Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

I have a secret- I’m holding back something. It’s not because I don’t want you to know. It’s because somehow if I blurt it out it will be a little too real. Or that I’m seeking attention. If you ask me the right questions, I’ll tell you the truth. You have a secret. I think you’re holding something back because you have hidden away behind your pretty makeup and busy parenting schedule. You probably won’t tell me, even if I know the right words to ask. And you don’t have to tell me. I’m certain if you utter those words nothing will change for you. I’m certain it’s the same for me. They have a secret. They don’t know it but there’s always something we don’t tell everyone. Is it still a secret? My secret isn’t really a secret-secret. It’s just so new. It’s just that I’ve not told anyone yet. I don’t know how to. Tumours don’t happen to me and my family. We skirt that stuff because it’s not real is it? But apparently nobody is exempt really. So here we are. Hospital visits at monster sized university hospitals booked. Phone calls with Fancy French doctors. Not that they’re more fancy than any other nationality. They’re French because duh. They’re Fancy because they’re neurology surgeons. In 5 short days I feel like everything around me is teetering. I need to pull my shit together because there’s an entire new chapter to write ahead of me. I’m erratic and calm and anxious all in one middle aged époque. I went for a run on Friday morning and spared nothing. I ran as of my life depended on it. Like I imagine real runners to be like. It was the last chance this week and at least the sun came out. It was my fastest run in 3 years. But the last song on my playlist stopped me in my tracks, to catch the gasping anxiety coursing through me. My dustbin – a gleaming metallic drum that is never clean enough now shines with our gorgeous reflections. There’s not a dust particle anywhere and it has the scent of bleach. His corner of shame, that corner where his laundry piles up – I don’t pack away anyone’s laundry in my house. We’re all grownups and can take care of ourselves- has been cleared and I’ve put a ban on any further purchases of any form of sport clothing. There is no space. And when we realise we need to stop buying stuff anyway because stuff is useful but won’t bring us memories for the photos I want to take. Yes. In 5 short days, we’ve reached that clichéd stage. Life is short. Live for the memories. Everything will be alright. We take each moment as it comes.

Scribbled by me, releasing the pent up frustrations.

FFS. It’s been a week.

Anton’s been walking into doorframes of late. It’s no biggie: aren’t all men sometimes a little unaware of their space? But then, a Thursday ago, mid-February he woke up complaining of headaches which didn’t seem to go away despite him using up all my PMS pain meds. “Rest and recuperate, babes” I suggested. “Drink water and chill”. My first day back at work, he chilled. To no avail. No amount of chilling alleviated the fatigue. He made a doctors appointment for the week after. However by Saturday afternoon I picked up that there was more going on that headaches and fatigue. Now his left hand seemed to lack co-ordination. It would hang loosely at his side and a day later, he was dragging his left leg when we went out for a late Sunday walk. He’d cooked lasagne while I had been at work, and my kitchen looked like a toddler had been there. And then watching him try to carry 2 cups of hot chocolate to the girls in bed was like an old man shuffling down a corridor: something was not right. He could see something wasn’t right too, but just what could explain this sudden change?

I whispered- unbelieving, almost to myself- “is it a stroke?”. The way he carried his hand and dragged his leg reminded me of my dear frail grandmother who had had a stroke before I could fully remember her. Forever in my memory she used a straw to drink from, and needed a walking stick. Of course Anton went on to rabbit-hole the symptoms and changed the doctors appointment to a day earlier. And because we’d googled the symptoms, we packed a bag because he knew he would be going to hospital soon after.

And just as the sun sets and rises, there we were hurtling to the massive state hospital that has the best neuro ward for miles. Our doctor had phoned ahead so they were expecting us.

I won’t lie. Walking in there, a behemoth of a social state, nicotine dust on the ancient blinds, it was all a little surreal. Obviously I wasn’t allowed to stay with him as he went through to the emergency ward, and I was sent home with a promise of phone call when they knew what to expect.

I spent 2 days stressing that my hubby has had an overweight high blood pressure induced stroke and my constant need to feed the people around me has put him here.

Was I ever more wrong in my life? Following a CT scan, he was sent for an MRI and then the news. There’s a lesion on his brain. That’s what’s caused the stroke-like symptoms.

Turned out the neuro ward was overwhelmed and they needed his bed- the little cupboard of a ward that they had found for him at the last minute. We spent 2 nights apart, messages flying sporadically, myself wavering between “a lesion isn’t a big deal” to “if the lesion is a tumour, it’s a little unreal, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen to our family”. And then, following two days apart, he called to say they were discharging him with instructions to return for follow up with 2 MRI’s and surgery in early March.

I figured that things can’t be all that bad given they sent him home with a script for paracetamol to curb the headaches, but in the days since, I know that there is more to this than a paracetamol repair job. For now, as I sit and write my monthly newsletter with more news than opinions that its been in a while, we are unsure what to expect. I refuse to acknowledge that tumours all lead to (eurgh, I even hate to write this) cancer, but. then. and. I don’t know. Surely not? This isn’t my life is it?

Do you see how I’m circling? We just don’t know what to expect. And this annoys me. So much. I want to plan my summer holidays. I want to plan a voting trip to Paris. I want to go away in April. I want a change of scenery, but instead we have to wait. Wait for 2 MRI’s. Wait for surgery. Wait for results. Wait. Wait. Wait.(As soon as I know, I’ll be sure to share, I can assure you. This is not a secret.)

The next few weeks- months probably- are going to take on a very different form. While Anton talks about ‘getting this behind us’, ‘when I’ve kicked this’, (and I wish he wouldn’t use those terms), the girls have rallied in their own way. My own current focus is how to fill the gaps in our selective roles at home, my own being that of nourisher, his being hunter/gatherer, and in this case, how he gathers: in the car, at the shops. Me? I don’t drive do I? Is this possibly the *thing* that is going to break me? Time will tell, because while I did break the rules on the weekend and drove our little car to the shops, Anton with me, to buy food, I’m not insured here and my South African drivers licence won’t work if something goes wrong. This plagues me more than just about anything at the moment, this inability to have fulfilled a simple job: get my French licence. Did I see it coming to bite me in this way? Friends, never have I regretted my procrastination as much as I do now. But this is not the moment to make this an issue is it?

For the upcoming 10 days I need to address the following: Alex turns 16. We’re heading to Paris for a very quick fly-in to apply for her new passport. I return full time to work. I pray that by the time next weekend swings round, we will have a better idea of where we are with Anton.

Can I repeat that Alex is turning 16?

S. I. X. T. E. E. N. Can we spare a moment for that? I wish I could whisk her away for a surprise trip to make memories, but somehow making memories this way isn’t the answer. Plus all her friends are away for the holidays and I gather time with friends is how we celebrate 16th birthdays, so celebrations will be a little late. For the time being, we will walk from our apartment in Paris down to the Eiffel Tower next Monday to see that lit up at night time. At least we can do that.

Anyway. Now that I have got this off my chest, I am going to wait a day or 2 before posting it. I’m still not sure I’m ready to open up.

I do have a long list of things I need to do today (none of which include getting my drivers licence any quicker), so let me not put those off any more.

Love and hugs, from a surreal little French home, where spring is literally around the corner

Postscript.

We saw the neurosurgeon yesterday. There is a tumour about the size of a ping pong ball resting between Anton’s ear and eye ball socket. He will have it cut out on Thursday 7th March. The surgery is straightforward and they are likely to remove the whole thing in a 2-3 hour operation. The tumour will be biopsied and there is a great likelihood of oncology being involved. Anton will be in hospital for 4 days and will need 6-8 weeks recovery at home, and that’s before I assume any oncology treatment is taken into account.

Me.