Splitting Skin

The scar on my right hand is almost faded away.

Liz was with me when I slammed my hand on the windowpane in the hospital that day (Day 13). It happened in a secluded area of the hospital after I had listened to the resident surgeon go over Cindy's final CAT scan and angiogram imagery.

From the moment I took her to the ER, I was never in denial that Cindy would have some amount of brain loss. I did, however, feel extremely frustrated that no one could tell me how much deficit there would be. But, I told myself that if she lost motor function, I'd just build ramps for the house. If she lost sight, I would help her learn Braille. If she lost her short-term memory, I would leave notes all around the house for her and learn to repeat things. And I was ready to be a full-time caregiver in her rehabilitation.

But, by Day 13, hope turned to reality as I watched the surgeon point out all the dark spots in the images: "This area right here, that controls motor function. That's gone. That area over there controls hearing. That's gone." For what seemed like an hour, I made her go image by image and repeat the same things over and over. My head shook back and forth as she spoke. When the surgeon pointed to the part of her brain that controlled personality and told me that was gone too, I stopped shaking my head and asked for a moment to collect myself. I walked out of the ICU and then ran down the stairwell.

I don't know if Liz followed me, or if she happened to be in that area of the hospital. If it were up to me, I would not have wanted her to see me like that. I explained to her that the sum total of those deficits meant that Cindy was basically brain dead.

But it was the loss of the personality that hit me the hardest. Those who knew Cindy knew she had an amazing personality. I mean people who had only met her for 5 minutes never forgot her. So, when the surgeon pointed to that section of the brain, I knew Cindy was lost for good.

For 2 weeks, I had kept my cool, I kept a positive demeanor, I stayed by her bedside for 15-20 hours a day, I prayed, I prepared myself for most any outcome. I did all this even though I wanted to scream, run, break some sh*t for most of that time.

After that meeting with the surgeon, all the anger and frustration that I had repressed rose up through my body and collected itself in my right hand. I made a fist and slammed it over and over so hard on the windowsill that the skin near my knuckles split and I bled. I was about to do it again, but then I think I started yelling, and I remember Liz telling me to let it out because she knew I had been bottling up so much.

So, I look at the scar that is disappearing and it makes me sad. If it were up to me, I'd want to be branded with it forever.

Posted with LifeCast