Peace that Passes Understanding: Part 4 1/2

Introduction:  This post is the first half of a much longer post (if you can believe that).  It details the day of my surgery to remove my brain tumor, as well the shenanigans that followed.  I plan to post the second half in a week or so. I have been very candid and vulnerable in these posts, but nowhere more than this post.  I have done this so that others who have to experience the same things feel more open and comfortable, when discussing such things.  I hope my lack of pride and shame can in some way help another to cope, through what has proven to be a difficult process.  If you are offended by immature language, behavior, and humor, then we probably aren't very good friends, and this post is not for you.  So lets grow up a bit and talk about some gross stuff, like mature adults.  Thanks for reading, much more to come...  

Wednesday, March 15^th

           

            My wife and I woke up about 4:30am, so we could do my last gasoline scrub shower, before leaving for the hospital.  I was very glad to be finished with the five day, twice a day regiment of showering with the special chemical soap, the hospital provided.  While the process does help prevent infections and MRSA and all kinds of other disgusting complications, is also does a great job of drying out every inch of your body on the first two nights, then giving you the sensation of sliding down a waterslide lined with razor blades, right into a waiting pool of aftershave, the following 3 nights.

            Once my final layer of skin was removed, I got dressed and we headed to the hospital. Still unable to eat or drink anything, prior to surgery, my body craved good black coffee, but this morning, I would go without.  Being up early is no shock to my system.  My usual shifts at work require me to be up by 3:30am, and on the road by 4:00am, if I want to be at work on time.  Being up early is normal for me.  This morning was different.  I didn’t want to go to the hospital.  I was scared.  I would have rather gone to work.

            Kim was Kim.  Organized, prepared, focused, and ready.  She is a morning person.  As I have mentioned before, Kim gets more done in the first hour of being awake, than most people do all day.  This is her time to shine and shine she does.  Once we are in the car, and on our way, she starts humming and singing disconnected lyrics from one of our favorite worship songs.  One of the first songs we first sang together as worship leaders this last year, Oceans by Hillsong United.

 “You called me out upon the water…the great unknown…where feet may fail…” an appropriate song, for our soon to be eventful day.

We prayed along our route.  Intentional, but drawn out and conversational, as if God almighty was sitting in the back seat of the Escape.  I don’t know where he was sitting exactly, but The Holy Spirit was present.  Every time I would feel anxious, or fearful, I asked for peace. It was given, quickly and freely.  I would ask, I would breathe, then I would feel warmth and peace, in places people cannot touch, and doctors cannot reach with a scalpel.

As we pulled onto Kingshighway, the massive medical compound of Barnes-Jewish Hospital, becomes less a part of the skyline, and more of a City.  We parked in the underground garage, and started grabbing everything we had packed for the stay.  Kim carried a pillow, and a backpack, full of snacks, books, cards, tissues, and numerous other things to keep her and other family occupied during the surgery, which promised to be as short as 5 hours, but depending on how the veins and arteries were positioned or involved with my tumor; upwards of 12 hours.  All my surgeon could promise, was that he would take as long as needed…which I was thought was nice of him.  My dear friends Sarah and Brigitte made Kim a care package for the whole ordeal, which was one of the most thoughtful gifts Kim and I had ever received from anyone (including me), for any occasion (birthdays…anniversaries…Christmas). 

We checked in at the surgery desk.  I gave the man my name, and he said, “Oh! Glad to meet you.  You are the man of the hour.”  Apparently, we were the last to party.  We had quite the welcoming committee, already assembled and ready, to do what they do best.  I was instantly humbled, and comforted, by a support team that had arrived to pray with, and support Kim and me.  All our pastors, their wives, my parents, Kim’s parents and Aunt, my grandmother, and so many more would arrive later, had packed this waiting room, and were ready to pray, laugh, cry, and do whatever it was my wife and family needed.

            The man at the desk said, when I was ready, to head upstairs and meet my pre-op team. Which didn’t leave much time for pleasantries with my welcoming committee, however, I was not going to go, without letting these guys pray for me.

My lead pastor Doug Phillips was there, and as always, he was clearly the leader. He doesn’t need a tie. He doesn’t need a black shirt and white collar.  God has chosen him to minister. God has chosen him to lead leaders.  He does this wearing Realtree Max-4 camouflage Crocs. Doug has mentored me in the ministry, along with two of my best friends in the world, Michael Kauffman, and Scott Claybrook, who were also present.

Michael, Scott, and I have all been mentored and discipled by Doug, who is second to none, when it comes to raising up leaders. I would have quit the ministry long ago, if it were not for these three men.

Following some very moving prayer time with pastors, their wives, my Mom and Dad, my Grandma Jane, and anyone who was nearby, we looked up to see many of us in tears, but most of us in smiles.  I hugged and blubbered with everyone. 

I saved my Grandma Jane for last.  Grandma squeezed me harder than she ever had.  Though she is now an octogenarian, her life of hard labor has made her a very strong woman.  When I attended college down the street from her house, I would often bring my fraternity brothers over to be fed.  Things would get a little crazy when I started betting my fellow Alpha Sigs that they could not overcome my grandma in an ill-advised arm-wrestling challenge.  You will call me a liar, but my grandma beat most of them, and the rest ended in a stalemate.  These were mostly college athletes.  Don’t mess with my grandma.

I waved bye to my light brigade and I lead my family into the nearby elevator, to head to the pre-op floor…or maybe they lead me.  We shared an elevator with another small family who was headed to the same floor, but none of us felt the need to talk much.  We mostly breathed and sighed our way to the next floor.

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I was shown to a horse stall, with a hospital bed where I was asked to remove all my clothes and replace them with a shower curtain that would be my outfit, for the next few days.  My wife helped me tie my gown in the back.  Only a true nurse knows how to properly tie a hospital gown, so that the whitest parts of you do not escape.  I then reclined in my hospital bed, and proceeded to scare the crap out of everyone.

After being hooked up to several different monitors, the nurses hooked up an IV in the elbow crotch of my left arm (that’s what it’s called, right?).  Now, I have been a police officer and firefighter for twelve years.  I have seen some pretty messed up things.  I have seen some things that would make the average citizen’s toes vomit.  Having said that, for some reason, I have always gotten a little queasy, when I get an IV.  Usually I’m okay if I don’t watch it go in, and this is the strategy I employed on this day.

Once the IV was in, the nurses advised that I would be visited by the different members of the surgery team, and they would advise me how everything would go down.  While we were waiting, my wife and parents sat with me.  We cracked some jokes and pretended that everything was okay, and we were not terrified.  This was about to change.

I started to feel a little funny.  I had never felt light headed while laying down before, but this was exactly what was happening.  I told my wife how I was feeling, and she immediately began to lay my bed back, and lower my head, because, she just knows to do stuff like that.  I tried to breath my way through it, but then I started to sweat a little bit, and my vision began to fill with the purple clouds.  I recognized these purple clouds as being present two other times in my life. 

The last time I saw these purple clouds, I had just prostituted my blood and its life-giving treasures, to the platelet bank just off the Mizzou campus, for a case of Natural Light, a Papa John’s Pizza, and a bag of Doritos…I mean Thirty-Eight Dollars.  They still paid me for my donation, but it wasn’t until after the nurse’s assistant caught me from crashing into the floor.  However, I did take out the STD pamphlet rack, magazine table, and a life-sized Truman the Tiger cardboard cut-out, on the way down.

The first time I saw these purple clouds, I was part of a children’s choir, singing in a church Christmas program.  I was standing on stage with about ten other kids who did not want to be singing Christmas carols in front of our parents no matter how silent or holy the night happened to be.  When the clouds showed, I had no idea what was happening.  I felt light headed, but had no idea what it meant to feel, light headed.  The next thing I know my Dad was picking me up off the floor, and carrying me out of the auditorium.  The problem was, the floor was five feet below the stage, on which I was formerly standing.  On my way down I took a microphone stand and a couple of potted poinsettias with me.  I have always known how to go out with a bang.

Back in the hospital room, the purple clouds told me something was wrong.  I then felt as if I would vomit.  I asked my wife for bucket.  I saw my Dad grab a plastic basin from somewhere behind me, and passed it in front of me to my wife.  I watched the basin move, in slow motion, from left to right in front of me.  Then…well, you would have to ask my wife.

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“Andy! Andy! There you are, Dude.”

“There you are, what the heck, Bud?!”

Chris and Sarah, my two awesome nurses were suddenly standing over me, grabbing at unidentified wires and tubes.  They were shouting acronyms and letters attached to numbers, that I felt like I should understand, but didn’t.  “What happened?  Did I fall asleep?  Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Well, we are not sure if you passed out on us or what.” Nurse Sarah said. 

Kim made her way into my view, and looked as concerned as I have ever seen her in our almost eleven years of marriage.  She wasn’t crying, but she was making that face, that I recognize as the warning shot.  She looked over me and said, “It looked like you flat lined, for a few seconds.”

  Chris, the more excitable of my two-nurse’s confirmed, “He sure did!  No, beat for twenty seconds!  I grabbed the crash cart on the way over here!”

This is when I noticed that I had nearly 12 people wearing scrubs and stethoscopes inside my tiny little horse stall.  All of them either informing or being informed, about the goings on of the prior few minutes.  From what I could gather, I had passed out, sending all kinds of alarms through the pre-op center, and at some point, while I was out, the monitor showed a flat line.  This doesn’t necessarily mean my heart stopped beating unless you are watching a hospital show, but it is not a good thing.  According to my wife and Chris the nurse, the monitor was unable to detect a heartbeat for 20 seconds.

Once I woke up, all my vitals were back to normal, very quickly.  Sufficed to say, I had scared the living daylights out of my Father, Mother, and Wife, and didn’t have much to show for it.  Doctor after Doctor entered my stall to review what had happened, and none of them really acted like they knew what to do about the whole thing.  I spoke with the cardiologist, who was the first one who mentioned the idea of me possibly having to wait, and put off surgery until we could figure out what happened.  I said, “No, we are doing this surgery this morning.  We have to.”

The Cardiologist said he would have to consult with my surgeon, but we would need to make sure of some things before we continued with surgery.  This was very troubling to me.  Even the possibility of waiting one more day was unbearably frustrating.  What in the hell happened?  Why did I pass out?  Why does this whole situation have to be any more complicated than it already is?

The room had thinned out a bit.  My status was now much less exciting that it once had been.  My Mom and Dad had slowly filed back into the room, and Kim was once again at my side.  “You are never allowed to do that, ever again.” She said sternly, as if I had just pranked the whole hospital. 

It was never my intention to scare everyone.  I did think it would be funny, if the first time I saw my wife after surgery, I acted like I had no idea who she was.  Following this incident, I decided I would postpone any pranks or jokes I had planned.

Finally, my surgeon’s team came in and said they felt as if I had most likely suffered a Vagal Response.  Now, I am still not completely sure what this is, but when I first heard them discussing it, I thought they were saying “Bagel” not “Vagal”.  Having not had any breakfast or coffee that morning, a bagel with cream cheese, maybe even blueberry cream cheese, and a large black coffee, sounded like a good thing. 

A Vagal Response, is slightly closer to a physical reaction to the stress I was putting on my body.  The team seemed to think it was a perfect storm of fasting, my weird reaction to the IV start, and maybe my deep seeded stress and worry about the whole thing.  The cardiac doc even compared it to a weight lifter, maxing out and then immediately passing out.  This is the first time I have been compared to a weight lifter, and most likely the last.

All my vitals returned to normal and none of the team felt as if it was going to be a reoccurring issue.  Other than scaring the hell out of everyone, it was if nothing had happened.  Everything was cool.  My surgeon, Doctor Kim, finally made an appearance in the room.  He was fresh off his multi-university lecture and teaching tour, where Doctor Albert H.J. Kim taught his specialty to many other doctors and students.  He shared his expertise in Meningiomas (the kind of tumor I had), Craniotomies, and how to properly remove them from brains and backsides without turning your precious brain into Jell-O.  All joking aside, I was extremely blessed to have such an expert in the field perform my surgery.  According to nearly all the research we did, Dr. Kim is the best of the best.  It was like being able to pick your own all-star, to start your own team.

Dr. Kim, decided we would continue with the procedure as planned.  He did tell me, however, that I was going to have to relax.  I was stressing my body into survival mode.  I have become very good at wearing a calm and cool face in stressful times, but below, I am typically a boiling cauldron of emotion and nerves.  As Rich Mullins sang, “It’s so hot inside my soul, I swear there must be blisters on my heart.”

I promised Dr. Kim I would do my best to calm down.  I went back to the Lord, and prayed once again, for calm, for peace, and for everything to go as planned.  I breathed.  Slowly and intentionally.  Peace came.

The next doctor I saw was my anesthesiologist.  She was a very smiley yet firm young woman, who knew exactly what to talk about, to prepare me for surgery; anything but the surgery.  I hugged and kissed my mom and dad, once more.  Then my wife leaned over me and did the same.  She told me she loved me, and that she would be in the recovery room, as soon as it was over.  She hugged and kissed me again, and I told her I loved her and would see her soon. My anesthesiologist smiled and said, “We’ll see you guys laaay-terrr…” as if we were leaving the kids with a baby sitter, so we could head out for the evening.  I waved goodbye, and she started to wheel me out of the pre-op room and down the hall.  I was with about four people, but honestly, I felt completely alone. 

Down several hallways with hundreds of fluorescent lights, and at least one elevator, we traveled to operating room.  The room was cold, and everyone was dressed in scrubs.  They had taken my glasses, so everything was blurry. It was not unlike the flashback scenes from the original X-Men movie, when Logan was remembering the scientists replacing his bones with adamantium.  If everyone were not so kind and accommodating, it would have been exactly like X-Men.

            The surgical mask and face shield above my face began to ask me questions about myself, making sure they had the correct patient, and that we all had the same expectation of what was about to take place.  This is a practice I appreciated very much. We then made small talk about our families, and jobs.  I asked who got to choose the music that plays during the surgery, and this opened the whole can of worms, as to what kind of music I like.  If you know me, you know this is not a short discussion.  My ramblings were apparently far too interesting for the O.R. staff.  Their minds were becoming far too engorged with knowledge regarding the greatest music and artists of all time, it was for their own good, that someone placed a mask over my face. I continued talking, but I was very quickly, and once again...out.

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“Mr. Oeth?  Can you hear me? You are all done.” 

I have no idea who was speaking.  “How do you feel?” said… uh..someone.

I really didn’t know how I felt.  Weird, I guess.  No pain.  Maybe some pressure in my head, but I felt, okay, really.  This was not so bad.

As the moment went on people kept asking me questions, but they all seemed difficult to answer.  The questions were not difficult, but the answering part, that was the struggle.  I was trying to re-marry my brain and my mouth, which was never a holy union in the first place.  “Your procedure took about five and a half hours.  It went great.  You did such a good job!” The unknown voice asserted.  By her over the top excitement I could only assume it was a Kindergarten teacher.

Little by little, I felt sharper and sharper.  My words started to form and I started feeling more like myself.  I still could not see.  Everything was a blurry show of light and shadows.  I still needed my glasses.  I asked for them and the unknown voice, said my wife had them, and they would fetch her and the glasses.  I was filled with joy.  I needed Kim, to help, cut the confusion. I needed her to clear the chaos, like she always does.  Soon she was there.  I could hear her voice, but could not see her. 

“Everything went great! The doctors said they got the tumor.  The left a tiny bit of tissue that was around a vein, but they got nearly all of it!”  They were excited it went so well.” She said. 

She put my glasses on my face, and the first thing I could seem was her.  As usual, Kim’s face became clear and I was okay.  “Are you glad it’s over?” She asked.

“I think so.  Are you glad it’s over?” I asked

“Yes.  We waited a long time. Most everyone is still here. You can see them in a bit.” She said.

“ How do I look?”

“You look really good! You have a big bandage on your head, it looks like a drain tube, coming out, but you look pretty good! How do you feel?” She asked.

“ I feel like my head weighs a hundred pounds.” I said.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not much, just heavy, and a lot of pressure on the back of head.  I feel like I’m in a halo brace, like I broke my neck or something.”

“How is your face?” She asked

“Fine, I think.”

“WELL ITS KILLING ME!” She laughed.

She not a mean person, this is just the nature of our relationship.  It was what I needed.  Apparently the next hour or so was filled with unusual behavior, from yours truly.  While continuing to wake up from the anesthesia, I was commenting on how attractive the nurses were, male and female.  I was teasing my wife relentlessly, and dropping random F-bombs, which is not exactly a common part of my vocabulary.  Most of this is blur, and I only remember bits and pieces, but according to Kim, it was all highly entertaining.  For her.

The next few hours were filled with visits from family and friends who had had throughout the procedure, five and a half hours.  They still stayed.  I wondered if I would have.  I hoped I would have.

Several doctors and members of the surgical team came to visit me, once I was moved to the Neuro-ICU.  They filtered in and out.  I slept, woke up to say hi, slept some more, and woke up to say hi.  I was really, really, tired.

Later in the day, after sleeping for several hours, I awoke to find my wife and her sister, a nursing student, in my room.  It was very comforting having my own personal nurses all to myself.  They catered to my every need.  Mikayla, my sister-in-law was even good enough to hold the bucket, while I threw up.  A common side effect of anesthesia, and brain surgery, and a hole in your head.  I was okay, it didn’t last long, but I am pretty sure I threw up every drop of water I had drank since I woke up from surgery, which was a lot.  Kim and Mikayla looked like a bucket brigade from the bed to the sink.  It was actually kind of funny. For me.

Kim and Mikayla spent some very active hours with me.  They assisted my nurses, and I think Kayla learned a lot.  Kim was able to teach her little sister, first hand, how to be a nurse.  In hindsight, it was such a beautiful moment, for Kim to lead her little Sis, in the true profession of nursing.  Treat every patient with dignity, compassion, humor, and as if they were your own loved one, Your own child, your own husband.

A nurse’s humor is not at all unlike that of a Police Officer or Firefighter.  Sometimes we have to laugh about things, so we will not cry.  One things I have done a lot of through this process, from the very first night, we found out I had a tumor, was to learn to laugh and cry.  These verbs are not mutually exclusive.  Often, they are enhanced by the other.

This was made true, that very night, when the simple act of urinating, became one of the most frustrating things, I had ever done.  My night nurse was a young guy named Derrick.  He was pretty cool, we chatted a lot, mostly because his other patients were comatose. We talked about the Basketball tournament, nursing, and my inability to fill a hospital urinal. 

I tried.  I tried and tried.  I drank more and more water, yet could not go. Derrick informed me that, if I could not go within a couple more hours, that they would have to re-insert the catheter.  I informed him, that this was not an option, and that they would have to apply restraints, had better get some help.  Derrick without missing a beat, informed me that this was no problem and he has been dying to use the new restraints, because they look so cool, and were literally unescapable. He said this with a dead-pan face, and eyebrow raised to the sky. He didn’t budge, until I smirked and laughed. 

The next, couple of hours consisted of Derrick, randomly entering my room to check if my urinal was full.  When he saw I had failed him, he would make a suggestive hand motion, mimicking the insertion of a dreaded Foley Catheter.  He would smile, and let me know how much he was enjoying my struggle, it was all in good fun.  For him. 

Luckily, I was able to make with the pee-pee, and impress my nurse, who claimed the staff was placing bets on if I could go or not.  I said, “Never bet against me.” 

He said sarcastically, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Peace that Passes Understanding, Part 3: Something worth worrying about

The wait is almost over.  It’s almost time.  By the time most of you read this, I will most likely be in a drug induced coma, with tubes in more holes than I care to imagine.  This journey has been a surreal and almost unbelievable trip through some of the brightest and darkest places of my heart, mind, and soul. 

My thoughts and emotions are typically on my sleeve.  It isn’t often people have to ask what I’m thinking or feeling.  I like that way, mostly because I am a terrible liar.  I have found my experience with this tumor, has been very much like one of my favorite childhood movies.  The best way to describe it, would be like traveling through The Labyrinth. 

You are confused, you are shocked, you are completely disoriented by the fairy tale trouble you have found yourself in.  Lots strange people (your family and friends) come along to help you, but the truth is that they are all fighting their own battles, as well.  Then every time you think you are getting somewhere in this psychedelic, quirky, and terrifying maze of weird landscapes and strange creatures…David Bowie shows up in his uncomfortably revealing spandex jumpsuit and reminds you, just how lost you are.

Okay that’s unfair.  David Bowie has not visited me during the last month and a half, but for as many times as I have felt grateful and blessed by the unconditional love and kindness of my family and friends, I have also felt as if I was in the Bog of Eternal Stench.  It hasn’t been easy, but I must believe it is all worth it. 

I would never wish any of this on anyone.  I would not suggest any of you go out and get a brain tumor of your very own, no matter how great the salesman says it is, but I would be foolish not to recognize, how this experience has given my life a flavor, that others may never taste.  I hope I am not being overly dramatic, but no matter how close I am, or have been, or will be to a catastrophic brain event; you simply see life differently when faced with situations that shake your life and existence to the core.  You begin to think and re-think things that you have long assumed were galvanized steel.

Don’t worry.  This isn’t the part where I start telling you, how I have rethought my understanding of God.  This isn’t the part where I denounce my faith, and tell you I have been wrong all along.  On the contrary, I have felt closer to Jesus, then any point in my life.  Maybe it’s because I feel like I need him more than I ever have.  Maybe it’s because I finally realize what I have been searching for in my faith.

I have done a lot of soul searching over the last month and a half.  I realized how much I take my wife for granted, and how much I desperately need her.  I realized I make great big mountains out of things that are far less than mole hills.  I realized how easy it has been to pass offenses and bad attitudes down to your children, and how much more awful it sounds when it comes out of their mouths.  I realized that for a man with so many friends I can truly rely on, and so much family I can count on, with co-workers whom I can truly call family (not everyone is so lucky), and a church that I literally must turn away from coming to the hospital on surgery day to avoid overwhelming the staff and possibly the fire marshal’s suggested occupancy…I sure complain a lot.

I never felt as if I had ever truly felt the peace that passes understanding, as described in scripture.  I always felt as if God have left me for dead at times.  When I look at my life in hindsight, with tumor colored glasses, I can see what a huge baby I have. No, God did not give me peace in those times, mostly because I didn’t need it. God gives me peace now, more than ever, because I need it more than ever.  When my pleas and petition for peace from God, comes back empty and blank, then I now know, it’s time to check myself.

Is a one-hundred-dollar vehicle repair bill a bad thing? Not when you compare it to a three-thousand-dollar repair bill.  Is waking up at 3:15am so you can leave by 4:00am, and get to work at 5:00am, every morning, so bad?  Not compared to being laid off and without work for six months to a year.  Is having to treat strep throat, stomach flu, and sinus infections every single week in one of your kids the disease and pestilence described in Revelation in the bible?  Not when you have a child dying of bone cancer living in the hospital.  Is hearing opposing political, religious, and social views on Facebook or Twitter really going to make your head explode?  Not when you have a brain tumor causing blinding and debilitating migraines.

God gives you peace, when you need peace.  I can’t get angry at God, for not giving me peace for something that essentially is a “first-world problem”.  Do I praise him when my car gets me all the way to work, with no issues?  Probably not.  I sure get pissed off and beg for his mercy when it breaks down on the shoulder of the road. 

For the first time, in a long time, I am at peace.  I am at peace, when I should be freaking out.  I am at peace when I should be anxious and nervous.  This does not me I am with out concern, or allow worry to bubble up, but I am at peace.

I sit here in this hotel room, my wife.  I have finished my second to last anti-microbial/viral/bacterial scrub.  I have put the last application of inter-nostril anti-biotic ointment in my nose, and we have finished one of our last pre-op pray/crying sessions.  Now I keep typing, to avoid going to sleep. Not because I am fearful, but because that is what I do.  If I sleep, I might miss something.  There will be plenty of time to sleep when I am dead, which I have full confidence in all mighty God will not happen anytime soon.  I know my body needs rest, but every moment is more precious than the last, because it’s the one moment you can do anything about.

I want to live.  I want to love.  I want to fight.  I want to eat. I want to cry.  I want to laugh.  I want to create.  I want to win.  I want to lose.  I want to share the gospel, and be Jesus to every human I meet…every one.  I am ready to do that.  Life must be different from now on, otherwise this was all in vain, and I am just a stupid sack of meat, that got the short end of the stick.  I don’t believe that at all, and neither does the one created me, fearfully and wonderfully.

See You Sooooon.

Peace that Passes Understanding, Part 2: The Waiting is the Hardest Part.

         It has been about a month since my wife and I received the news, about my brain tumor.  It has been two weeks since I shared the news with everyone.  Today my wife and I travel to St. Louis for a couple of Doctor’s appointments, for lab work, and some more imaging, that is more specific to the surgery.  We are less than two weeks out from the surgery day, and it can not come soon enough.  The waiting has the hardest part.

For the most part, my migraines have been pretty tame, since the diagnosis.  The meds have done a pretty good job at curbing most of the symptoms, but yesterday I had to eliminate what has been my lifeline, since the beginning of this battle.  Excedrine Migrane is the sweet nectar, that blooms forth a pain free day.  In the coming weeks I will have to remove the other painkillers that have become a food group for me, out of my diet.  With the help of my wife, who is a registered nurse, and nursing professor, we have kept the painkillers in a healthy quantity and rhythm, but I still am a bit uneasy of the long term damage the constant flood of these chemicals through my liver, kidneys, stomach, may have.  I have become somewhat dependent on it, when the headaches comes, and I am ready to depend on something stronger, and more complete.

Today is full of clinic visits, and paperwork.  The amount of trees the medical community murders is astounding.  I understand the need to document everything, and I appreciate how the checks and balances of information keep me, the patient, safe…But Dear Lord, that is a lot of paperwork.

Today they drew blood, to check for infections or viruses, that we might need to take care of before the surgery.  I also had the joy of urinating in a small clear cup, and handing this very full, very warm, cup of goodness to a lady nurse, as if to say, “Look what I made!”  This exchange is never comfortable, for a guy who was taught by his parents from a very young age that you should never pee in a cup and show it to girl.

The nurse practitioner who saw me prior to my fluid theft, helped to remind me of the great care I will receive once I am back at home, recovering from surgery.  The young nurse practitioner recognized my wife as soon as she walked into the room.  She was searching for Kim’s name, but eventually she found it, and remembered my wife as her practicum instructor and nursing professor.  Our Nurse Practitioner was really excited to see Kim again, and told her she was one of her favorite instructors.  They talked for a bit, reliving their time at Central Methodist University, where my wife teaches.  They talked for a bit, across me, above me, and around me.  Eventually I had to interject and remind them I was in the room.  This is a good problem to have, when you have a wife as impressive as mine.  Though I joke about it, I never get tired of being called, “Kim’s Husband” or “Payton and Ben’s Dad” or “Joyce’s Guardian”; these titles hold much more pride and distinction for me than “Reverend”, “Pastor”, “Officer”, or any of the other prefixes that may describe me.

It is a joy for me to watch someone not just remember, but be excited about their time with Kim, as her student.  I will never get tired of observing the legacy she is building, in the Mid-Missouri nursing community.  It is kind of funny, however, that we travel two and a half hours from our home to visit doctors about my upcoming brain surgery, and Kim is still the star of the show.

Following the great fluid exchange, I headed two floors up for an MRI.  The last MRI I had yielded the discovery of the tumor, so I have a love/hate relationship with the MRI process.  I am very grateful that in 2017, doctors can take a picture of my brain without removing my skull.  I am glad that this is possible.  On the other hand, I absolutely hate small confined spaces.  Though I am a fire fighter and have been in some scary situations where I had to fit into a tight spot, I always felt like I had the tools to get out.  For some reason it is just not the same.  The MRI, is like being in a coffin.  They let you listen to music to calm your nerves and put you at ease, while they spin a giant magnet around you at 150mph, while injecting your body with radioactive material, so your insides light up like a Glow-Worm.  They typically allow you to pick your own music, but inevitably the first song never does much good, in relaxing you.

My eighty year old grandmother had an MRI following a fall.  They asked her what type of music she wanted.  She advised them she would prefer Gospel or Country.  She said the very first song, once she was inside the machine, was “Amazing Grace”.  She said this song in tandem with the fact that she already felt she was in a coffin, did not give her much R & R while she was inside.  Likewise, when I went in for the MRI that discovered my tumor; I had requested some nineties alternative rock.  I always find comfort in the music of my youth; Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters, Red Hot Chili Peppers; what could go wrong? The very first song that played was The Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Soul to Squeeze”.  If you remember, this song starts out with Anthony Kiedis singing, “I got a bad disease…”.  Well Anthony, you were correct.

This time the nineties rock became, late nineties rock/rap, really fast.  Milos, the Radiology Tech who was caring for me, even broke into the headphones to ask if I had had enough Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit, yet.  The music was not the main source of my anxiety, this time.  

For some reason, I could not stop opening my eyes.  I could not stop noticing how close my face was to the actual machine, and how if I tried to raise up, the cage around my head would restrict me from doing so.  Then for no reason, and at the worst possible time, it happened.  The scene ran through my head.  In my opinion, it is the scariest scene in the history of film making.  For some reason, while sitting in the plastic and metal coffin, all I could think about, was coffin scene from Kill Bill Vol. 2, where Uma Thurman’s character (Beatrix aka The Bride), is placed in a coffin, and buried six feet deep.  She wakes up in the coffin, and realizes her situation, and resorts to her Kung Fu training to punch her way through the coffin lid and escape.  I have had no formal Kung Fu training, for such a situation.  I would have to scratch and claw and chew my way out of my coffin.  I know my heart rate was up.  I know my breathing quick.  I need to calm the hell down.  I needed some peace.

I took the biggest deepest breath I could muster, and I exhaled…hard.  I prayed.  I prayed for peace.  I prayed for calmness.  I prayed to peace that would quench and overcome any thoughts or worries that were not from God.  The scene in my head changed.  The next thing I thought about was home.  My back yard.  My screened-in porch.  I thought about how freeing it is to be there; with my kids playing in they yard, my wife, unable to sit and relax for long periods of times, clipping dead grey hydrangea heads off of their long stems, so the new green heads could grow, and then turn into big white snowballs by the beginning of Summer.

I thought about the blessings God had given me.  My wife, my boys, one of my best friends in the world, Joyce.  Joyce, Who has became so grafted into our family, though being the most unlikely of candidates to do so.  I thought of my mom and dad, who have been the source of strength and encouragement, and words of Godly wisdom, they were created to be. I thought of our church family, who I am literally having to ask NOT to come to the surgery waiting room on the day of the operation, to keep from overwhelming the staff and my wife’s sense to constantly make sure everyone is entertained and fed.  I thought of my little brothers, both of whom live out of state.  One in Kentucky and one in Alaska, and both said the same thing after I told them the news on the phone, “When do you need me there?”  I thought of the blessings that continue to shower over me.  Even me.  Even a wretch, like me.

People continue to ask me, how it is I can be so calm, and fearless in the face of this diagnosis, and the prospect of this surgery.  I have had a few people tell me they wish they could be as “brave” as me.  The truth is.  I am terrified.  I am scared.  I am fearful.  I am anxious.  I honestly have never been more worried or nervous about anything in my life.  That is the truth.  However, there are other truths that eclipse all of these things;  God is sovereign.  God is faithful.  God is Good, and God is enough.  These truths give me confidence, and peace.  Because I believe these things to be true, it makes my job in all of this a lot easier.  Please understand.  There is peace in knowing Jesus.

We are now, eleven days away from my procedure.  My support system continues to prove itself, with well wishes, encouragement and prayers. Friends, family, church family, and literally hundreds on Facebook and Twitter.  Every word, you share, gives me strength to keep fighting and move forward.  Keep them coming!

-Ao

Peace that Passes Understanding: It IS a Tumor.

“Life is what happens to you, while your busy making other plans.”   –John Lennon

 My life has always operated on Plan B.  Rarely do things go as planned.  This could be because I’m either terrible at planning things, or because I try way too hard to impose my will on the world, and I do not stop to recognize God may have something very different planned…maybe even, something better. 

Though I have been a Christian most of my life, and I have been a church leader or pastor for most of my adult life, I will not pretend I am “good Christian”.  Like The Apostle Paul, I would describe myself as a “Chief of Sinners”.  I do my best to share the gospel with my words and with the way I live my life, but I know I come up short, on a daily basis.  For some reason, God continues to bless me.  He continues to mold and make me.  His mercy is new every morning, and I find peace in knowing that he is faithful to complete the good work he has started in me.

In times like this, God typically helps me take stock in my friends and family.  Those He has put around me to strengthen me, to heal me, to fight for me, to pray for me, and to care for my family and I.  This is a time I need all of them, to do all of those things.

For the last year or more, I have been experiencing some terribly intense migraines.  I had never previously had much experience with them, but now that I do, I have a new found respect and sympathy for those who struggle with chronic migraines.  After trying to be a tough guy, and fight it with over the counter methods, and a lot of whining, I finally decided to ask a professional for some help.

My primary care doctor who is just enough crotchety old man and just enough foul mouthed genius to be my favorite kind of human, sent me to get an MRI (This was the Thursday before Last).  On Friday evening, I received a phone call from that same old man.  He told me they had “found a spot” on my MRI and wanted me to go to the Emergency Room right way to have it looked at.  I pressed him for more information, and he felt the need to startle me into going, right away.  He told me that I had what appeared to be a tumor.

A tumor?...A tumor? Like, a brain tumor?  Like a Dick Howser, Dan Quisenberry or Buddy Rich tumor? Like, the opposite of what Detective Kimball has?  My mind was having trouble really comprehending the possibilities of the news I had just heard.

I told him, we were on our way.  My wife and I freaked out a bit.  We cried, and we prayed.

Upon arrival at The World Famous University of Missouri-Columbia Emergency Room; a place where my brothers and I spent a great deal of our childhood, for numerous sports injuries, as well as terrible ideas, and a plethora of lost bets and triple-dog-dares, my wife was able to see underneath my calm demeanor.  Though I had been very tranquil and only slightly concerned, she, a registered nurse and Nursing Professor, was able to see that the vitals, my ER nurse was rendering, did not match the exterior. My blood pressure was pretty high for a man that weighs less than 400 pounds.  Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but it was high for me.

Once we were able to see the neurologists, I had worked myself into enough of a frenzy that, most likely anything less than a watermelon sized, stage 4 cancerous tumor with teeth and fingernails of its own, was going to be a relief. Luckily it was none of those things, but it was a tumor.

I have a Meningioma.  It is a tumor that grows slowly.  They are almost always benign, they are almost never cancerous, and they are typically the size of the tip of your pinky finger.  They typically are seen in middle aged women, and are small enough to be treated with radiotherapy/radiosurgery, if at all.

Mine is bigger than a golf ball, and it has to come out. 

So, part of me feels like this is a major life event.  Part of me feels like this is a huge deal, that might mark a turning point or even falling action in my life, that should help to finally get me on the path God has for me, or give more, or serve more, or be a better husband, Dad, and friend. 

Another part of me feels like it really isn’t that bad. I have a tumor and they have to cut it out, but all the docs I have talked to, including one who seems way too excited to crack my skull open, feel like this is going to be a simple enough surgery that it can be done without any complications, or too much recovery time. Also, the tumor itself is very close to the skull, and in a relatively easy place to operate.  Because of my age, I am most likely pretty capable of bouncing back without too much trouble.

As strange as it may seem to most people, I really feel at peace. The toughest thing my wife and I are currently dealing with, is which of the three brilliant and talented neurosurgeons, we have seen will have the pleasure of seeing the actual brain of Andrew Ray Oeth, up close and personal, and maybe even get to play with it a little bit.

In times like this, God typically helps me take stock in my friends and family He has placed in my life.  The truth is I am all stocked up.  I am a rich man, because of my family, friends, co-workers, and Church members.  I lack nothing at all, and I am at peace.  When this thing is all over, I am going to do my best to take a better inventory of those people, and never take any one of them for granted, including, my Wife.

Kim is the hardest working, most talented, most determined, most resourceful, and most intelligent woman I have ever met.  There is no other human on the planet that I would rather walk through this journey, alongside.  She has been absolutely incredible.

I ask for your prayer, for your encouragement (because I am a delicate flower who needs that kind of thing), and for your understanding in the days to come, if I am unable to fulfill my normal responsibilities and expectations.

Overall I am ready.  Ready for the best and ready for the worst.  I have an assurance through my faith in Jesus, that if everything here on earth goes wrong, I get to be with my Father in Heaven. If everything goes right (which it most likely will, chances are very, very good), I get to live my life knowing that that I have the greatest group of people around me, who love me, even though they know me. 

I have to get healthy, and heal up quick. Turkey season is right around the corner, baseball is right around the corner, and I have two little boys and two grown up girls who need me. Well,…want me. Well…need me to open up jars and kill spiders, and stuff.

-AO