I will preface this post with a disclaimer. If you don’t
want to know what I have been feeling, in a very small part, over the past
seven years, then click on the x to escape. I just needed to express some
things. Not sure why. It’s my blog. J
Seven years ago, January 11, 2006, life as we knew it in the
Moore home was forever changed.
Seven years ago, on January 6th, Brent went in for
a routine surgery, his third since being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease in
1983. Normally a bowel resection patient is in the hospital for about 5-7 days,
and then has about 6 wks of recovery time ahead of them. This time was no
different. The surgeon removed a section of small intestine which was diseased,
and in 5 days sent him home. I remember being surprised that he was going home
so soon. His previous surgeries required a full week in the hospital. I also
remember, vividly, that I was concerned that they had given him a turkey
sandwich to eat for lunch that day. Normally you don’t go from clear liquids to
turkey sandwich. Regardless, I brought him home.
At about 4:00 Brent started having a fever and slight pain.
A call to the surgeon resulted in ‘watch the fever, it is normal for post
surgery to be in pain.’ Ok. Well, by 7:00 his fever was 103 and he was frozen.
He could not move. Literally, he could not move. The pain was that
excruciating. A call to the surgeon resulted in me calling 911 for an
ambulance. I clearly could not transport him the ½ mile to the hospital. The
kids were all at church for activities, thankfully. The ambulance came, and the
fire truck came, and the home teachers came. The paramedics had to pick Brent
up with the blanket that he was wrapped up in and set him on the gurney. I made
what few arrangements I could, and raced down to the hospital.
At 11:30 the surgeon came and said that it looked like Brent’s
intestine had ruptured. I am glad that I did not have a computer, or google. I
did not fully comprehend how serious this was.
I did not really know what peritonitis was, or that he could have, and
should have died that night. When the surgeon came back out to the waiting room
after an emergency surgery, I remember him saying, “With any luck, he will pull
through.” I remember thinking, what? What are you saying? Luckily, I was not
alone. Our very good friend and Bishop at the time, Dan Gagon, was there
waiting with me. I still had no idea what we were in for. I figured another
week in the hospital and all would be well. I was so very naïve. All I knew was
that he was alive, and I figured the problem had been corrected.
That night began our seven years of heaven and hell. And
today, we still fight. So much has happened over the past seven years. Some
good, some bad. It’s hard to say what percentage is bigger. When we are humble
and reflective, we know that the blessings and miracles far outweigh the hell.
When we are down and going through yet another surgery or drain insertion or
fever or abscess, we clearly think that the bad far outweighs the good.
The miracles include, of course, that Brent is still alive
and can be a part of our lives. They also include a ward that has become
unified in purpose through fasting and prayer, innumerable priesthood blessings,
hundreds of hot meals, notes of kindness, and sincere concern. On the list of
miracles is also family members who turned to prayer, who long ago gave up
believing that it would do any good. We were blessed with family who were able
to help us out with providing whatever comfort or financial needs we had. They installed
central air conditioning before Brent came home from his 90 day stay in the
hospital. They provided an extra fridge for all of Brent’s medical supplies.
They provided comfort and company while I felt alone and often abandoned in the
surgical waiting room or ICU. Our children became stronger and unified because
they had no choice. I am so very thankful for my children and the
responsibility and maturity that they showed throughout this time. They
continue to amaze me, especially when we go into ‘hospital mode.’ The miracles
also include finding a new surgeon and moving Brent out of UVRMC in Provo and
moving him up to LDS hospital in Salt Lake City. For this, we owe Dennis, Brent’s
brother, more than he will ever know. We are eternally grateful for him and his
wisdom and for taking action when no one else would. The blessings also include
our support team of friends. Good friends. The kind that you hope your children
will find at some point in their lives. The kind that come running when you
need them, sometimes breaking every traffic law to get here. ;) The kind that you know are worthy to offer a
priesthood blessing at any hour of any day. We have also been blessed with the
many wonderful, kind, caring people at BYU. They have truly been amazing
through all of this. They could have given up on Brent long ago, but instead,
they support us and continue to do whatever they can to make it possible to
remain employed. We have so much love and appreciation for Brent’s co-workers,
bosses and HR personnel. We cannot thank you enough for what you have done for
us. Even the small things like having a recliner in his office. Thanks. The
list goes on and on. We truly acknowledge the many medical miracles and Dr’s
and nurses that played a part in them. You know who you are. You will forever
hold a special place in our hearts.
The hell we experience often seems endless as well. The twelve
surgeries, the too-many-to-count drain insertions, the dozens of abscesses and
fistulas, the wound care, the infections, the depression, the anguish, the
frustration, and the hundreds of days and nights spent in the hospital either
in UVRMC, LDS, or IMED. Every day of our lives we are reminded of the negative
aspects of all of this. Every day we wake up wondering if something is going to
go wrong. Brent’s health can, and has, changed in a matter of minutes. We are
fine one minute, and in ICU the next. Our hope and faith have been crushed so
many times that sometimes we begin to doubt everything we believe in. When
Brent starts running a fever, the stomach turns to knots, and off we go to the
E.R. in Murray. We have bags always packed and ready to go. So many plans, outings,
vacations and birthdays cancelled/postponed due to changes in his condition. We
are not able to commit to anything in advance. Our lives are not ours, but the
disease which seems to own us. Some days we deal with this quite nicely, and
say all is well. Others, not so much. It is a rollercoaster of emotions that we
often find ourselves asking if we can please get off. Ok, begging.
Life goes on. We are surviving. Brent is still alive. We
still have a family. We have a home. Our needs are met emotionally, physically,
and spiritually. Our lives will never be the same as they were before January 6th,
2006. Brent will never be the same. I will never be the same. Our children will
never be the same. Those who have been with us throughout this journey will
never be the same. Some may say that that is very sad. Some may say that it is
for the better. We have all changed. We may never know why we have to endure
what we are enduring. What we do know is that many people have come into our
lives throughout the past seven years that have changed us, or have been
changed because of us. We do not want to be the poster child for endurance. We
did not ask for that, and do not like it. We just want to be ‘normal’ again. We
do not want pity or sorrowful looks. We do appreciate your love and concern,
however.
I have been plagued with feelings of needing to share all of
this. Not sure why. It’s long, and probably too private. I am sure I have left
out many details, some that are so horrific you should be thankful I left them
out. Why did all of this happen seven years ago? Who knows? Did the surgeon
screw up and not take enough of the intestine and sew back into unhealthy
tissue? Who knows? Did the turkey sandwich cause him to rupture? Who knows? But
to this day I will not allow Brent to eat a turkey sandwich. There are too many
things we do not know. Too many unanswered questions. We DO know that most days
we consider the good to far outweigh the bad. We acknowledge all of the
miracles, large and small. We know that we are strong, and have endured much.
We know that our family is stronger because of what we have been through thus
far. We know that our needs have been met through you. You are one of our
miracles. You strengthen us beyond belief. We know that God is real. We know
that He is mindful of us, even during our darkest, most doubtful moments. We
are always lifted back up. Always given the strength that we need to endure yet
another trial. Thank you for the part you have played in our lives during these
past seven years. The journey continues. The rollercoaster is still chugging up
the hill and racing back down again, over and over and over again.
Thanks for
helping us chug back up the hill. Again.
