The Day I Faced My Mortality

The moment I realized tomorrow isn’t always promised

We have three deaths in our lifetime. However, my three versions of our deaths differ slightly from American neuroscientist David M. Eagleman’s version.

David believes the first is when we leave our bodies and the second is when we’re buried. I believe our first is the moment we have a brush with death. It’s the enlightening moment when we realize we won’t live forever. It’s our wake-up call. I believe the second death is the moment we die and leave this earth.

Youth gives us this ignorant bliss, thinking we have forever and a day to live. To experience all life has to offer us and to accomplish everything and anything. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. The truth is, death can visit us at any moment. Because the moment we’re born, we are dying.

My first death occurred on the morning of December 28, 2016. My husband and I had the most exciting Christmas. After a lengthy period of trying, we were finally expecting our first child. On Christmas Eve, we were officially in the first trimester’s safe zone to announce the pregnancy to our family and friends. It was the most memorable Christmas.

On December 28, I was sitting down, eating breakfast. I was reading the morning news on my iPad. I rested my head in the palm of my hand as I was reading. I did this every day. The same actions and mannerisms. On this day, though, my fingers felt a lump underneath my left year.

“What in the world is this,” I frantically questioned?

I called for my husband. He came into the kitchen and calmly didn’t think much of it.

“You’re 10 weeks pregnant,” he stated. “You work in a school with little kids who are sick all the time. I’m sure your lymph nodes are swollen and trying to fight off something.”

Those were logical words. “That makes sense,” I thought.

But something inside me felt off. I tried to calm myself because pregnancy does a number on your body. I decided it’d be wise to call the doctor, just in case. I got an appointment that day.

They did a blood panel right away and sent me for an ultrasound on the lump. I thought the ultrasound was a waste of time. It was frustrating. I knew it wouldn’t tell any significant news that it’d be inconclusive. I wanted an answer as soon as possible.

Considering that I was pregnant, the next steps for scans were crucial. I ended up getting an MRI without contrast. That was the safest option for the pregnancy that would give us some answers.

I had an MRI about two years prior. It was on my lower lumbar of my back. An MRI is a tight squeeze, but I wasn’t bothered by it. I’m not a claustrophobic person. What I didn’t realize is that having an MRI done on your head and neck is absolute torture.

The technicians place a cage on your head and neck region. Your nose is touching the cage, giving you the sensation that you’re locked in and trapped. That sensation left me feeling like my air supply became limited. I understood why many dread having MRI scans.

As the technician left the room to begin the scans, I felt so confused with life. “Why was this happening to me? I hope this won’t hurt my poor baby.”

I tried to keep myself calm. It’s easy to put on an appearance of calmness, so you don’t worry anyone who cares about you. It’s an entirely different beast to try to fake tranquility for the growing life inside you. I worried that the stress hormones would impact my child’s development. I did it, though. Fake it till you make it.

I completed my scans after what felt like an eternity. I had received the phone call with my results while I was at work. I had done so much research on what this could have been. I was hoping it was something with my lymph nodes or even a salvia stone. Usually, stones get broken up.

It wasn’t those. It was a tumor. Precisely what kind of tumor or if it was cancerous or not, they weren’t sure. It was in my left parotid saliva gland, which is the largest producing gland in the body.

This should have been an exciting time in my life. My first child. Many of life’s firsts still before me and here I was not even sure where my life’s course would go. You don’t ever expect that you’ll leave your child motherless so soon.

I thought about my parents. They had buried their firstborn 11 years prior. I can’t imagine them having to go through another tragedy with their only surviving child. No parent should have to bury one of their children, let alone all of them.

The internet can be a friend or foe when it comes to medical questions. I found many resources that gave me much needed knowledge of what was going on with me. Being informed medically is essential, especially when you’re trying to find a doctor.

The internet can be a foe because you tend to see all the worst-case scenarios. I decided to research “celebrities with parotid gland tumors.” I thought that would make me feel better. The first one that came up was Adam Yauch, most known as MCA and a founding member of the Beastie Boys.

Sadly, Adam passed away from his battle with saliva gland cancer in 2012. One of the dangerous things about this tumor is that there are so many lymph nodes in that area of the body. Once the tumor is malignant, you risk it getting into your lymphatic system, making this a challenging cancer to beat.

Luckily, I found a happier story. American basketball player, LeBron James had a benign tumor removed from his parotid gland in 2009 at the Cleveland Clinic. He had opted to wait several months until the basketball season concluded for the surgery. And after a five-hour surgery, he pulled through.

He waited months for surgery. I had to wait for months for surgery. Everything worked out for him. This was the storyline I was going to go with since it matched closely with mine.

I fell into the hands of a fantastic Ears, Nose and Throat doctor. One that my mother had been using. She took me to my appointment. It doesn’t matter how old you are. There are certain moments when you need your mom. After a fine needle biopsy, the tumor didn’t appear cancerous. But, only a final pathology after its removal would determine whether it was benign or malignant.

My surgeon said this could wait until after I recover from delivering my child. It was essential to move quickly, though, because we didn’t know how long that tumor was growing in my body. From the scans, it appeared that it had been growing more inward. My guess is that it’s possible the pregnancy hormones could’ve spiked its growth.

I was lucky with my doctor. It’s rare to find a medical professional with both knowledge, skill and bedside manner. He reassured me that 80% of the tumors in the parotid saliva gland are typically benign. However, it was essential to get these tumors removed, so they don’t impact the facial nerves or risk them turning cancerous.

The facial nerves are like a tree. The trunk of the nerves rests near where the jawline meets the ear and they branch out to various places throughout the face. They’re delicate creatures. Depending on the tumor’s location, sacrificing a nerve for its removal could cause permanent facial paralysis.

I’d be lying to you if I said this didn’t scare me. I am a woman and the thought of a large scar or facial paralysis concerned me. But, I was more concerned about my life, so it was a sacrifice I was more than willing to make.

As the months went on, I could tell the tumor was growing. Although with my growing belly, I became distracted by the excitement of having my daughter.

My daughter arrived at the end of June after being in labor for two days that opted into an emergency c-section. Now that her birth was behind me, I started to get nervous about my tumor surgery. But I was ready to move on with my life.

Surgery day came nine weeks after my child’s birth. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. on an August morning. I didn’t want to go. But I knew I was one step closer to putting this chapter behind me. One step closer to living my life.

I picked up my two month older daughter. I felt scared. Something could go wrong, even in the most straightforward procedures. My body had so much happen to it in a short amount of time. I hope I could handle this.

I tried to hold onto my daughter for as long as I could. I would be away from her for an overnight stay in the hospital. Being afraid of the unknown, I whispered into her little ear, “I love you. I’ll always be with you. Be kind and do great things.” My eyes welled with tears as I laid her down and said goodbye. My parents stayed with her, as my husband took me to the hospital.

My husband was with me during all the prepping before they took me back to the operating room. The time came for them to take me back. You want to say all the things that may have been unsaid. I told him I loved him, but I was too quiet from fear to say anything else.

After our goodbye, they wheeled me back. The farther from my husband I got, the colder it became. Operating rooms need to be freezing to ensure bacteria won’t survive. Finally, I arrived in the brightest room I’ve ever been to. This was nothing like a Grey’s Anatomy operating room.

The surgery team asked me a million questions. To ensure they were accurate in everything they were doing. They asked why I was here today. To point to the location of the tumor. They drew on my face with a marker.

I felt such an amount of adrenaline. My heart was beating so fast I thought it’d jump out of my body. A part of me wanted to run out of that room, but I knew I shouldn’t. I had to get this ticking time bomb out of me.

As I laid back, they put the mask on my face to give me the anesthesia. I had such a large amount of adrenaline-pumping I didn’t think it’d be possible to put me out. But I faded during their countdown.

The strange thing about being out during surgery is when you wake up; you feel like you were only gone for seconds. A nurse was gently trying to wake me up. I felt like a groggy teenager. I told her to leave me alone. And then I thought, “I’m up already? I hope they got it all.”

I went into operating at around 9 a.m. And as I woke up I was it was 3 p.m. on the clock in the post-op room. “Woah,” I thought. My surgeon came over to check on me. The surgery was a lot longer than they anticipated — almost five and a half hours. The tumor measured at 2cm in January 2017 and was 4cm upon removal in August 2017.

I was high as a kite. My surgeon asked me to open and close my eyes. To smile. I could have sworn I was doing it all. He said that he was able to preserve all of my nerves, but right now, I have temporary facial paralysis. This happens when nerves get stretched during surgery. He said it’d take time, but the function will return. Again, those nerves are delicate creatures.

“Sure, ok,” was my calm and relaxed response. It was a good thing I was still high from anesthesia because I don’t think I could’ve taken that news well sober.

After my husband left the hospital I got up to use the restroom. I got the courage to look in the mirror. Turned my face to look at the incision. It was a small half-moon incision. If it wasn’t for the dry blood or pain, I wouldn’t have known I had surgery. “Dang,” I thought. “That’s talent.”

I went home the following morning and began a long journey of recovery. I could not close my left eye and I could not smile. Did that bother me? Yes, of course. I love my smile, but I like being able to close my eye even more.

A few days after my surgery I received the most fantastic news that the final pathology report came back benign. I didn’t need any further treatment. So even though my paralysis was frustrating, I was grateful. I could be here to watch my daughter grow. That’s all that mattered to me.

I began seeing an ophthalmologist to monitor my eye health since I couldn’t close my eyelid. Again, I had one of the best. He didn’t want to answer my “what if” questions. But I did get him to tell me what the course of action would be if my eye function never returned.

“We’d have to have a surgery to put a weight in the eyelid,” he said. “But I wouldn’t worry. We’re a long way from having to make that decision. Keep practicing closing.”

All I heard was a word I didn’t want to hear, which was “surgery.” I never wanted to see the inside of an operating room again and the thought of putting a foreign object in my eye scared me. I don’t even like applying eye make up.

My father had taken me to that appointment and on the way home, I let my frustration out.

“A weight in my lid? How much longer do I have to keep dealing with this,” I asked?

“You keep going until it’s done,” he said.

And I did.

Time moved on and I started noticing improvements. I could feel strength returning to both my eye and mouth. I gained my smile back by Thanksgiving.

A smile. It’s is a welcoming symbol. You never realize the gift of a smile until you lose the ability. I’ve never felt self-conscious about my smile in a photograph since. I gained my eye function back by Christmas. A happy ending that I will be forever grateful for.

So many people kept me in their prayers during this entire journey. I could sense them. I could feel them working. I’ve always had faith, but nothing brings you closer than when you see how fragile life is.

When I heard the word “tumor” I instantly thought, “No, I still have so much to do.” Getting that wake you up call was a blessing. That fear was the realization that I needed to stop putting off what I wanted out of life. There is so much to do. Don’t wait for your close call to start living. Your time is now!

The other thing about mortality that I realized is that I have succeeded in being immortal with the birth of my child. My parents will live on as long as I do. And I’ll live on as long as she does. And so on.

As for the third death, I agree with David. The third death is the moment our name is spoken for the last time. We named our daughter Genevieve after her great-great-grandmother. So that her name, stories, and immortality will live on.