I left the box of Wheat Thins sitting next to the laptop when I ran to grab the cell phone which was ringing. When I got back the entire box, barely opened, was gone.

Well, almost.

One of the sides and the back of the box were still there, next to Poe’s feet. He cocked his head and gave me one of those “Mmm..pretty good, what else you got?” looks.

I did not, as I usually do, give him his tablespoon of peanut butter treat.

It was Stacey Howell calling. My friend from Fairhope. She’d sent me a note after getting word about Tim:

 

an hour later, I am still sitting here at the computer in front of the window looking out at the bay praying and seeing love and beauty ( a glowy kind) sort of a left over presence from Tim’s visit here. My prayer is that God’s purpose has already been accomplished and he will release Tim with a successful surgery. How can my heart be so connected to someone I have known such a short time, God’s plan is wondrous.

 

Fairhope and the friends we made there seem like a faraway gift right now. During times of trial, I’ve indulged this notion that if I could physically remove myself from the environment then the bad things would dissipate, too, like smoke from bacon burnt.

The thing I love about Stacey is that she is endlessly positive.

“You know,” she said, “a brain tumor sounds ominous but really pneumonia is far more dangerous.”

I laughed. Stacey is a doctor’s wife. The mother of two grown sons. She has the practicality of a woman who’s been there, done that, and survived it all.  She does not tolerate hysteria of any sort.

I respect people like that. People like Embry’s mother. Embry works at Auburn University. She grew up in Columbus, Ga., my hometown. Embry and I chatted last week, before I discovered Tim on the bathroom floor.

Embry told me her ninety-year old mother had been having fainting spells. The doctor wanted to run some tests, to locate the source of the fainting spells.

“You might be having seizures,” the doctor told Embry’s mama.

“What was it you said I might be having?” she replied.

“Seizures,” the doctor said.

“Well, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone have one of those. I’m not sure I would know how.”

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I thought of Embry’s mama as Tim told Dr. Earl that he wasn’t going to take the medication that Dr. Serrano had prescribed for seizures. Dr. Earl is the family doctor. The one Tim hardly ever goes to, but the one who has seen me countless times.

I have such respect and admiration for Dr. Earl. He and his wife adopted three children from Africa. They had a bunch of their own already.

I had tried Monday morning to get through to Dr. Earl, to change Tim’s appointment from the unknown to the known but his office phones weren’t working. I couldn’t get through and that’s how we ended up in the office of, “Hi, I’m Dr. Serrano and you have a brain tumor.”

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The jokes about it are endless now. I absentmindedly walked in front of a moving car in the hospital parking lot, and Tim yelled out, “Who has the brain tumor?”

He instructed me to wait for him in the school parking lot while he ran his “good-to-go” doctor’s note into the principal’s office, so he could coach last night’s game. Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I called his cell.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” Tim said. “I forgot to call. I’m on the game bus.”

“You left me sitting here for 30 minutes?” I cried.

“Hey, I have a brain tumor,” he said. “I can’t remember stuff.”

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Dr. Earl didn’t seem fazed by Tim’s decision to not take the dilatin. There’s no pattern to seizures, yet, Tim explained. “If one develops, I’ll take it.”

Fair enough, Dr. Earl said.

Earl’s nurse had called me at home earlier, asked me to bring Tim in to see the good doctor that very afternoon. The doctor had gotten the report from Tim’s ER visit.

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As we sat waiting for Dr. Earl, Tim’s cell phone rang.

“Hey Coach,” the voice said. “It’s me Dusty. You alright? I heard you were sick.”

“No, no, man, I’m good,” Tim said. “I just had this weird thing last Wednesday but I’m good.”

I thought of Embry’s mama. A seizure? I don’t believe I know how to have one of those.

Dusty goes to college with our nephew. A former Hermiston Bulldog, he was never one of Tim’s classroom students, but Tim had helped coach him during football.

He was just calling to say he was thinking about Tim, wishing him the best. His call caused my heart to swell. Men like Tim never know the impact they have on the lives of the kids they teach and coach. He was genuinely surprised by Dusty’s call.

                                                _________

Dozens of others have sent notes over the past couple of days, or called, people who know Tim personally, and those who only know of him via the things I’ve written.

Red called from Pennsylvania and left Tim a voice message. “Tell Karen you have a damn lot more to be scared of than she does. You have to put up with her driving you around for the next six months.”

Likely even more bothersome is that Tim has to put up with me making sure he has the best care possible.

I have one other advocate in that, however – Dr. Earl. The MRI, previously scheduled for Friday, will take place at noon today. Once we get that over with, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with, exactly.

Meanwhile, I have an appointment with the hospital administration this morning to discuss some of the glaring problems in protocol.

I am, after all, an Army Sgt.’s daughter. I’m genetically-wired with “No BS” DNA.