Thank God. It’s Just a Brain Tumor!
You Can Adapt to The Impossible
Fifteen days ago, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor.
While currently waiting through a brief treatment limbo, I’m handling this reasonably well, which is surprising because this is new and somewhat terrifying territory. And it’s me. I know and fully embrace my life-long chicken-hearted nature.
If you fear those worst-case medical scenarios and worry how you’d cope, maybe my words will bring reassurance. I think you have more guts than you realize. It’s amazing what humans can do when tested. Even this puny mortal can outperform expectations.
Ultimately, what we think is the worst-case scenario ,can change. And an intolerable condition we don’t believe we can withstand, doesn’t drop us.
Adaptation isn’t finite either. I’m finding it’s ongoing, and spontaneously evolving, as the crisis unfolds.
We adapt because we’re pretty remarkable.
If I Can Do This, You Can…
To fully appreciate the power of human resilience in crisis situations, you need to understand the raw material here. Yeah, I’m an empowered woman, but I’m also quite cowardly regarding numerous aspects of regular life.
The litany of things that unnerve, disgust, or scare me is quite long. So much so, that I have methodically itemized them and kept series of lists. Some of which are titled, “Top Fifty Worst Ways to Die” and “Most Disgusting Things on Planet Earth.”
I’m disturbed by numerous mundane events, such as when my cat pukes up a hairball. Even the sound of that creature hurling, sends me running to the bathroom to vomit in unison.
Typically, I hide for an extended period, hugging the toilet and hoping the Benevolent House and Kitchen Wizard, (AKA my tolerant boyfriend) removes the icky thing so I don’t have to clean it up. Gross.
Ditto with heights.
While sailing amidst big ocean waves and stormy seas doesn’t traumatize me, because life preservers and a dinghy are readily available and survival is statistically possible, I’m totally overwhelmed with fear pertaining to falling, and heights. I can’t even look up at a moving Ferris wheel without feeling sick and hyperventilating.
The two times I attempted riding that beast to overcome this ingrained phobia, I had such severe panic attacks, the ride had to be stopped to extricate this screaming, crying adult, while small children glared at me for ruining their fun.
A brain tumor and brain surgery made at least two of my lists for worst-case scenarios, or most disgusting things. Now, I’ve got one of those gross masses lurching along life with me. Never mind that it’s only marble-sized, and not yet impacting any major brain functions. It’s still there. An evil Death Star lurking over Planet Brain. Ick.
You can see why I’m shocked to be stable emotionally, given this background information. Spock’s voice echoes in my head, “Fascinating.”
I’m a dedicated people watcher, currently intrigued by observing my own behavior and thought processes.
Am I in total peace about this state of affairs? Absolutely not. But I’m pragmatic, researching, learning, and having honest discussions with my neuro-oncologist, family, and friends.
I’m not a blubbering, anxious mess, as I thought I’d be under these circumstances. Instead, I eat well, sleep soundly, enjoy normal activities, and go about my routine without falling apart. Yeah, I’m behind on life. Work has been difficult due to days when I physically don’t feel the mojo, but mentally I’m present.
Nor am I living in the Promised Land of Toxic Positivity, and denying this. While we hope for the best and the odds are in my favor at this time, no one knows the outcome, not even the excellent doctors treating me. Willpower or sunny outlooks don’t evaporate tumors, and I’m keenly aware of that and very fine with self-honesty.
Forgive the incoming pun. This brain tumor is on my mind all the time, but it isn’t tarnishing my life and I’m not hiding in the bathroom puking either.
Yes, I’ve had teary moments.
Absolutely I’m scared. But I’m not lost in those negatives. And it’s not because I am working to achieve this state of mind. Don’t congratulate me. This is beyond my doing.
That’s another stunning facet to this.
I haven’t purposely tried to enhance or gain skills to cope with Problem Alien Brain Marble. My mental arsenal just produced them, responding as I have with any crisis event, but greatly magnified in scope and abilities.
Coping skills on steroids have appeared.
I don’t know if they will remain intact through this whole journey, but I have them now. I’m a person of faith, and perhaps some of this is the rightness I have, knowing that everything happens as it should. I also think we’re all amazing beings made of stardust and bits of heaven and our potential is staggering.
And I expect if you were in a similar situation, you’d find a comparable untapped emotional well to draw from. And it will spontaneously spring into action, too.
Even more shocking, and a testament to the human spirit, I’ve had a long time to build up residual fear for this particular type of medical event, too. Reading those words, I’m again shocked I’m not a despairing puddle of mush.
We Continually Adapt within Our Evolving Crisis
For over two decades, I’ve had a small shadow of brain tumor potential hanging about.
I knew the cure could also be the curse.
My treatment for a stage III lymph node cancer in 1998 was a combination of vile chemo drugs, coupled with mantle radiation therapy, extending just below my ear lobes to my pelvic area.
At the time, this radiation was cutting edge technology, but it wasn’t precise. I was cautioned that it could cause tumors or secondary cancers decades later, particularly in my noggin, because radiation spilled over into that delicate cranial region.
But years passed, and nothing appeared on the horizon. Routine scans to monitor for cancer weren’t necessary anymore. Thoughts of a sequel to my cancer treatment had largely drifted from my conscious thoughts into subconsciousness. I was cured.
About eighteen months prior to the pandemic’s onset, I started feeling off. I wrote several articles about the two years of medical testing that I’d had.
Volumes of tests occurred, but no one thought to check my brain. Indeed, just about everything else was scanned, surveyed, poked, prodded, and assessed. Cancer risks were examined, and scans of my body were done, sans checking my head. (Oops!)
Everything looked pretty good, shy of a few non-life-threatening issues found. I assume doctors were beginning to dread seeing me, with my litany of complaints and no diagnostic evidence. Even I was beginning to feel like a hypochondriac.
But I still had weird symptoms.
The end of April, I broke down and sobbed in my primary care doctor’s office. “I just want to know what’s wrong with me. Why am I so tired some days? I want my life back.”
A brain MRI was finally ordered. Multiple Sclerosis was suggested by my healthcare provider, as sometimes I do have very strong neurological symptoms and we’d long since ruled out just about every other condition.
I’d accepted that I might have MS and had reframed my thoughts accordingly.
My self-talk said, “At least I’ll know what it is. If it’s MS, it can be treated and managed.” I thought I’d coped with the possibility of a chronic and potentially debilitating disease. Well done.
The Inconceivable Does Happen. What Then?
It was around midnight when my radiology report was deposited in my online patient portal. I’d only arbitrarily checked there before going to bed. I jumped to the Impressions section, which summarized the report. For a minute, I felt like the world had stopped spinning on its axis and I couldn’t breathe.
As I’ve had cancer before, I’m very familiar with reading medical records.
Surprise!
The first notation stated that brain lesions were present, but did not indicate MS. Nor was there a microchip implanted during my COVID vaccines. (Lest you belong to the conspiracy theory group and believe in that nonsense.)
The second notation listed a word I didn’t know but recognized as very Abby Normal. It ended in “oma,” which meant a swelling or tumor. Consist with a “Meningioma,” read the report.
Google answered my immediate questions. Yeah, I had a brain tumor. At least the radiologist reading the MRI concluded it looked like one. Dear God.
What Are We Dealing With?
Shortly after, my newly appointed neuro-oncologist filled in the details, informing me that it was indeed a brain tumor.
In medical terms, this little brute is located along the right tentorium cerebelli extending to the right cerebellopontine angle, which basically means it’s sitting between two lobes of my brain on the right side, but not yet infiltrating them. In the header of this article, you can see where it sits. Small, marble-sized and still an icky thing I’m transporting about.
The Death Star hovering there can cause vision or hearing loss as it grows, as well as other unsavory consequences. In its present state and placement, it shouldn’t cause cognitive issues, strokes, or seizures, but gee…I’m not keen on testing that theory.
About ninety percent of these tumors are non-cancerous (Grade One), rather slow growing meningiomas. The remaining ten percent consist of Grade Two, more aggressively growing meningiomas and Grade Three brain tumors, which are an assort of various cancerous options.
While not all brain tumors are cancerous, even a benign growing brain tumor can compress tissue and be life-threatening, as there’s no room in the skull for extra stuff. Even a slow grower is ultimately known in professional medical terms as a “very bad thing.” And further, my physician noted that benign meningiomas can rarely, but suddenly go rouge and turn into cancerous tumors, too. Oh. Joy.
However, he was quite hopeful this tumor was in the “good group,” and I’m taking his lead and the statistics and assuming it’s not some cancerous thing with a slim chance of survival.
He’s a wonderful doctor. I am lucky to have him and an excellent team of highly skilled neurologists locally.
My general thoughts are the following and I think many people in these situations identify:
“I don’t want to waste time worrying unnecessarily, as I won’t gain a single day obsessing about the unknown.
It’s quite enough to deal with what’s known.
And I will deal with it straight on, because I have no other choice. Not because I want to.”
More scans in the coming weeks are needed to plot the tumor’s growth. From there, we have three options, ranging from ongoing monitoring to brain surgery to gamma knife radiation.
The new gamma knife radiation is very precise, unlike my previous experiences with radiation therapy, but such a treatment doesn’t remove the tumor. A small percent grow back. And there are some marginal risks with this treatment of brain swelling and brain hemorrhage.
My current preference is surgery, which will totally remove the beastie and also provide a biopsy. I’d dig it out myself with a spoon if I could.
However, my neurologist said surgery wasn’t a cakewalk, as it’s very deep in my brain. To quote him, “It’s a very complex type of brain surgery and it’s something we can do, but it’s not without many risks.” Among those, are potential loss of vision and/or hearing, as well as rare outcomes and “other medical issues.”
Cutting into the brain is an icky thought. My chicken shit stomach turns looking at those words. Definitely, it is riskier than gamma knife radiation treatment.
Regardless, both treatment options carry some health risks, as well as varying degrees of potential life-threatening consequences. None of these are fabulous choices with clear cut answers or results.
Without historical evidence showing the growth pattern, and when the tumor isn’t yet invading brain tissue, doctors are reluctant to leap into frying or slicing up your grey matter.
Eventually, it will need to be treated. Perhaps in a few weeks or if it’s growing slowly, treatment can be months or even years away. I hope that’s not the case, as it seems a huge emotional strain to have a time bomb in your brain. Especially if that time bomb isn’t one of the more polite benign versions.
Regardless, I’ll hang tight. I don’t have much in the way of options here, to do anything but stand fast. And I’ll educate myself as more is known.
I think it’s really critical to know thy enemy, even if it’s painful. You should know the risks, the odds, the treatment and the worst and best scenarios. You’ll be strong enough for what you hear, because this is your body and your life. Those inner adaptive skills will give you the strength needed.
Our Perspectives Change Dramatically With the Crisis
The marvel of how well we process the inconceivable and evolve within a catastrophe is not lost on me. In a matter of weeks, I went from accepting that I might have Multiple Sclerosis, to a very different type of acceptance. More coping and adapting upon discovery of a brain tumor, one of my most feared medical diagnoses. Add then, further mental evolution as I have learned and accepted treatment risks. Sign me up. Just get this damned thing nuked or removed. STAT.
If I need to, I’ll coexist with my brain marble for a while. I’ll even accept that.
I’ll cope and I’ll adapt to what happens. At least I hope I can.
Then there was a new event which hammered home even more of our adaptive skills.
When the Worst Case Scenario Isn’t So Bad
I had a new PET scan last week. These tests look for areas in your body with increased metabolic activity, which can indicate cancerous cells. My last PET scan, fifteen months ago, was a clean scan. But much can go sideways in that time frame if you’ve got an aggressive cancer. If other suspicious growths were found elsewhere hiding in my anatomy on this new scan, it would dramatically reduce my rather sunny survival rates.
Once again, my results rolled in just before midnight. For just a moment, I didn’t want to open the file. But when I did, I saw the scan was negative for increased metabolic activity in my body. A clean scan! Hurrah!!
My first thought was, “Thank God! It’s just a brain tumor!” Elated, I proclaimed it to my boyfriend and with such volume I assume the whole neighborhood probably heard.
Two neat shots of decent whiskey promptly toasted the good news.
“Thank God! It’s just a brain tumor!”
Even if I could imagine it, I never thought I’d be saying those words and with true joy and infinite relief. It’s just a brain tumor!
To quote Bob Dylan, “I used to care, but things have changed.” My, how they change and how we change.
We Adapt Because We have Untapped Potential
The moral of this story is simple and also miraculous.
Perspectives suddenly reframe and realign alongside catastrophes — at least mine did quite swiftly. And somehow, you do manage the inconceivable, be it a brain tumor or any other cataclysmic medical event. (I don’t say we adjust the same to losses of human beings we love, because I know that’s a far more difficult and different tragedy.)
But pertaining to personal medical events, I think this is simply how one must play the cards that are dealt. We adapt, we evolve, and we lean into it. Our internal desire to survive is mighty, even for chicken-hearted humans such as me.
Remember, you’re made of a little stardust and that means you are magical beings with untapped powers.
For now, I abide. For now, I haven’t lost my marbles, but seemed to gain one alien marble. Be well, my friends.
I am grateful for all the love and kind words people have showered on me and I’m quite unworthy of it. I’m just a human plugging along, like we all are.
If you appreciate my work, and want to buy me a cup of coffee, or a drink to toast the day I get this Death Star removed from my head, I’ll be forever thankful! Just click the button below.
