The Only Thing To Explain It All

I went back to Minnesota for the holidays to meet up with family and friends, to shower my dog in kisses, but also to heal. You see, I was certain my relationship was over.

He was a real treat. Paranoid, hostile, cranky and irritable at all hours. He would hug me and tell me he was scared and that something was terribly wrong with his health one minute, and the next he would be roaring like a lion, telling me to get out of his apartment because I was an ungrateful brat with no sense of all he had helped me with. It was nuts. He was nuts.

I grieved a little in Minnesota during that trip. I was certain it was over. We didn't talk while I was there, and I didn't write him. I was afraid of him and sorry for him at the same time. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew he was abusing me. It was hurtful and confusing, and I felt like I was spiraling down into a hole.

I returned to Hawaii and was determined to keep my distance and not buckle under his charming pleas to come keep him company. I rejected dinner plans and made excuses to be busy. But he was relentless that first week back, and so I agreed to lunch. Over spicy fish and green beans, he told me he had a brain tumor. Not a small tumor... a 2 inch mass that was pushing his pituitary gland into a different region of his skull. For a little background on Pituitary tumors, read here. In a nutshell, it caused a complete crash of his sex drive, pleasure sensors, and ability to handle stress. He slept for large periods of time and could barely leave his bed for much of the day. Of course I decided to support him through the surgery and recovery. I mean, what sort of an asshole abandons their best friend before having a tumor removed? I was scared and scared for him, and he was so completely erratic and angry leading up to the procedure that I was very jumpy. I was living in a glass house.

The procedure lasted 1/2 a day and caused many small crises in my mind. When they wheeled him into surgery, I almost became a patient myself, and passed out at the elevators. I was wretching and terribly concerned. What if he didn't wake up? What if the neurosurgeon had an off-day? What if, what if, what if. My anxiety level back at work (yes I'm a dummy and went back to work) was out of control. I couldn't concentrate and all of my Buddhist zen principles went out the window. I tried hard to stay in the moment, to not jump ahead to presuppositions, to repeat over and over that there was nothing I could do. I finally couldn't take it anymore and went back to the hospital, waiting too patiently to be allowed back to his recovery room. He awoke his crabby self and bossed nurses around. I gave them sympathetic glances and reassured them in the hallway that that was normal. He was on heavy pain meds and had leakage in the wound site, leading to a lot of red fluid that looked like blood but was really drainage from the site. It was super traumatic. After one night's stay in the hospital, they couldn't wait to discharge him to me! The recovery thereafter at his apartment was quite plain, and involved a lot of bedrest and a lot of me doting on him to keep him happy, entertaining him and making sure he was comfortable. He was very grateful I was with him, and very loving and affectionate.

It will be some time before we know what happens next. He has a 3 month check-up to determine if it was a successful removal or if he must undergo more work. Until then, I wait with bated breath for life to do it's thing. I don't know what this means for him, and I don't know what this means for us.