The Twinkling of an Eye. Sue Brown
occur to us, and patiently waits for each answer to sink in before moving ahead.
‘We go down between the two hemispheres of the brain, until we reach the mid-brain, where the tumour is. There will be some inevitable damage to the fibres that connect the two sides. This will affect his coordination. I cannot get to the mid-brain without also damaging the right-side motor fibres, which control the movement of Craig’s left arm and leg. I cannot predict the extent of this weakness.’
Our final question is the crucial: ‘What type of tumour do you think it is?’
Dr Farrier mentions two possible names, both of which my own brain stubbornly refuses to register. It hears, clings to, only the ‘hopefully benign’ bit at the end.
I remain alone for a while in the parents’ room once Dr Farrier and Neil go back to Craig.
In tears for the first time since guessing what was wrong a day ago – a whole lifetime ago – I want to compose myself. I don’t want to frighten my child anymore.
Neil heads back to the world outside, collecting Meg from his parents and beginning the unenviable task of passing on the devastating news to our family and friends. I am allowed to stay with Craig, cocooning myself with him in this contained space. I am given a fold-out bed that adjoins his, and we watch (or rather look at – our minds are elsewhere) an animated movie, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, on the little TV screen, until he falls fast asleep.
I am woken at 2 am by the nurses coming in to do his observations, and hear the faraway crack of celebratory fireworks. We have now entered the year 2011; one utterly without the familiar demarcations by which we have navigated until now.
At breakfast time the doctor comes to check on Craig, and is satisfied that he has had no more headaches or vomiting.
I ask the doctor if he has had any rest, at which he half-smiles. Not really. Someone had dived into an empty swimming pool during the revels of the night. He had even received a call about a patient in Beaufort West, some 425 km away, from a medic who had heard, or hoped, that he was the neurosurgeon on duty for the entire Western Cape province.
How fortunate we are to be so close to, and able to access, the very best medical care.
I note this surgeon’s hands, at rest on Craig’s medical charts, which hold the possibility of my child’s survival – and I am in awe of his ability to cope, on a 24-hour basis, with the constant stream of life and death crises, of which ours is merely one.
FAMOUS CRAIG BROWN TAKES CENTRE STAGE
I’m not sure what I’ll do, but – well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale.
– The Ice Palace by F. Scott Fitzgerald
____________________________
‘I don’t want a shaved head!’ says a worried Craig to his doctor. It is the morning of Sunday 2 January. Dr Farrier has examined Craig – and he is happy for him to go home until the operation. My child has had two days to adjust to the idea of this tumour that is inside his head, and his thoughts are now turning to the practical aspects of getting it out – in particular, what will be done to his hair.
‘If you are prepared to have a number-three haircut, we will not have to shave,’ replies the sympathetic surgeon, himself the father of two young boys. Craig visibly relaxes onto his pillow at this acceptable compromise; and also at the feeling that he has been heard, that his concerns will be respected.
We drive to the hairdresser first thing Monday morning. Now so aware of the raised pressure on his brain, and the possibility of further bleeds from the tumour, the world outside of the hospital’s controlled environment feels a frightening place. I am also reluctant to bump into acquaintances, not ready to tell such sensitive news to just anyone.
Craig is known at the salon for unfailingly putting on a great show of protest at each back-to-school haircut, and for his very genuine attempts to talk his way out of their thorough washes.
I briefly explain the reason for this unexpected visit. The staff’s welcoming smiles fade.
I sit in the chair beside him – there are no other clients at this early hour – as a plastic cape is gently fastened around his neck, and the clippers adjusted to their number-three setting.
The hairdresser runs it back to front, with utmost care, and the clumps of dark-blond holiday hair tumble one by one, until his head is evenly covered in stubble.
Craig studies himself bashfully in the mirror, and pats it gingerly.
I want to cry at how much younger he looks, so painfully exposed and vulnerable, but I smile instead, and say: ‘You look cool.’ He grimaces at me.
Back at home, Craig resumes his Guitar Hero Nintendo Wii game, having especially asked Dr Farrier’s permission yesterday. As much as watching it makes me nervous, he is also allowed to play his beloved table tennis, but pauses to scratch his arms, itching due to the high doses of cortisone.
Dr Farrier phones in the early afternoon to say that he has found a colleague willing to assist him. Surgery has been scheduled in two days’ time – on Wednesday 5 January.
Reading between the lines, I gather that – in addition to many being on leave, some neurosurgeons would simply prefer to do a biopsy of the tumour – and await the results before attempting such major surgery. I feel the deepest gratitude towards ours – and his colleague, whom I suspect is interrupting his holiday – for doing their all to give my son the best possible chance of survival.
The doorbell rings, and I see a familiar smile and trademark baseball cap. They belong to Dave, my children’s beloved tennis coach. It’s only when he steps inside and removes his cap that I notice he has had a number-one haircut – in solidarity with Craig.
I swallow a big lump, overwhelmed by the generosity of this gesture, and show him through to the TV room where my son is on the couch, worrying about his operation again.
The day before the operation dawns. The TV room already sports an impressive array of gifts and get-well-soon cards from visitors.
The pressure on his brain is still eliciting some inappropriate comments from Craig, whose entrepreneurial spirit suggests that I find him a little bowl for cash donations to capitalise on all this sympathy. On the guilt of those who have been angry with him. I am not quite sure if he is serious or just teasing me.
That night, after he has had his last pre-operation food and drink, he lies in bed and begins to ask all the questions that have been bothering him. About injections, and drips, and I assure him they will put him to sleep using a gas mask before they do anything at all. Where will everything be inserted? And how? How long will it take?
I am surprised I know so few of the answers. Perhaps I have been afraid to visualise the details; perhaps I’ve just decided to trust our surgeon implicitly. But I take a pen and pad from his shelf, and we write down all his questions.
As a game of hope, we also estimate the number of people who have offered prayers, putting that number at about 800. But I recognise a slightly hollow ring to my assertions about the power of all this prayer, as terrified and as tense as I find myself on this night before his surgery.
I sleep on and off – alert for any sounds that Craig has forgotten he is nil per mouth, perhaps to get up for some water, but he seems to sleep soundly. Lying still, I will myself to go back to sleep – to the respite that it offers from the anxious waiting. My retreat to a subconscious place, which I have discovered has not yet been infiltrated by the reality of Craig’s tumour.
Meg sleeps over with her cousins. She has also been spending time with her Nana, and will spend this operation day with a friend, whose mom I know will provide a calm presence. I feel that she will be better off with these other caring people in her life than a mother in fight-or-flight mode.
I have not yet learnt to stop repeating the mistakes I made when I was in and out of hospital before her brother’s