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Marriage Partnership, Summer 1997
No Guarantees
My husband's tumor reminded us that the future is uncertain. How
would we find hope and confidence to move ahead?
-by Paige Jaeger
At my husband's 40th birthday party, friends offered him condolences, commented
on his gray hairs and, in response to his complaints over the past two years
about back pain, gave him an exercise video and hints to "toughen up." We
all laughed.
But a week later, when Kurt walked into the house in severe pain after moving
a pile of wood chips, we weren't laughing. As he collapsed on the couch and
called for ibuprofen, I realized that yet another physical task something
a healthy 40-year-old should be able to handle—had triggered unbearable
back pain. Kurt couldn't even pick up our two-year-old son without wincing
in pain. And at night, he could hardly sleep.
That afternoon, as I reached for the painkillers, the label warning hit home:
"If pain persists, see a physician." Even more alarming was the rate at which
my husband was gulping down the pills. He took four tablets at a time—more
than triple the recommended amount—but got only minimal relief. We called
the next morning to make a doctor's appointment.
Worst-Case Scenario
Kurt came home from seeing the orthopedist with two pages of test orders.
Thinking so many tests were overkill, he got a second opinion from our internist.
We began to take the situation seriously when our doctor recommended the
tests be done without further delay.
The MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) of Kurt's upper spine was scheduled
for that same evening to rule out, as the doctor put it, "the worst-case
scenario." Although Kurt isn't claustrophobic, he cringed as they laid him
flat on his aching back and slid him into the dark MRI chamber for the 30-minute
test. As the machine-gun cacophony of the MRI beat in his ears, suddenly
Kurt was less than comforted at the thought of "ruling out a tumor."
After an hour and a half in the MRI tunnel, they rolled him out and the
radiologist explained that he would have to give Kurt an injection for better
resolution.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?" Kurt demanded. "We just spent over an hour
on a test that was supposed to take 30 minutes!"
The radiologist reluctantly explained that they had found a "rather large
growth" inside my husband's spine. Then they rolled Kurt back inside the
tube. For another 30 minutes, he suffered not only more physical pain, but
now growing panic. "A growth? Does that mean a tumor? Will I die from this?
Will I be around to raise my boys?" Lying there, alone and in despair, tears
ran down his cheeks as he tried to control his sobbing.
"Try to remain still," came the voice of the radiologist as it resonated
within the long tube. "There's too much chest movement."
When the test was over, Kurt called home with the news. As I gripped the
phone and realized he was crying, I desperately wished I had gone with him.
I raced to the hospital, and together we sat before the physicians, shocked
to hear that our worst fears were becoming a reality.
While we didn't understand all the medical terminology used to describe Kurt's
condition, we had no trouble comprehending the physicians' warning that his
body functions would begin to shut down and paralysis would take place in
a matter of weeks. The following week was spent seeing world-renowned
neurosurgeons, praying, crying and trying to sort out our options. But there
weren't any. It was either go through with a complicated surgical procedure
that carried the risk of paralysis or face a slow death.
"Our life is returning
to normal, but we know
it will never be the same.
We always suspected we would hit a crisis in our marriage. We've seen too
many misfortunes among friends and family to believe we were immune. As children
we always heard, "Lord, teach us to number our days that we may apply our
hearts to wisdom." We knew our days were numbered; it's just that we assumed
we'd have a larger number of days. And we naively thought our crisis would
come in the form of a job change, life direction reassessment, or some other
controllable circumstance. This was clearly a crisis beyond our control.
Our fears were assuaged a bit when four neurosurgeons assured us that the
tumor looked like a neurofibroma—a benign growth. But it was the size of
a cocktail sausage and nestled in just the wrong spot in Kurt's spine. We
had no choice but to go through with the surgery, realizing it was our turn
to learn how to walk in peace, believing that we were being held in the palm
of God's hand regardless of the outcome.
A week later, Kurt endured seven hours of neurosurgery. And while he went
into the procedure calm and trusting the Lord to carry him through, I sweated
it out in the waiting room, praying there would be no permanent paralysis
and awaiting the results of the biopsy. As I sat with Kurt's parents, watching
the sunny sky disappear into night, I wished for the day to quickly end.
Just as all small talk was exhausted and our conversations were starting
to repeat themselves, one of the surgeons came out to pronounce my husband
"stable."
I stayed with Kurt in the ICU watching his swollen face, looking at his body
hooked up to various tubes. I prayed. His elevated fever was not responding
to the strongest antibiotic available, and I was losing hope that he would
survive. The thought of losing my husband and raising our four boys alone
overwhelmed me. Periodically, I'd leave to go sit in the waiting room and
cry. When I felt in control again, I'd return to his bedside, wait for him
to awaken and force myself to speak words of encouragement. When he'd fall
asleep, I'd return to the weeping room.
At three in the morning, Kurt's fever broke. This time I cried with joy and
finally had enough peace to go home for a few hours of rest. It had been
a long week, but I knew the worst was over.
Permanent Changes
The past two years have been a long, slow road to recovery. At first, our
sons didn't understand why their once-strong father couldn't walk. Not knowing
what to say, they looked away and prayed for him. At home, they fashioned
a sapling they cut in the woods into a cane and then waited for the day their
dad could use it.
Within two weeks of the surgery, Kurt took some steps with the aid of a walker
and eventually was able to stand tall. Before long, he was striding happily
along with the aid of the boys' cane. The few months of physical therapy
were easier to endure knowing that Kurt was preparing to resume an active
life, rather than learning to live with paralysis.
Today, my husband can mow the lawn, and he can once again pick up and carry
our youngest son. Soon he'll be able to row a boat. Our boys are delighted
that their father can join them in a game of hoops—an activity formerly
off-limits because of the pain it caused. Our life is returning to normal,
but we know it will never be the same.
After we faced the prospect of death, Kurt and I realized that no matter
how tightly we hold on to things, someday material possessions will slip
away. When our world shook, we were glad our foundation was a shared faith
in Christ.
Our priorities were rearranged as a result of our ordeal. Whenever possible,
Kurt works fewer hours, and he has started turning down jobs that require
nighttime work. His priority is now his family, not furthering his career.
We were also reminded that people—like our network of friends who supported
us with meals, child care, cards and weeks of prayer—are far more important
than projects or plans. Prior to our crisis, I was the one with the time
to help others. Now we make time as a family to send meals to the sick or
rake leaves for someone who isn't able to do it.
We are trying to streamline our life, devoting ourselves to endeavors with
eternal rewards, like building better children rather than bigger bank accounts.
In fact, our bank account has dwindled somewhat as we find we're no longer
consumed with a big financial plan for the future. Now we're not reluctant
to spend money on family outings and vacations. Through adversity, we've
been challenged not to accumulate, but to experience.
Our brief stop at death's door reminded us there are no guarantees. When
I hug Kurt, I'm thankful for his very presence. We lie next to each other
at night knowing we've been blessed with a few more years together. And we
start each day determined to make it count for eternity. Our life is not
without problems, but now we face each problem as a unified team.
Not long ago, as I watched Kurt paddle off in a canoe with the boys to go
fishing, tears came to my eyes. I knew they'd be back just as the sun set,
but I was reminded of our recent fear that Kurt wouldn't be here to model
the compassion that is now magnified in his life. Indeed, we have been blessed
and given another chance to bless others.
Paige Jaeger is a free-lance writer living in Mahopac, New York.
Copyright © 1997 by Christianity Today International/Marriage Partnership
Magazine.
Summer 1997, Vol. 14, No. 2, Page 34
Marriage Partnership
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