked for the truck to roll into the water before the whole show was over.
One time when we were at the Osage River just outside of Jefferson City, Missouri, Bob turned to me and said, "You are going to drive the truck out of the water. You can do it."
My fear was that the emergency brake would fail, and I would be in the water — truck, trailer, and me becoming one with the river. I knew that Bob was too weak to do it all by himself and that this could be the last fishing trip. So, after much encouragement from the fishermen gathered next to the truck, I jumped in, released the emergency brake, and pulled the truck trailer and boat to the top of the hill. Everyone was clapping by this time. Some of the fishermen even walked to the top of the hill while clapping.
I could hear a voice from the back of the truck. Bob was yelling, "Stop, stop, stop." I had gotten so caught up in the moment and the fear that I wasn't listening, and I had forgotten about Bob in the back on the boat. I just could not believe it. Had I really done this? I knew the fear of the truck going into the water was based on old fears of when my neighbor backed his boat into the Mississippi with his son in the cab. When he got out to release the boat into the water, Brian, his son, release the air brakes. The truck, trailer, and boat sank with his son in the cab. With great effort to rescue the boy, he drowned. I am not sure if I will ever help with the boat launching again, but Bob knew at least I could pull the trailer out of the water. Bob jumped out of the boat to be a part of the cheering squad. We talked about the trip all the way home. I guess one reason I wanted to try and help him was that each day, he got weaker and weaker.
Bob always said, "When I get too weak to fish, then the quality of life is gone for me."
Our son, Tim, and Bob with his crazy hat on. The first day of trout season.
Bob had an accident that added to his problems. A Metro bus hit him from behind, and it left him with a hematoma on his brain. His life had been altered again, but he just had so much fight in him. The first brain surgery was to release the pressure on his brain. He did not have a lot going for him because of his liver transplant, and the headaches kept getting worse. Before the surgery, he had prepared four envelopes. The envelopes would be opened one per hour. The operation was to take four hours, and he wanted me to know how much he loved me if something went wrong.
The first message read: "You can't dance without the pain." Bob had this message on a card attached to fifteen red roses that he had delivered; fifteen was the number of years we had been friends. They came after our first date. We had gone bowling. Just two adults feeling like kids again. I did not see it as a date. Bob was always a perfect friend.
The second message read: "Don't you just feel like you're sixteen again?" This was what Bob had told me on our first date, as he called it.
The third message read: "If you are reading this, you are the most reliable person I ever meet, and I know you will be fine if something happens to me."
Bob had been a good friend for a long time. He had watched me from a distance. There were days, months, and years we stayed in contact, but Bob went through a lot after his wife died. He had even moved away for a few years. During his liver transplant, I was not a part of that stage battle for his life. I had not seen him for seven years.
The fourth message was ... before I could read it, the phone rang.
The nurse said, "The surgery went well; you can go back to see him."
Some of his family was there with me, and I wanted them to spend time with him, but they wanted me to go back first. I walked into the recovery room.
The nurse said, "He was a trooper," giving the thumbs-up.
When I reached Bob, he was laughing and carrying on about how hungry he was. I kissed him on the forehead and asked the nurse when he could eat. Bob could not last very long without eating. It was never about Jell-O and crackers. He wanted a full-course meal. I told him his family wanted to see him before they left; the nurse suggested only two at a time, but one would have to be me. His sisters Dottie and Kathy came in, and the nurse let them both visit because there wasn't anyone else in the other recovery rooms.
When they walked in Bob said, "I told you it was just another piece of cake."
They laughed, and Bob lifted his gown and flashed them. Bob was always playing jokes or kidding around. He was always playing games and causing a stir. I was embarrassed, but that was just Bob. He had a good relationship with this sister Kathy. They were close in times of need. I stayed with Bob until they moved him to a room. It was a long and tiring day. The thought of work the next day made the day seem more tiring.
Bob would go to Barnes Jewish Hospital for his checkups for his liver, but he had a different doctor for his brain surgery here at St. Clair Hospital. This was closer to our home. There was no mention of the messages Bob had given me. He didn't bring it up, so I didn't either. I did remember the last message had not been opened. As I was leaving the hospital, I took the time to sit down in the lobby to read the last letter.
I read, "I love you, and I have loved you ever since I tried the first time to share my feelings with you."
I rewound my memories back to when Bob had invited me over to cook dinner for me. Bob had called to catch up on things, and he sensed I was having a down day. That's when the dinner invite came. When I was going to leave, he had tried to talk about his feelings.
He had said, "I am just going to go out on a limb here and tell you. I am starting to have feelings for you."
He sat there on his couch wearing the white shirt and blue jeans he wore the day he climbed a ladder to check his father's roof repairs. The same jeans that showed off his cute butt and slim figure. I couldn't accept my feelings for him then, and I wasn't going to now.
I said, "You need to just climb down out of that tree. I don't want to have feelings for anyone right now."
The lobby was quiet, and I just sat there waiting for this family to reappear to say their goodbyes. Goodbye was where it always was left because they never call me to check on Bob. The relationship between his family and me was just different. One Mother's Day when we went over to his sister Sharon's house, Bob's youngest sister, Kathy, made a comment. She said, "You are too classy of a lady for my brother."
Bob looked at me and said, "She didn't see you up to your knees in mud?"
He was referring to our fishing trip. I had to go to the bathroom so bad that Bob docked the boat against the side of the big riverbank for me to find a spot to pee. It is so much easier for men to relieve themselves. They can just go off the side of the boat. But here I was trying to climb out of the boat with my sandals still intact.
Bob offered his two cents. "You will never be able to climb up that river bluff with your shoes on. It is too slick," he said.
I knew he was right. My sandals would bog down in the shiny mud, and I would never get up that bluff. The urgency of the bathroom break grew more and more. My age had something to do with it and also being near the water. I climbed out of the boat, first my feet and then my hands to steady me. I could hear Bob laughing at my struggle. One foot and then the other foot kept getting caught in the mud. When I finally reached the top, my hands and feet were full of mud. I turned and looked for a good place to pee. All that was there was a clearing and more shiny mud to tackle. I stopped after a few steps. It just wasn't worth the walk. My hands were full of mud, and I knew I had to get my pants down. I shook my hands to try to get rid of some of the mud, but for the most part, I knew I had to do something, and my choices were slim to nothing. I squatted down for much-needed release, and just as I did, I saw something moving in the grass. It was a snake. I screamed and jumped. I don't remember which came first, the scream or me jumping.
Bob yelled, "Are you okay?"
I never answered.
He yelled again. "Are you okay?"
The pee was streaming down my legs by now. The snake did not seem to care. My feet were bogged down in the mud, and there was not a chance in hell I was going to be able to run. Quicksand was drawing me in as my pee hit the ground. I was captive to a twelve-inch yellow and black snake.
"I am okay," I screamed. "There is a snake in front of me, and I can't move!"
"What color is it?" I heard him say.
"Yellow and black," I answered.
"It won't hurt you; just don't bother it. Brenda, choose another way to come back down the hill to the boat."
Another way? I thought. I knew how deep the mud was struggling to get there (knee-deep), and now he wanted me to make new steps. I pulled my pants up and took the closest route to the boat I could without bothering the snake. Classy, I thought. That was the first time I was ever called classy. I looked at myself differently after that comment. Every time Bob would tell the story, he would emphasize the word classy.
That was the first surgery Bob went through after his accident. He seemed to recover fast, and he even went back to work. It did not take long after that for the headaches to start again. The pressure had built up. The hematoma had to be released again. More surgery. I asked myself how much surgery his body could withstand. Bob's outlook was always good. He had survived a liver transplant and the first brain surgery, so at this point, his laughter and his inner eagerness to just get the surgery over with told me he was again positive about the outcome. This time his family was not there to be with us, but my minister came. Talking to my minister made the time go faster. The nurse had told us that they would call the waiting room when surgery was over; the surgery was not as long as the first. The telephone rang about two hours into the quiet.
"Hello," I said.
The nurse stated, "Your husband's surgery is finished."
I could hear Bob yelling in the background.
"I am supposed to tell you he is standing in the middle of his hospital bed dancing," she said with a laugh.
