Brain Surgery: Finding Out
It wasn’t my intention to cover Mommy Blogging and Major Health Event Blogging in the same goddamned year, but here goes.
We met with the neurologist on Friday the 21st.
This whole process will not be as non-invasive as I’d hoped for, but it is also still not the worst it could be. In fact, there is a lot about it that is good, considering what it is.
The neurologist confirmed again that this is a benign tumor (he used the word tumor, rather than cyst) and told me that the treatment is surgery - sooner better than later - because it is wrapping around the nerves that go to my eye and face. And because it is attaching to things, it will not be as simple as to go in and drain it. It is slow growing, so I am not being rushed into surgery this week, but I will have surgery in September.
Brain surgery.
For my brain tumor.
This is fucking whack.
After that, I’ll be recovering for at least eight weeks - no driving, no working, no lifting anything over 5lbs (including baby girl). I am going to need… so much help.
It does not feel like this is really happening yet. How is this happening? I joke about it sometimes; other times, I openly weep about it - the grief pendulum swings back and forth. I keep trying to picture the before, during, and after. Visualize it so that I can prepare. It’s not really working. Sometimes I lie awake with colossal dread hollowing out my insides, drawing my belly in like a black hole. Sometimes I feel completely confident that it will be easier than expected.
Sometimes fear says to me, “You see? Because you are afraid, there is reason to fear. Surely you must intuitively know something. What if something goes wrong and this is the last month of your life?”
Well, sure. But what else can I do but the best I know how to do?
And.
Having a feeling is not evidence for the feeling.
That I’m feeling dread seems like a reason to feel dread, but not necessarily. The dread of surgery is understandable, and fear of dying is part of the human experience and the deep motivation for most things. But there is so much evidence that it will be all right. The surgeon has done more complicated surgeries before and is one of the best in his field. It is on the surface of my brain, right there ready to be plucked out, not deep and hidden beneath something important. I will be swollen and tired, but this is a solvable problem.
Sometimes I think it’s the recovery and figuring out how to repair with my little girl that I am dreading the most. I will be gone, inexplicably, for at least two nights - maybe three - and when I come back, I’ll be different. I’ll look different. Will she be upset with me? Will she recognize me? How will she be while I am gone? Will she eat and sleep well? Of course she will be with people who love her and would do anything for her. She will be safe and taken care of. And yet, it is a rupture in the dyad that we have comfortably inhabited for nearly a year. I am mourning the ease of it.
And yet, at least I will have the chance to come together again. In this way, I am very lucky.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
During a morning workout - running, step-ups, push-ups, dips, burpees, and hill sprints, I’d like you to know - I have the blessed experience of determination settling in after a few days of sardonic despair. I am not likely to get to move and exercise like this for three to six months after surgery, so I am enjoying it as much as I can while I can. I want to be strong - unbreakable - so that when all I can do is walk and sleep, I will have this strength to pull from. I am going to be stronger than what this will require of me.
And in six months, when I am off of seizure medication and able to move well again; when my hair is growing back and my scar is fading; when my baby girl is walking and talking and we can play in a park together; I will know what it takes to get through a moment like this.
I will find that I have been more than capable.
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