On Oct. 7, 2012, I had a seizure – at a pumpkin patch – with my family and a friend and about 300 strangers. One minute I was watching our kids eat snow cones and the next minute I was waking up in an ambulance, confused. I was taken to the emergency room, where they stuck me with needles and ran tests – including a CT scan. I was told I had a tumor in my brain and was being transferred to Stanford Hospital immediately. More tests and scans and visits from various specialists and residents and medical students and nurses. Surgery was scheduled for October 10. It was all a blur – my husband tells me that we watched movies while we were waiting for Wednesday to come around. I don’t remember. Memories are hard to make after a seizure and with a big mass in your brain. Surgery went remarkably well – I was lucky enough to have a brilliant surgeon with a startlingly good bedside manner. He believed he got 99.9% of the tumor, but couldn’t say 100% because it wasn’t encapsulated. We knew at that point it was cancer, we just didn’t know how bad. I had more tests, more scans, more below average hospital food – and went home on October 12. I was tired and my memory was sketchy, but I was feeling pretty good under the circumstances.
We went back for a follow-up and the first shoe was dropped. Lab tests had come back, confirming that 3+ cm mass in my brain was cancer: aGBM 4. The worst kind of brain tumor. Aggressive and persistent – meaning it’s not a question of IF it will come back, it’s WHEN. The words I’ll never forget were spoken: We now know how you’re going to die, we just don’t know when. To all of my doctors’ credit, no one shared the grim statistics for people with a GBM 4. They told me that my age, the fact that I was symptom free (in retrospect, there may have been SOME symptoms, but it’s funny what you find when you start looking), the near 100% resection of the tumor, the Giant Cell variety, my overall health…essentially, I had a lot going for me. BUT, it was still time to put my affairs in order, spend time with my family, take that trip, etc.
In June of 2012, after 14 years, I started a year-long leave of absence from work to spend time with my kids (5 and 9), nurture my relationships and my soul (cook, knit, sew, garden), and recharge before I went back to the grindstone. I spent the summer doing just that and it was awesome. The kids started school and I signed up to be room mom for my son’s kindergarten class. I had 4 months of stay-at-home-mom bliss before my brain surprise.
I have brain cancer. I’m a realist. I’m a planner. I’m a worrier (a what-if thinker, if you will). So…I’ve cried. I’ve panicked. I’ve spent some days not wanting to get out of bed. I’ve bought journals for my children so I can tell them things I might not be around to tell them later. I’ve appreciated my husband even more than I did before – for his ability to be my advocate, ask the questions I was too dazed to ask, to hold my hand, to keep visitors at bay when I couldn’t face anyone, for being my strength all while he was just as terrified as me. I’ve started to put my affairs in order – lawyers and all.
Since I have young children, I’ve also tried to maintain some semblance of normal. “I’m still mom” kind of stuff. The kids still have chores, they still have to follow the family rules, they still have lessons and practice. They still have play dates and birthday parties. They still get to be kids even if their mom has cancer. My mom and dad, my friends, their teachers, their friends have helped to make that happen. Especially during the six weeks of intense treatment and kitchen remodel – but that’s another story.
I am also an optimist – I know it’s a contradiction, but I’m complicated. Many people who have 3+cm GBM 4 tumors discovered in their brains are FAR worse off than me – they don’t live next to a world-class medical center with brilliant neurosurgeons (with excellent bedside manners) and top-notch neurooncologists; they have to FIGHT to get to one and then TRAVEL FAR for treatments; they don’t have family and friends who can and will drop everything to help; they have inoperable tumors, major side effects pre or post surgery; they don’t tolerate treatment or worse, the treatments create new health issues; their doctors tell them from the start what the grim statistics are – taking away whatever hope they would have been able to muster.
So here’s my optimism coming out: When I had my seizure, there was a nurse close by who knew what to do. My friend was there to take my kids and keep them calm and safe and allow my husband to be by my side. The emergency room doctor at the local hospital didn’t give me any medication that would have made my situation worse (it’s happened) AND she didn’t just send me home – she managed to get me transferred to Stanford and placed under the care of a brilliant neurosurgeon (did I mention his bedside manner?). I didn’t have to fight for or think about what treatment course to take for the mass in my brain – it was decided and done before I had time to think about it. I handled the surgery well and went home 2 days later. I recovered well and had minimal side effects from the surgery. I was already on leave from work, so I didn’t have to deal with taking a leave or worry about who would manage my job. My family and friends are awesome. Of all the myriad of things that could have gone wrong – think: driving when I seized, further injury when I fell, inoperable tumor, unsuccessful surgery or side effects (they told me I’d swell and bruise severely – I didn’t), and so on….none of it happened.
I have brain cancer, and yet I feel very lucky. I am balancing that fine line between my realism and my optimism. Failure is not an option, but let’s prepare for the worst, just in case. I try to live without worrying about when the other shoe will drop, but it’s always there…looming.
This blog is about how I struggle to find that balance while I continue treatment to fight the beast in my brain and live my life as a mother, wife, friend and citizen of the world. It’s about how I spend every day left in my life – however long that is.