Shawn P. B. Robinson

This post is a continuation of a series looking back to my experience in 2017 with Encephalitis. For the previous post, click here.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

On Sunday, I continued to write.

If you have read my Arestana series, you know it’s pretty odd and silly. Since I had not planned on publishing it, I didn’t hold back. I knew what would make my sons laugh, and I jumped in with both feet. I had a lot of time to just sit around and type in my hospital bed, and for some reason, it didn’t hurt my head to do so (although a lot of other stuff did). Since I figured only my sons and wife would read the story, I just went all out with writing the story as odd and strange as I could make it. If you read my books, you will get a glimpse of the kind of mind that I have. I would like to suggest that perhaps my silly humor was a result of the encephalitis, but truthfully, I was just better at hiding it before.

The belly needle situation, of course, continued. When they first explained their sadistic policy, I had thought it was only once. As a result, I endured it with courage and fortitude. But when they woke me up on Sunday morning with a look of pleasure in their eyes and a needle to plunge into the depths of my stomach, I melted under the pressure.

I know many people have to have needles in the belly. I know they get used to them, but I never did. It hurt a lot each and every time. I think there was once it wasn’t too bad, but I think that was the result of an inexperienced nurse.

Sunday was also the Superbowl. It’s a bit of a family tradition of ours to have some friends over to watch it. We aren’t big football fans (that’s American Football, by the way), but we enjoy watching the Superbowl. Back at home, my family watched it together (without me), and I caught the end of it on my laptop at one point. It was difficult to miss an event that we always spend together.

I also missed church in the morning. I was a pastor at my church and had been preaching the Sunday before, but I was now in an isolation room in the hospital. My church didn’t really know what was going on with me–no one really understood it yet–but they were praying for me.

On that day, I believe (a lot of this is pretty jumbled in my mind), they installed a PICC line. What that involves is they slice open a hole in your arm (near your armpit) and shove a long hose in through a vein leading to the heart. The hose runs right up to the heart so they can put medicine directly into your bloodstream without having to use a traditional IV.

It didn’t hurt as much as one might think. The cool part was the guy who put in the PICC line was from Lebanon. I have a good friend from Lebanon (shout out to Bechara!), and I had just been in Beirut, Lebanon, a few months before. It allowed for some really great conversation with the man as he drove a plastic tube through a vein to my heart.

I continued to struggle through the thoughts and fears of dying. Death itself does not frighten me. I know for many, what I’m about to share might upset you, but I cannot hide my faith. I am a Christian who believes that Jesus loves us and offers us life with Him–free for anyone who wants it. I wasn’t afraid of death. I am confident in my future.

The pain I felt was in the matter of my family’s grief. I pictured my wife trying to move ahead in life, parenting our boys and managing alone. I imagined my boys grieving and longing for their dad. I thought about how grief and loss can often leave a hole in your heart for a long time, and I did not want my boys to spend years grieving and longing for the dad they lost as a child.

With the pain in my eye continuing and the pain and ache in my head as the encephalitis continued its rewiring of my brain, I was left with a constant reminder that I was not doing well. It was clear I was in a serious situation.

I will admit… I was afraid. I was afraid of the pain that my boys and my wife would experience if I didn’t make it.

To be continued…

To follow the next part of this journey, click here.