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We would have to wait until morning to learn more from the neurosurgeon. I wanted to reassure Kevin, but I couldn't find the right words. When I heard the word tumor, I automatically thought cancer. I wondered if I would become a widow after just a few months of marriage. Kevin, who had watched a good friend succumb to brain cancer, struggled with the same fears. "I just hope there's something left when they start cutting away," he said in anguish.

I had never felt this helpless. There was nothing either of us could do to calm our fears or to change the outcome of the surgery. All we could do was pray. "Please, God, help Kevin to be okay. Please don't let it be cancer." I had trusted in a loving Father since childhood, and I had always believed in prayer. But I had never needed him to answer my prayers more than I needed it just then.

It was 2 a.m. when Kevin finally was taken to a room, and he had only a few hours to rest before the doctor would make his morning rounds. I sat by his bedside, still in shock, as he tossed and turned. While Kevin tried to sleep, I prayed through the night.

The neurosurgeon came by at 5 a.m. After a brief introduction, he described the location of the tumor. It was near the center of Kevin's brain and about the size of a golf ball. This type of growth was rarely malignant, he said, but posed other dangers because of its location. The surgeon would need to drill holes in Kevin's head and make an incision along his hairline and on the right side of his head to expose his brain and remove the tumor.

The doctor then explained the risks. Even though it probably wasn't cancer, the threat to Kevin's life was real. He had a colloid cyst in the third ventricle of his brain. He could be partially paralyzed as a result of the surgery. He could have trouble speaking or even lose the ability to speak. And his personality could change. My husband might be a different person when he came out of the surgery.

"Does the surgery need to be done right away?" I asked. "Do we have time to get a second opinion?"

The doctor assured me that this was a life-or-death situation. "The tumor is pressing up against your husband's brain," he said. "He could stop breathing at any time."

We tried not to think about the what-ifs, but there were so many questions: what if he didn't survive? What if he stopped breathing before they could get him into surgery? What if I didn't like the person he might become after brain surgery? What if he didn't like me—or himself?

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