William (the glioma)

William was a 5 cm mass sitting in my husband’s right frontal lobe. We met late at night under the harsh lights of the ER, separated by the desktop monitor and radiology viewing software. I was flustered from the drive over, and still shaking in the aftermath of witnessing my husband’s seizure. I looked at the screen closely as time skidded to a stop. I wanted to name him “Bill” after the antagonist in the Tarantino movies. Bill seemed too casual, too cool, too likeable. William though seemed codgy and irritating, a suitable target for our ire. 

William resembled over-proofed dough studded with chocolate chips, or perhaps raisins, its surface uneven and unpredictable. He stared at me and I stared at it, my heart falling through my diaphragm and smashing against the floor of my pelvis.  

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“Oh yes,” it seemed to whisper back. 

William had all the hallmarks of a high-grade glioma, an aggressive tumor which arose from the glial cells which supported neurons and their functioning. This was their uprising and it needed to be crushed. I didn't know for sure this was the enemy, but there seemed to be enough signs pointing to it. Regardless, with the battle ahead, I didn't want to come in being the bearer of bad news before the ink had even been applied to the paper.

My husband lay in a room just a few feet away, unaware, and still recovering. William’s rebellion was an unwelcome surprise, and he was about to be found out.

The ER physician was built out of brick, his black scrubs hanging off his angles and edges, his softness apparent only in his eyes and in his tone. He spoke to my husband about the mass, and that he would need to be shuttled further to the main campus for neurosurgery to evaluate him further and plan surgery. We nodded and smiled, neither of us reacting much more. What else could be said? Only screams could capture any of what we felt. That might not be welcome in a quiet community hospital ER as the clock approached midnight.

William was going to be whisked off under the sirens and flashing lights. He gets a parade for being a cruel interloper, warm and protected within my husband's skull. What a world. 

The parade started before I got back to my car. I eased into the quiet streets before tearing down the highway to the main campus.

The ER was crowded as was usually the case for a city ER even at that hour. Finding my husband was a task. I found myself meandering down rows of stretchers, some hidden behind curtains, others lined up where there was space. Eventually I found him under no fewer than three blankets, propped up by two pillows. Even as he shivered on the stretcher, mostly trying to sleep and not doing much talking, I knew my husband was still there. I knew it because he had already queued up the joke he would use with every physician or nurse who came to evaluate him.

“What else can I get you?” they would ask.

“Whiskey would be nice,” he would say from under his pile of blankets, eyes scrunched up with discomfort but still managing to smile. 

Once this is all over, to paraphrase a line from the movie Hot Fuzz, “let’s toast to William’s demise.”