Karl had a MRI last week. The report said "normal," because they didn't find anything they were looking for, but I printed out a dozen pictures of his brain and went back to the doctor's office with him. It was a civilian doctor, one I like, who is in the same system as the neurologist who ordered the MRI and the neuro-radiologist who reported that his findings were "normal." I like this doctor because he doesn't act like I'm silly when I print out pictures of Karl's brain and ask him what this fold is, that spot is, or why a part of Karl's brain shows up asymmetrically. Instead, he explains to me that Karl may have an asymmetrical brain or that his head was slightly tilted. He demonstrates why a head being tilted would still make the eyes show up on the same level - I am full of questions whose answers need to be explained to me like I am a five year old. He sends an email to the neuro-radiologist, asking the questions I have that he can't answer.
I skipped a class and called a friend and went to her house for an emergency beer. I sat on her couch and showed her pictures of Karl's brain.
The next day, I dropped a class.
I want to say this was a big decision because I was so adamant that I could do it - that I could take more than a full load and still do everything else. It wasn't a big decision though. I could do it. I was taking 15 hours throughout cookie season and when my husband wasn't allowed to drive for a month and I was doing it all. So, yes, I could do it. I'm not even dropping the class because I've now proven I can do it and I feel validated (because really I'd have to stick it out to the end of the semester to prove that).
I'm dropping a class because last week I looked at my husband's brain and because yesterday, on Easter, I mourned the loss of those who died so I could live, and because I hate the class and I don't have to take it. Not now, not yet. I have a million justifications about needing time and my GPA, etc, etc, but it doesn't matter. I dropped the class because it wasn't fulfilling me. I am lucky enough to have a life completely paid for and what a waste of life it is if I spend it being miserable. Karl did not die so I could live, but he gave up part of his cognitive functioning so that I could live in financial security. This is not a fair trade. I have thought many times over the last week, as I've examined black and white spots in his corpus callosum and his frontal lobe, how much I would love to give it all back.
Yesterday our minister was talking about how people say you're brave when really you have no choice. She mentioned Jesus asking God to "take this cup from me." And I, who am not Christian, thought "yes! this!"
TAKE THIS CUP FROM ME. Take this house, this full pantry, this new(ish) car, this $70 sundress (who spends that much on a sundress?!?), this new bed, these sheets, this neighborhood and playscape and safe walk to school and air conditioner. Take my cups, plates, bowls. Take it all away and give me back a Karl unscarred by war.
But it does not work like that.
There is no money I can give to heal his pain or his suffering or his sadness.
There is no trade for his anger or his confusion.
This is my life. The neurologists and the MRI films and the confusion and the sadness and the loss. The house, the car, the playscape, the netflix subscription, the full pantry, the $70 sundress, the iphone, the air conditioner, the Lush bath bomb. This is the life that Karl's sacrifice gave me.
I am probably not going to cure cancer or change the world, but I am damn well going to enjoy the breaths I take and the classes I take and the life I have because it is the only way to truly appreciate his sacrifice. He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't willingly trade his memory for my creature comforts, but that is the trade we are left with, this is the life he sacrificed for.
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