I was Ben's second wife. I am the one that was there for him. He had three children and I had one baby when we married. I was seventeen. He was twenty-seven. Even though times were really tough he made sure he wrote me a poem at least once a year and sometimes more. He would arrive home after running one-half mile from where the shipyard bus dropped him off. Sweat would be dripping off him no matter the weather. When he reached into his back pocket and pulled that soggy wallet out, I knew I was going to be handed a new poem. They were almost all folded to fit in his wallet.
Folded to Fit in his Wallet
is the title of the book I see in my head.
Ben retired in January of 2005. He had his first seizure in April and the second one in May. Three days after the second one he had three, then six, then more and more every day. The neurologist said he had a stroke and that the brain was scanning the scar tissue causing him to have a seizure each time. He gave him medication and said he needed to lose weight. As the seizures became more frequent I documented them. I slept right next to him with pen and paper at hand. I faxed them to the doctor and in general tried to keep his attention on my husband. In July somebody mentioned "Seizure Clinic" & "Swedish Hospital". I jumped on it and asked the doctor if we could get an appointment there. We got an appointment for October. If any of you are living with someone who is waiting for the "appointment" and that person is having thirty or forty seizures a day, please don't wait any more, even if your doctor acts like it is okay. Pack that person to a seizure clinic as soon as possible. The doctor there told me I should have brought him straight there. She said they would have seen him. Anyway, that truly awesome doctor looked at his scans and yelled, "Take that equipment off him and bring this man a menu. He can eat anything he wants!"
She took me aside and told me he had a brain tumor. It was too large by then to use the gamma knife. His surgery took place in October. He went from having eighty to one hundred seizures daily to a blessed dozen. What a relief for both of us. His doctors enjoyed him and he was the only patient they said they had to tell to slow down. He even had to have a bed alarm because he wanted to walk and he was never daunted by floundering around on floor wracked with a seizure. He'd just get back up and keep trying.
There is a lot more to this story and some day I will write it as I've been asked but it is still hard to write through blurry eyes.
As I looked at our bills one day I thought maybe I could sell some of his poems. I took the box of stained and droopy poetry from my closet and read the one on top to him. "Wow," he said, "That's really good! Who wrote that?" I couldn't believe he didn't remember. "You did," I said. "I did!", he nearly squeaked with excitement. "I wrote that?" I nodded. He asked for a pencil and paper and he happily began writing again. What he wrote was hardly understandable but it didn't matter. He was happy and he was scribbling determinedly. He planned to help me earn some money. He had a goal.
I want to share his poems and his spirit. First I'll start with the poems.
Sincerely, Carmen
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