A Year Later: Brain Surgery Thoughts
I have been on and off in terms of engaging with remembering this experience. A few months ago, I wrote something down and then again a few days ago. I’ll include both for comparison.
Ten Months Post-OP
What’s it like to be ten months post-brain surgery?
Well it does depend on what it was and what they did and where they did it. But for me?
Mostly it’s good. Sometimes it’s still tough.
Left eye is still damaged - some dizziness and fatigue comes with that sometimes. My energy is much better than nine months ago, and also, sometimes my brain will declare “done” so randomly and suddenly that I often don’t realize what has happened at first.
One day, a series of activities will feel fine. Another day, that same series of activities will toast me.
It’s a thing that happened a lot after surgery that I am realizing still happens (it helps to identify it). I won’t realize I’m getting tired and then BAM it’s like I got smacked with a 2x4 and my body wants to cry. I don’t want to cry. My eyes tear up though. I am trying to get better again about going to lie flat for a while when that happens. I used to do that every day - lie flat for 30-60 minutes, sometimes sleeping and sometimes not. I’d be better afterwards. So okay. I seem to need it more in luteal phase.
I can go on runs. My ability to progress with speed and stamina grows more slowly than it did before. Part of that could be just getting older, but it feels brain-related, too. I have just added some sprinting back into my workouts on occasion. Proud of that.
I’m anxious this month. I found out about the tumor a year ago and the anniversary anxiety is wicked. Last MRI (9 months post-op) was said to be “stable, no change,” which is nice to hear about an MRI of your brain. And so it is most likely that my life will continue to go on with no more knives to the head.
A few months ago, I had the experience of descending into “I’m weak, I’m helpless” when something whacked on that negative belief. I believe I wrote about it somewhere. That and the experience of my partner standing beside me and holding me… and then the awakening of, “No fuck that, I’m strong as hell.”
I had a similar moment yesterday. That morning, I had gotten to work on a project with a friend while my partner took our daughter to play. Then a midday nap while toddler snoozed (because I was worn out, see previously mentioned brain fatigue). And then we went over to my mothers’ house and I watched my girl splash around on a splash pad while the weather was a breezy 80-something with blue skies and white fluffy clouds. Summer in a bottle, the sweetest flavor they make. We ordered pizza and sat outside to eat it, reminiscent of so many warm evenings past.
That evening, as I walked my daughter toward her crib to help her to sleep, the rosy twilight peaked through the blinds and a soft light filled the room. And the thought that came was, “I really love my life.” Simple it is, and stressors there are, but the awareness of being so exceedingly lucky and delighted by the day I’d just had settled on me like a gentle hand on my shoulder. Like, look around, you goof. Look around and see what’s here. It’s more than enough.
Almost Fourteen Months Post-Op
Sometimes I have realizations about living and dying that I didn’t used to have. Perhaps it’s age and perhaps it’s the experience of a random health event - an event I did not “earn” or see coming, but rather, one that has always been mine whether I drank kale juice or ate donut burgers and would always be mine one way or another.
The realization is a simple and obvious one: “I’m going to die.” I don’t say it to be crass or cynical. I don’t say it to be pitiful, even. It’s more of a reminder.
I use my attention in a way that aligns with what I say I want some fraction of the time. The rest? Nonsense, mostly. Dopamine hunger, automatic frustration, judgment and martyrdom. Sometimes I’ll be on my way to feed whatever impulse came over me and I’ll be stopped by my husband. “I love you,” he will say, and I will smile and wrap my arms around him. The impulse will poke and prod, insistent, wanting me to get back to it. I will want to satisfy the impulse. I will want to finish up whatever affection is being offered from the love of my life so that I can satisfy the nagging. And then…
I am going to die.
One day, if things go well (and it is not guaranteed that they will), I will be an old woman. And I will look back at being a younger woman with this man I adore and hopefully will be able to say with integrity that I kissed him honestly and with all the adoration that I truly feel when I am not stuck in the addiction of distraction.
One day, he will die. One day, I will die. We won’t be here anymore. We don’t see each other again in exactly this way, in exactly this moment, ever again within linear time.
Holy shit!
Of course, it is this exact brutal reality that I want to distract myself from, even as it is the reminder to climb down out of my ass and pay attention.
As the one year anniversary of brain surgery has come and gone, I have been navigating some feelings and sensations that I expected and some that I didn’t.
Fatigue, dread, irritability (or maybe that’s just the election cycle). Lamentations about what still isn’t what it used to be. Wondering if perhaps that expectation is best let go so that I can proceed with the fatalism appropriate to getting older.
As I wade into, “But it’s been so long, why can I not-” it is easier to drift into that pity. In the beginning, just the wonder of being here (and then being able to start seeing again) was so accessible that it came up all the time. So maybe it’s a sign of improvement in its own way that I can fuss over details again.
I’ll think back to those long, painful days from a year ago, and I’ll remember how grateful I am that it’s like this now. It’s exactly like this for me, right this moment, and it is beautiful.
Because I am going to die.
And I am going to change, and my body will shift and get harder to exist in, and someday I will get tired enough - if things go wel! - that I will be ready(ish?) to go on. And I will just be remembered, unable to be touched, unable to be in this form, as this body, as this collection of memories and reactions and loves ever again.
And so the message, from me to me, remains the same.
Pay attention. Let it be beautiful.
Amen amen.
