Where It All Began
Lying on the bed, unable to move my limbs, head, and body, my heart wept.
Am I dying? Is this IT? What about my hubby Craig and the kids?
Thoughts were racing in and out, endeavouring to find a place to land, to find order and explanation…but at that moment, there was none to find.
The constant headache of the past six weeks hadn’t slowed me up; I pushed through, taking paracetamol to ease the knifelike pangs to no avail. I pushed on, meeting the commitments, the pressures of being a wife, a mum, a business partner, a teacher, the various voluntary committees, responsibilities, and relationships—everything cried out for more—of me.
That small voice within screamed for me to slow down, but in my mind, there was simply no time…
No time to stop…
No time to consider and ask what was causing the unfamiliar symptom…
No time to cull the calendar craziness…
No time to be still…
No time…
No time…
No time…
"It’ll have to wait" was a common thought of this time, prioritizing everyone else but myself. Sacrificing myself for others, that’s what real service is about, isn’t it? I was a servant-hearted wife of one, the mother of three, and now I couldn’t do a thing.
My body had sent out the warning signs—the unheeded flashing red lights trying their best to let me know things weren’t right. I hadn’t listened, and now, I’d pushed it beyond its limits. Layer upon layer of the past year’s stresses flooded to mind as I lay there, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
Pale, exhausted, unable to lift a single finger, I was at the whim of life and circumstances. My body had endured enough! I now had no choice; my body would take what it needed—with or without my permission.
So, I lay there, so filled with weakness that nothing would function as I willed it to—as fear expanded within.
Terror seized my distress, and they embraced.
As the seconds passed, new symptoms appeared, and I felt as though life was leaving me. My eyes closed, and I tried desperately to come to peace with what I was leaving behind.
My family, oh, my precious family—Craig, my children.
Just moments before, in our first extended family dinner in months, we had been busy catching up around the dinner table. Everyone was able to be there. What a delight! So good to be back at the family home.
Squeals of joy came from our kids and their cousins as they played happily in the background. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen cleaning up, and my sister and I bantered back and forth across the table, having some good hearty laughs. These times were precious.
My family was so dear to me. Together is the place I wanted to be all the time. These nights were a balm for my soul.
Then, in a split second, everything changed.
My eyes moved of their own accord, as if some mysterious fingers were pulling the muscles behind them. My neck became sore, stiff, and the slight headache intensified.
My body felt the waves of nausea and fatigue HIT, and boy, did it hit! Any energy I had dissipated and withdrew, heading who knows where. Beginning with my extremities, I felt as if my blood was retreating. My hands weakened, and my arms fell limply to the side of my body. My head joined the procession and dropped upon my shoulder. The weightiness of it propelled my immobilized body to the right—where Craig sat.
“Catch me, honey,” I barely breathed out as my entire body fell on his lap.
Apart from the sheer physical exhaustion and my brain’s feeling as though it was splitting in two, I don’t remember much of the following minutes. My listless, unresponsive form was carried to my parents’ bedroom nearby, and an ambulance was called.
Time stood still, and I couldn’t comprehend much of what anyone was saying. Every cell in my body felt weighty—sleepy, as if the energy had been sucked out of every molecule. They demanded rest, and rest they did.
The medical staff arrived, and the family tension was relieved on some level for a moment. The cavalry had arrived, and now they could “fix” Karen.
They took my vitals and eventually surmised that I was “…just a tired Mum” as they offered to take me into the hospital, but articulating that they wouldn’t do much for me in the hospital. Confusion…upset…shock remained.
Ever so slightly, a minuscule amount of strength found its way to my extremities, and my limbs began to be able to move once again. They felt weighty and slow-moving—like I was on heavy medication or in recovery from surgery. But the exhaustion remained. I remember Craig asking what I wanted to do. I remember not wanting to or being able to decide. My brain had ceased to be able to think coherently. The decision was made not to go to the hospital, and as the ambulance officers left, the hope of help seemed to depart with them.
Inside, my questions mounted: How could they leave me here like this? What was going to happen?
Soon after, we headed home as if nothing had happened.
The only thing was something HAD happened and was indeed happening.
My body had never felt such fatigue before. It was as if I’d been hit by a Mack truck or run a 100km marathon in a moment. Every part of me ached and screamed, “I’m so weary!”
I remained silent. No one spoke on the way home. The fear was palpable, and no one knew what to say. Ours was the quietest car trip our family had ever had.
The sounds of the tires on the road hurt my head; the glare of the streetlights stung my eyes. Sitting upright was a challenge, as my head felt like a bowling ball. As we rattled along, my head leaned against the cold passenger window. Every bump, every knock, every turn felt and intensified. This was the longest car trip I’d ever had.
I plopped into bed, desperate for sleep. My eyelids closed as a signal for sleep to come, but it evaded me much of that night.
Fearful thoughts raced around and persisted for hours as the shock and trauma of what had occurred replayed inside my head. A new seed of affliction and fear had been planted that night and would endeavour to wreak havoc in our lives for many months and years to come.
The next morning, I woke, meaning I must’ve slept, but I felt no benefit, no refreshment or energy. My eyelids were heavy; my brain matter felt as if it was crystallizing inside like crackling ice as the temperature warms. So too was my head and its sensitivity to everything. The whole-body weakness persisted, and I struggled to stand, to talk, or to walk upright.
A barrage of thoughts tried to rattle my weary frame. You have a brain tumor. You’re going to die a slow, painful death. Your family will see it and be powerless. It’ll be painful for them too. It’s going to get worse…
Many more painful thoughts spread through my mind. I was in the space of sheer terror; my pupils dilated almost wholly, and my snowlike complexion showed things were not as they should be. Something was desperately wrong, and I was without solutions.
I felt a small and insignificant voice in a body that refused to obey my commands anymore.
I don’t remember thinking of or speaking to God much during this time; I allowed fear to reign mostly in this space.
All I could squeak out in a moment of reprieve was a single word:“Help!”
He heard my cry, and help came.
