And Then, It Was Three Years Later

Three years ago, my skull was cut open with a craniotome and a flap of bone was peeled back to reveal the tumor growing against the left side of my brain and indenting into my brainstem. Sounds pretty metal when I write it out like that. 

I woke up at 4AM, or something like it, and kissed my sleeping daughter goodbye. My stepmother arrived before we left, so someone would be there when she woke up. I put on clothes, grabbed my hospital bag, and drove to the hospital with my husband and brother. I wanted to be the one to drive, since I wouldn’t get to for at least eight weeks. I had no idea that it would be more like eight months. 

We arrived in the dimly lit parking lot with puddles on the ground. We sat in the crowded front lobby for a while, making jokes. My parents arrived at the hospital and we all sat in the MRI suite. I was brought back for pre-op MRI, and he had a hard time getting the IV needle in. This happens often to me. It’s worse when I am dehydrated, which I was, because you’re not allowed to hydrate before surgery. It’s a thing.

I remember getting so angry at him, but needing to act like I wasn’t. I needed the surgery, and you can’t cuss out the person digging around in your arm with a needle when you need a surgery. You have to take long, deep breaths and try to keep yourself from crying and shouting, “This day is already terrifying, can you please do this ONE THING correctly?” Probably not fair to the guy. But it’s how it feels as a patient. 

I got the MRI. Bonk bonk bonk, tap tap tap, HRRRNNNNNN. Yep, still a tumor. 

They brought a wheelchair for me. Only my husband went back to pre-op with me. I hugged my parents and brother, thinking to myself, “I hope I see you soon. I probably will. I hope I do.” 

But saying that out loud means you start crying before you have surgery, and I didn’t want to cry before I had surgery. So instead, I said I love you. And I probably made a joke.

Pre-op meant more needles digging around under flesh, it meant electrodes getting pasted to my head. Confirm name, date of birth, and what surgery are you having today?

What I understood was not the same as what they were planning. I asked to speak to the doctor. He clarified. The tumor (and therefore the surgery) was bigger than the impression I had initially been given. A lot bigger. And it wasn’t something that could be done without cutting my skull open. They would need to do that. They would need to also cut an incision in my belly to remove fat to place in my head. I took in this new information as they got their needle inserted. I consented. Because what else can you do?

They took me into the operating room. It was blindingly bright and comically cold. They shuffled me from the rolling bed to the table. I made another joke. Then I was gone. 

For seven hours, it was just my body and whatever version of consciousness exists when your brain is not connected to the pain signals the body is sending. They called my husband once an hour to tell him I was still alive and still in surgery.

He saw me, later, afterwards. Before I woke up. Intubated and swollen. The monitors beeping and the sun setting. 

I woke up in the middle of the night, desperate for water. My mother was there, and she gave me some. I immediately vomited it across the bed. I remember being upset about the vomit but also almost amused. Like of course. Of course the first thing I do is puke. Can’t even be chill about waking up from anesthesia. 

I remember the little containers of soy milk being one of the few things I could stomach while I was in the ICU for three days. The nurse put a teabag on my eye to help the swelling go down. The eye was purple and glossy with swelling, and the left side of my head looked like it belonged to someone else. 

But I was alive. I didn’t know a lot of things yet. I didn’t know if I would be permanently disabled. We would need to test me for seizure activity after keeping me on Keppra for eight weeks. I didn’t know if my eye would ever work again—it was frozen in place for months. My brain didn’t communicate like it used to. If I was that swollen on the outside, I imagine I was similarly impacted on the inside. I couldn’t feel hunger cues, and any social filter I once had was temporarily disabled. 

When I came home, my daughter looked at me with an expression of confusion, but also happy to have me back. It had been four days. 

It has been three years. 

Today, I am not having surgery. I am not having surgery today. 

Today, I had a cup of coffee while looking out the window. You can’t have coffee before surgery. I watched a robin sort through leaves for food, even though all I usually hear are cardinals or blue jays. The obvious thing is not the only thing, most of the time. 

If I could send a message back to the one waiting to do this terrifying thing, I think it would have to start with, “I love you.” 

This will be the hardest thing you have done yet. I wish it didn’t have to be, but it will be. 

And.

And.

And!

There will be so many ands. The ands will nourish. And people will bring you food, bake you bread, come clean your kitchen just to help and come see you. And they will put on a fundraiser that will help sustain you while you can’t work. And your family will hover, they will fuss, and they will love you. And your husband will continue to love you—even like you—when you are making the least amount of sense you’ve ever made. He will make you breakfast and bring it to you while you sit outside and watch the trees out of one eye. And your daughter will turn four in three years, and it will be as it should. She will not lose you today. 

Today, I am here. And even if that’s not the only thing, it is something obvious.

Happy Three Years, Since.