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By Sheila Turner
Seven weeks of “normal” life was all we’d had. Seven weeks to laugh, love, nag, fight, stress, and do all the things that every day married couples do. Just seven weeks to take each other for granted and just seven weeks to believe that we were going to last forever. Did I mention that seven weeks is a mere forty-nine days?
The doctors discovered an inoperable tumor in my husband Jeff’s brain in 1995, after seven weeks of marriage. Little did we know that on day forty-nine the remaining 5,289 days of our marriage would consist of attempting to live some type of happy, normal existence dominated by cancer, pills, radiation, surgeries, chemotherapies, clinical trials, depression, and resentment.
Jeff’s diagnosis came out of nowhere on the eve of his brother’s wedding in rural Pennsylvania. We wrapped up a fun rehearsal night with our friends and family, jumped in our car, and started down the dark road back to the hotel.
“Jeff…Jeff, what’s wrong? Do you smell something?” I asked when he suddenly leaned forward towards the steering wheel, sniffing the air. No response. He reached for the volume on the radio and turned the music off.
“Jeff, is there something wrong with the car?” No response. He turned to look at me and without warning, his body tightened up and his face contorted. I’d never seen anything like it. I reached for the steering wheel and pulled the emergency brake as he began convulsing violently. I have no idea how I kept us on the road, and how we didn’t go into a ditch or on-coming traffic, all I know is that we came to a screeching halt. The convulsions seemed to last forever.
“Jeff! Jeff!” I screamed. His body collapsed and I couldn’t hear him breathing. Complete silence replaced the violent convulsions for what seemed an eternity. I didn’t know where we were, didn’t have a cell phone, and had no clue about the location of the nearest house. Only twenty-two years old, I was on a dark, deserted, unfamiliar road, with no idea if my husband was dead or alive.
I jumped out of the car and ran up the street screaming at the top of my lungs. I just screamed and screamed and screamed “help, please help!” I was shaking, crying, and screaming, hoping that someone would hear me and stop to help.
And that was how we grew up in a matter of minutes. Gone were our carefree, hopeful lives. I held Jeff’s hand as he lay in that hospital bed and we tried to digest all that had happened.
“Sheila, your husband has a brain tumor,” the doctor said. “Unfortunately it’s in a very critical area of the brain, which makes it impossible to remove without causing significant deficits. We’re going to refer you to doctors in Philadelphia for further evaluation and treatment.”
Days 51 – 5,289
As the shock wore off and our lives took a major detour, anger and resentment set in. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t our plan, our future. Cancer took center stage along with seizures, pills, radiation, and chemotherapy. We had plans, we had goals, we had a life to live—and cancer was in the way!
Forced to make a new “life” with our unwelcome guest, and although we tried not to focus on it too much, this ugly tumor was clearly the reason behind every decision, every goal, every breakdown, every argument, and every plan. Jeff’s dream of owning his own gym was replaced with staying in his current job for the medical benefits, and my plan to work for a marketing firm and travel the country was traded for “flexible and local” careers so I could drive him to treatments and take care of him.
So first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes babies…oh wait, scratch that. Then comes the biopsy, the diagnosis, and the once easy, now suddenly impossible decision to start a family. Hard enough to wrap my mind around this diagnosis and what it meant for our future, now we had to think seriously about bringing children into the picture. Pre-diagnosis, we both thought we’d have at least two, maybe three kids. Post-diagnosis, my anxiety level shot through the roof at the mention of getting pregnant.
Jeff wanted to be a dad, and I think he wanted it even more as the days and months turned into years. I, on the other hand, became more and more hesitant. Although a very optimistic person by nature, reality wouldn’t let go, and I couldn’t shake my doubts.
What if we have kids and Jeff’s condition worsens? How can we afford to have kids when we’re already struggling? How will we tell our kids that Jeff has cancer? What if he dies? What would I say? How would I get them through that? Can I raise them on my own? What if this is genetic? The optimists of the world will tell you “don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” But when you’re faced with the decision to bring children into what realistically is an unstable environment, I’ll bet money that those same optimists would think twice, just as I did.
I finally put my fears aside, took the leap of faith, and in May of 1999, welcomed our son Kyle into the world. He brought much-needed joy to our lives and put the focus on something other than cancer. Kyle was Jeff’s legacy, and at the time, the only one to carry on the Turner name. Jeff’s purpose in life was restored. He was a dad.
There were many times I would look at Kyle and think what’s going to happen if Jeff dies? If he does, it’ll just be the two of us and that’s not fair to Kyle. I knew I put off having another child because I feared not being able to handle it myself. But Kyle deserved to have a sibling, and I realized I was being selfish.
So, three and a half years later, we welcomed Eve to our family. There was no doubt my leap of faith was worth it—Jeff fell instantly in love with his princess, and she completed our family picture...dysfunctional maybe, we nevertheless had a “perfect” family: mom, dad, boy, girl…and oh yeah, that inoperable brain tumor…
On the surface, we lived the “American Dream”—in fact, we did it so well that we became indistinguishable from our friends and other families. People forgot what we were going through, and sometimes didn’t even know about Jeff’s brain tumor. They’d “vent” to us about their problems, and so many times I’d listen to my friends, and even strangers, talk about their lives and think what would it be like to have a ‘normal’ marriage? What would it be like to talk about future goals? What would it feel like to know that if you broke down and lost it for a while, your partner would be there to pick up the pieces and carry you through? What does it feel like to just be husband and wife? How do couples fight a really good fight, say what they really want to say, make up, and move on?”
I thought and how can you say you’re saving up to go to Disney next year? Don’t you ever stop to think that maybe you won’t be here next year? Don’t you have to live your life in between MRI scans?
Eventually I realized my bitterness was taking a major toll. Not really sure how or when, I decided to do something positive to off-set all that negative. Probably somewhere around day 2,734—I just knew I was sick and tired, Jeff was sick and tired, and our lives were being swallowed up by this ugly disease.
“We’ve got to figure something out here or neither one of us is going to make it,” I told him. “We’ve got to at least show our kids that there’s a lot of life to live out there. We can’t just look at everyone else’s lives and wish we had them. It’s our job to show them that, no matter what we’re faced with, we’re going to at least try to make the best of it.”
Jeff, knowing that something had to give, agreed and we put our plan in motion. No more helpless victim. Cancer would ultimately take Jeff’s life but between now and then we’d do all we could to raise money and awareness for new cancer research and support. Our mission became showing ourselves, our kids, and the world that doing something about cancer was a hell of a lot better than crying about it.
The Gift
The church was packed that overcast February morning when I buried my husband at the age of thirty-seven and watched my two beautiful babies say goodbye to their father.
My roommate from college had just finished singing Jeff’s favorite hymn when I turned to my kids and said “Ok, it’s time for me to go up there.” It was one of those moments I’d always known would arrive eventually. Although I’d rehearsed it a million times in my head, I could never quite wrap my heart around what it would actually feel like. Kyle tapped me on the elbow. “Mom, can we come up with you?” he whispered.
I looked at Eve and Kyle, just six and ten years old, and thought can they handle this? Is this going to be really awkward? It’s not every day a spouse delivers the eulogy—never mind a spouse and two young children.
“Are you sure you want to stand up there with me?” They nodded convincingly so I grabbed their hands, took a deep breath and said “Ok, let’s go.” As I spoke about their father, told stories, and called on every person in that church to do his part in the fight against cancer, I noticed that the three of us were smiling from ear to ear.
Nothing like what I’d envisioned, this was so much more perfect than that. Kyle and Eve belonged up there with me, and they stood proud and tall by my side as I eulogized their father. For all the pain and suffering we’d endured, it was worth every minute as we showed the congregation what was really important in life. I will always cherish those moments together at the pulpit, and they remain my proudest.
That day, we taught a church full of people that good things do exist even when bad things happen. Our strength that day and in the days since comes from knowing what it feels like to live in a very uncertain world. May our lives, much more stable now and filled with so much joy, continue to benefit from the lessons learned and compassion gained as we now move forward with our eyes wide open.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheila Turner is a business owner, Realtor, and avid supporter of cancer and grief support organizations. Her involvement in grief and support stems from the loss of her husband in 2010 to brain cancer. Sheila was faced with raising her 2 young children and quickly became an advocate for cancer and bereavement programs. She has spoken on behalf of The Moyer Foundation, appeared on "The Anderson Cooper Show", and writes an online forum for grieving parents. Sheila has been published by Penn Wissahickon Hospice, The Philadelphia Tribune, WHYY Radio and the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.
Sheila Turner
www.sheilaturner.com
info@sheilaturner.com
610-613-0322
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