The Scary Moments -- Mom's Surgery for Hydrocephalus Disorder

I remember last year when my mother had to have a shunt put in her head because she had hydrocephalus, a disorder caused by water on the brain. At the time I was living at home back east and had not seen her for several months (she being in CA) in a skilled nursing facility. I had come out for a two-week visit, which ended up lasting several months.

I thought my mother seemed a bit off from the last time I'd visited, and asked our doctor to do a CT Scan to learn if there was any need for treatment. The CT scan showed the hydrocephalus -- water on the brain. The treatment for hydrocephalus disorder is operating to put a shunt in the patient's head. The neurosurgeons are able to put in a valve that releases the pressure -- very cool intellectually but not so cool in practice. The National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke offers great information on the symptoms and treatment of hydrocephalus.

My Mom is strong, but I thought I would fall apart when the anesthesiologist brought me into the patient recovery room -- verboten typically for family members to be brought in there, to comfort my mother. Holding my Bingo (firstborn Newfoundland) as we had to put her down, same with Wildfire my horse, and losing in a coma my beautiful Ringo (Bingo's "little" (190 lbs.) brother), prepared me for this moment. But barely.

I walked in and there was my mother lying in bed with one side of her head shaved, dried blood in all the scary places, staples, she completely out of it, and looking at me, saying, "Please Miss, Please Help Me, Miss, Please Help Me," for about 30 minutes. It was all I could do not to freak out on the scene. So I called on Christ's strength, refused to cry, asked them to up the morphine as much as they could (my mother always tolerated pain very well, consistently refusing pain medication, so I knew she was in agony.)

I held her hand and told her we would be okay. We were going to get through this together. I loved her and so did the Lord and she was going to be just fine.

The treatment worked, she recovered beautifully and came back to life, able to talk more and became much more aware of what was going on around her. But those piercing eyes and pleading voice haunt me to this day.

Here's the lesson I learned from losing my beloved Ringo, Wildfire and Bingo, and then facing my Mom in the recovery room, looking like a picture out of a horror movie: When you encounter those moments with your loved ones, hang in there for them and forget about yourself. Let out your breath and do your crying AFTER it's all over. Loving them best at these times often means forgetting yourself in the moment and focusing solely on them. It's hard but you CAN do it!