Brain Surgery Recovery: Six Weeks
Today marks six weeks since I woke up at 4:30AM and made my way to the hospital for my pre-surgery MRI and then went under anesthesia for over six hours while my head was cut into from forehead to ear, opened up, and a large tumor that had wrapped itself around blood vessels and nerves was removed from my brain. I was in the hospital for four days, including a three day ICU stay. I did not eat for two days following surgery. It took me weeks to resume a semi-normal eating routine. I can walk a little over a mile in a day, most days, so long as I get horizontal rest afterwards. My left eye remains limited, and my vision is improving, but I am still not okay to drive. I am still taking Keppra to prevent seizures and Tylenol to deal with pain. If I physically overdo it (which is easily done, and I am still not allowed to lift anything over 10lbs, including my daughter) or I experience emotional stress, my limbs tremble until I rest.
I am being very explicit because I have reached the point of recovery that I figured was coming. Impatience has arrived. It was not a secret that my recovery would be at least eight weeks long. Here we are at six weeks, and here we all are, ready for recovery to be complete.
Let me be the first to say that I would love to be done with this. This is one of the longest, most challenging things I have ever had to withstand, and that includes my C-section recovery, several half-marathons, climbing up steep and snowy Wind River mountain passes, and my first marriage.
And yet, the wait goes on.
I will say that things are improving. I can maintain a conversation, I can help plan and make my daughter’s daycare lunch and her breakfast, I can go on walks and not feel terrible afterwards, I actually managed to eat some vegetables yesterday (and not just veggie powder in a smoothie). My eye seems to have improved range of motion, and so I have more moments of seeing just one thing instead of two of everything. My emotions and fight/flight responses are calming, and I feel more like myself. I’ve done a little EMDR tapping work with myself, showing up as the person that the vulnerable version of me needs.
“It doesn’t bother me if you cry. Of course you’re upset - look at what has been going on for you! It does not make you weak or useless. Take your time. I love you, and you’re allowed to grieve over this.”
And, as you can probably guess, genuine permission to shed tears gently and slowly lessens them. This compassionate self-work, always a work in progress, has had my back in these moments when I have to stand by my own recovery. It takes as long as it takes. That is my responsibility, and I take it seriously.
The other night, I was grieving an aspect of all of this which is wrapped around what I had originally envisioned for my daughter being a year old. We had a very small gathering, which was nice, and also my upcoming surgery loomed in my mind the whole time. What will it mean for us? I wondered. Will she be okay with me gone? And the night before surgery, as I breastfed her to sleep, I wondered if that would be the last time I ever did that. It turns out, it would be. We did not get to take a family trip to celebrate our year together; instead, we survived. We did not get to go on long hikes as the weather cooled; instead, we survived. I did not get to pick her up and bounce her around after she achieved new milestones; instead, we survived.
All of this, in spite of how happy I am to be alive and recovering, feels like a loss to me. It did not go like I wanted it to, and there is part of me that wishes I could somehow go back and do it over again, with her, the way I dreamed of it. And yet, life proceeds with or without our approval or attention. So I try to, at least, pay attention.
As I spoke about this, my partner looked at me and said, “In twenty years, she is going to understand how strong you were. She may not get it for a long while, but when she does, she will know without a doubt how much you love her and what it was that you did to stay present for her.”
He has become so steady, so reassuring. I gratefully wept.
This whole experience has been a lesson in attention and will. It has been a big, “Hey, things happen, and you are not immortal, so do what you’re here to do.”
I am still figuring out what that is and likely will be for the rest of my time.
From what I can tell, this is a common experience for anyone who undergoes a survivable health crisis like this. Yes, I am going to be okay. And. It takes as long as it takes to get there, and I am not quite there yet. In a society obsessed with productivity and grinding, it is easy to feel less-than. Can we not allow ourselves to be still - especially when our own mortality has been for a visit?
If you are in doubt about how you have shown up for someone in a similar position, I hope this fills in some blanks. If you are in a similar position, I hope this can at least be validating.
Life is not linear.
But on we go.
P.S. I am writing a novel. It’s pretty good, so far, I think. Others have agreed. If you want to read it, you should. I am going to publish it when it’s complete. In the meantime, you can read the current draft here: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/afewmoremiles/posts
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There. That was for fifteen-year-old me.
Love to each of you.
