WADA and Waiting . . .

It's Tuesday, late in the morning. As I write this, my daughter is at the children's hospital having small tubes fished through her arteries and led to her brain. It's called a Wada test, so named after the physician who invented it, and will determine the location of Hannah's speech and memory. This, in turn, will tell us whether she is a candidate for surgery.

Hannah had to leave this morning to the hospital very early. It was still dark as she clutched her stuffed animal and climbed into the minivan with her mother, preparing to make the 45 minute drive. I've been tasked with staying home with our boys while mother and daughter are gone. I'm not much of a cook, but I managed to make them breakfast and clean up a bit.

I confess I'm distracted. I keep thinking about Hannah lying on the narrow table in the cath-lab, surrounded by clacking machines and smiling strangers who will poke her with large needles. I mentally understand the procedure. Both my wife and I accept the risks, hoping that this will all work for Hannah's favor eventually. Emotionally, however, I am frustrated, angered by a sagging acknowledgement that I have absolutely no control over this epilepsy, this shadowy ogre that has robbed my daughter of the sharp and curious mind she possessed when she was a toddler.

I just received a telephone call from my wife. Hannah is done with the procedure and now must lay perfectly still on her back for five hours until the gaping hole in her femoral artery has begun to close. Hannah had to be stuck in both femoral arteries, as the first stick on the right side didn't work. More pain, more tears, more healing. She and mom should be back home by the late afternoon.

I'm trying to keep the boys busy, occupied with something that will not rot their minds. I guess I'm trying to keep myself busy, too. The clock is running unusually slow today. It's raining outside. Appropriate.

We should learn the results of Hannah's Wada in about a week. Then, based on these results, we will plan the next step.

I'll keep you posted.

Time Stood Still

It's cliche, isn't it? I remember so clearly. It was 2003. My lovely daughter, my only daughter, was six years old. She started to have seizures. After an evaluation and MRI, the doctor called my wife and I into a solitary conference room. While I don't recall every word the young doctor said, I do remember:

"blah, blah, blah, blah, MASS, blah, blah, blah, CANCER, blah, blah . . ."

Time stopped for me. The doctor's face grew a little blurry. I tensed. Terrible thoughts began to fall into my head like pebbles in a glass jar. Dear God . . .

Now, seven years later, that evil little mass has come back to haunt us. My wife and I learned today that our daughter will need brain surgery to resolve what have become increasingly violent seizures. At thirteen, she is seizing several times a day, many of them "silent seizures" which don't manifest themselves outwardly but are significant enough to delay both her mental and emotional development.

The neurologist we met with today was friendly and professional. He patiently explained all of the options and the procedures in detail. He showed us on a small and detailed model of the brain where the lesion (for that's what we're calling this mass now) is located and the potential effects on our daughter's speech and memory retention.

I understood everything he shared and asked every question I could think of.

Well, okay, not EVERY question, but some of the questions I have could not be addressed to this young doctor. They must be asked of a much Higher Authority.

Why our daughter? Why her? This may seem selfish to some of you, but it comes from the heart. God, why must she suffer like this? Why, at such a tender age, must she be made to face this ogre, this hulking beast of epilepsy and surgery and recovery and therapy? God, can you give it to me? Could You remove the lesion from her and put it in my head? Could you let ME take her place on the operating table?

My wife and I shared the news with our daughter when we got home. Many tears were shed as we sat on the side of the bed and tried our best to allay her fears. I'm not sure how successful we were.

As believers in Y'shua the Messiah (Jesus the Christ), we know that all things will work out for good. This is one of the Bible's most precious promises. I sincerely believe this Scripture to be true. But the journey to realizing this promise can be hell.

Pray for us.

I'll keep you posted . . . .

The Ultrasound

So I went to the Cardiologist's office a couple of weeks ago, less to see my doctor and more to get some tests done. I was slated for an exam called an echocardiogram. This relatively painless test is my favorite kind: no needles.

I entered the office and, after signing in, was asked to take a seat. It was one of those typical doctor's waiting rooms: clone chairs lined up against the walls like a prison with outdated magazines waiting tiredly in wall racks. A sprinkling of elderly patients quietly shuffled newspapers or stared directly ahead, all of us obeying the unspoken rule to avoid eye contact. I had the urge to lean over and poke the old lady next to me just to see if she was breathing but I restrained myself.

After several minutes (during which I wondered why I made an appointment if I was going to be called in late for it anyway) I heard my name. Now, please understand that part of my job is to deal with people. It's something most of us do on a daily basis. Because of this, most of us have learned to cultivate at least some semblance of courtesy when dealing with strangers. I learned long ago that first impressions go a long way. As I stood and turned the corner to greet the technician who was to perform my test, I was immediately hit with one of my pet peevs: if you're not going to act professional, get out of the people business. This tech greeted me with neither a handshake nor eye contact, but instead turned her back on me and started to walk down the narrow hallway hoping, no doubt, that I would follow her. I hate that. Huge loss of cool points with me.

She led me to a small room containing nothing but a bed, a cabinet, and a large machine with a monitor on top. This machine, used for ultrasound, had about 3 million keys, levers, switches, and buttons that no doubt could have brought the USS Enterprise home, washed dishes, and connected to satellite TV if it needed too. I was asked to take off my shirt (a little uncomfortable. Remember I'm not GQ material) and told to lay on my left side. I sucked in my stomach (always hopeless. Why do guys do that anyway?) and climbed onto the paper-covered bed. The tech, with a strong Russian accent that sounded like she was out of a 1950's cold war movie, stood behind me and applied a probe to my chest covered with gel that is obviously designed to be used at temperatures hovering around absolute zero. Despite her initially stand-offish welcome, she proved to be quite adept at her job. She pressed and pushed the probe around my chest, getting ultrasound pictures of my heart from several different views. Toward the end of the test I was asked to lay flat on my back as she looked at my heart from the bottom. Strange swishing sounds filled the air as she listened to the blood flowing past my heart valves.

All in all, it was by no means an unpleasant or painful experience. Though initially cold, the tech soon warmed up as we made light conversation during the approximately 30 minute exam. By the end, she was smiling and I was sticky with goo. She eagerly provided me a towel with which to clean. I quickly slipped on my shirt, bid her dasvedanya, and made my way out, none the worse for wear.

The echocardiogram provides the cardiologist some great information about how big the heart is, how well it beats, how well it relaxes, and the health of my four heart valves. It sure beats getting a needle jabbed in your arm. Reflecting on my experience, overall I'd have to give it 4 out of 5 stars. Hopefully, in the future, the Russian tech will be a little more civil to strangers and, hopefully, I'll be a little less critical of first impressions.

The next test I was slated for was a nuclear stress test. This one involved needles, running, and a radioactive dye. Oy vey . . . .

Thursday, June 10th, 2010

I guess I should begin this by saying that I don't think I'm anyone particularly special. There are billions of folks out there and millions of bloggers. The reality is, we all like the idea of penning our ideas down for others to read, exposing just enough of ourselves to merit the attention of someone else, sort of a form of literary flashing in this park we call the World Wide Web.

My name is Troy. I'm 39 years old. I live and work in Philadelphia, one of the best cities in the world, by the way. I retired from the US Army, went to school, and now I'm a rabbi. I'm married and have four young children. Overall, I have to admit that life is pretty good.

Or least it was. A couple of weeks ago I went to my doctor after experiencing some shortness of breath. He referred me to my cardiologist, a great man I know from my days in the Army. After a couple of tests, my cardiologist began to express some concern. My stress test came back abnormal.

Ok, I'll be honest. I'm overweight. I'm not like a dirigible coming in for a landing, but I would benefit from the loss of a few pounds. I never expected, however, to have heart disease, especially while in my 30's.

My doctor began to ask some questions about symptoms and, looking back, I had to admit the truth: yes, I've been having a little bit of chest pain (maybe something I ate); yes, I've been feeling an odd rhythm in my heart (my wife was wearing a neglige, who wouldn't have heart flutters?); no, I haven't been exercising like I should (really, who has time? Besides, I have a gym membership. Doesn't that count for something, even if I don't use it?)

So now I have to admit the possibility of having heart disease. My wife is naturally concerned. Perhaps overly concerned. She won't even let me open the jar of mayonnaise anymore (wait, should I be eating mayonnaise?).

Next week I have a full day of tests scheduled at the cardiology clinic: an echocardiogram, a nuclear perfusion test, and a follow-up with my doctor. I'm not looking forward to the poking, prodding, and treadmill-running. I can't see how my heart is supposed to stay calm when a 20 year old tech is shoving a sharp metal pipe into my vein, but, hey, they're the professionals.

I want to share this journey with anyone who might benefit from it. Challenges always seem to bring out the very best or the very worst in people. Tribulation is a sort of refiners fire that shows us what we're made of. I hope I've got the right stuff.

I don't know where this road is going and I don't know how it will end. God knows all of this and, honestly, in the end, that's going to have to be enough.