Samr
08-28-2007, 03:11 PM
For those of you interested (in what I hope is a unique or interesting read), this is the abbreviated story (laugh, I know) of my brain tumor, which was diagnosed and surgically removed earlier this month. Today represents the first day in nearly three weeks I have not been grounded by pain, so this post is a bit late coming. For those of you with kids, this story may especially strike a chord as it is a first-hand account of what the experience was like for a very young adult (I am 19). Also, this is a Thank You to all members of the board, as SpursTalk has unknowingly participated in my still-active recovery process. The story is long, so I understand if you don't feel like the read. But if you do, out of morbid curiosity or sheer boredom, I thank you in advance for the time.
August 24, 2007.
Today I was given the best news ever: the lab reports show that the tumor removed from my brain on August 9 is not cancerous, causes no diseases or conditions, and is completely benign. Translated from the implications of this, it means, simply: I am going to live. That is better than the alternative, which on August 7th I feared would come true.
[Always one to over-prepare – a habit I think I inherited from my mother – I gave my last wishes to her and my step-father before surgery, just in case. I told her what I wanted to happen to me and my belongings in case I died. Also, I made two witnesses (they were strangers; I didn’t get their names), myself, and my mother, sign a Power of Attorney. This contract gave her the ability to make any and all decisions on my behalf in the event I entered a coma, or on was placed on life support, or in any other way not capable of a reasonable thought process. It also gave her the ability to make decision on my burial process, in the event it came to that. It was the worst, most morbid experience of my life and I hope no one anywhere ever experiences this. Lesson here: always be prepared]
The tumor had existed in my head, undiagnosed, for years. It could have been a bad kind – and the number of bad types far outweigh the number of benign types – doing damage and slowly killing me, and they wouldn’t have known simply because no one knew it was there. The miracle here is that my tumor defied the odds, which were heavily stacked against me. Simply because it was benign, the lack of a diagnosis does not make me angry. More specifically, the lack of diagnosis did not kill me. In fact, it almost certainly saved my life.
Only after an eye doctor visit on August 7th, when I was sent for an MRI, just as a precaution and not expecting the scan to find anything, did they see it. And it was big. The main tumor was only the size of a grape (there were several smaller ones and the surgery team had to use a microscope for those), but the cyst encasing it was the size of a lemon; it occupied, roughly, about a quarter of my brain cavity. It was so big it had actually, slowly over the years, moved my brain out of the way, and that is the second miracle: had the cyst been caught earlier, the doctors would still have done surgery. Except they would have cut through brain tissue to remove it. Then, there’s the potential for hearing issues and difficulty with balance (I talked to one brain doctor who actually had a similar tumor and operation; he is now clinically deaf in his right ear and he has trouble balancing – He can no longer do surgery), you could also lose eyesight, or memory. Those kinds of things are kind of important. In short, you are never the same, assuming you actually wake up, after they cut brain tissue. So you can see why I’m glad they didn’t have to cut through mine.
Here’s another fun part: the operation was supposed to only take an hour and a half, but I was open on the table for four. The reason was because the doctors had to be extra careful, due to a small surprise. Turns out, the team of doctors discovered only once my skull was open that the cyst was just two millimeters from the brain stem – basically the control system for your body. You damage that, and the repercussions are horrendous. This means when I went in for the first MRI on the 7th, I was (per the doctors’ best guesses) very, very close to a seizure, or going into a coma. Or worse. The thing could have killed me if I had gone on much longer without knowing about it. Just good luck? Maybe. But I’d like to think that was a miracle, too. I had every chance to die during this – if even one small thing was different I very well could have – but it is had become more and more obvious that someone wanted me to live. My reasoning is that you just can’t dodge that many obstacles without a little outside help. There was only one right road to take, and I know I wasn’t behind the steering wheel. (for the record: it wasn’t a fun ride, and I'm glad it is almost over)
Originally, the doctors prepared me for weeks of physical and occupational therapy either at an institute or at my house, being as the tumor was located in a place that effects balance, and both fine and gross motor skills. I am stubborn and impatient and I wanted out of intensive care. To prove I was ready to be released from the hospital, the physical therapist watched as I went up and down two flights of stairs with no help. And this was only four days after surgery. Another miracle. Now, weeks later, I am walking, and talking, typing and seeing normal. I do, however, have two main side effects: a quarter of my head is numb, and my hearing is extremely sensitive. I think I got lucky.
It has been over two and a half weeks now since the surgery. I am still in extreme pain (due to internal swelling and the brain shifting back into place – it has a quarter of my brain cavity to reoccupy), am still feeling nauseous (generally due to the afore-mentioned pain), and on a steady diet of pain meds (they make me feel stupid and I hate them). But, at least I’m improving.
Once the swelling goes down (I am on another round of steroids to assist in this, although there is a remote chance I’ll need another brain surgery to fix it for good), I have an almost certain shot at a normal life. I’ll be able to raise a family some day, with a wife, and kids, and teach them all the lessons that the experience taught me so suddenly. I’ll teach them that as long as you are healthy, and your family is healthy, life is always good, and you should never complain. I will teach them that there is nothing as important as a family that cares. Because they are the ones who will support you, and cry for you, when you are too weak to support yourself, and too worried to cry. One day too, I will be able to teach them that you need to take advantage of every opportunity, and to always make the best of what you have, because you don’t ever know when it all will come to a halt, like it did for me on the 7th. And the most important thing is, I will teach them that miracles do exist. I know, because in a matter of days, I experienced several. And I am alive and typing only because of them.
In the past few weeks, I’ve spent several hours a day on this site just reading, to take my mind off my current situation and the pain that comes with recovery. Yesterday I read about Mahinmi signing with the Spurs, and that put a rare smile on my face (to contrast this: an hour earlier I was hugging a tree and trying not to throw up, because straining causes out-of-this-world pain, and for perspective I have a very high pain tolerance. Hell, I have osteoporosis; I’m used to pain and it still sucks). I hope, under the tutelage of Chip, the discipline of Pop, with Duncan setting the example and the French camaraderie with Parker, this dude is going to be something special. Or, if I am wrong, I hope he at least appreciates this opportunity. Laying in the hospital bed, minutes away from someone opening up my skull, I though about all the opportunities I had wasted already in life, and where I might be if I had taken advantage of them. I hope this guy takes advantage of the situation he has been presented: the ideal environment, and body, and attitude, to succeed. On August 9th, I appreciated just waking up again. And when I read Ian signed with the Spurs, I appreciated just having my eyesight (which was at risk pre-surgery) to read the news.
Today, tell your wife, or kids, or mom or dad or whomever you are close to that you love them. And that you appreciate them. Because you do, you really do, more than know. And more than I hope you will ever find out. Because they are the ones who will support you, and cry for you, when you are too weak to support yourself, and too worried to cry Be happy for your health. And I’ll be happy for the few hours each day that SpursTalk keeps my mind off my current situation, and helps me forget the road ahead. I know it is going to be rough, but at least each day is getting better. Starting with the Mahinmi signing I was well enough to read. And ending, hopefully (and unrelated to Ian), with a Larry O’Brien trophy. And I’m lucky, thanks to the good news I received in the lab reports, that I’ll be alive to see it when it happens.
Go Spurs Go.
August 24, 2007.
Today I was given the best news ever: the lab reports show that the tumor removed from my brain on August 9 is not cancerous, causes no diseases or conditions, and is completely benign. Translated from the implications of this, it means, simply: I am going to live. That is better than the alternative, which on August 7th I feared would come true.
[Always one to over-prepare – a habit I think I inherited from my mother – I gave my last wishes to her and my step-father before surgery, just in case. I told her what I wanted to happen to me and my belongings in case I died. Also, I made two witnesses (they were strangers; I didn’t get their names), myself, and my mother, sign a Power of Attorney. This contract gave her the ability to make any and all decisions on my behalf in the event I entered a coma, or on was placed on life support, or in any other way not capable of a reasonable thought process. It also gave her the ability to make decision on my burial process, in the event it came to that. It was the worst, most morbid experience of my life and I hope no one anywhere ever experiences this. Lesson here: always be prepared]
The tumor had existed in my head, undiagnosed, for years. It could have been a bad kind – and the number of bad types far outweigh the number of benign types – doing damage and slowly killing me, and they wouldn’t have known simply because no one knew it was there. The miracle here is that my tumor defied the odds, which were heavily stacked against me. Simply because it was benign, the lack of a diagnosis does not make me angry. More specifically, the lack of diagnosis did not kill me. In fact, it almost certainly saved my life.
Only after an eye doctor visit on August 7th, when I was sent for an MRI, just as a precaution and not expecting the scan to find anything, did they see it. And it was big. The main tumor was only the size of a grape (there were several smaller ones and the surgery team had to use a microscope for those), but the cyst encasing it was the size of a lemon; it occupied, roughly, about a quarter of my brain cavity. It was so big it had actually, slowly over the years, moved my brain out of the way, and that is the second miracle: had the cyst been caught earlier, the doctors would still have done surgery. Except they would have cut through brain tissue to remove it. Then, there’s the potential for hearing issues and difficulty with balance (I talked to one brain doctor who actually had a similar tumor and operation; he is now clinically deaf in his right ear and he has trouble balancing – He can no longer do surgery), you could also lose eyesight, or memory. Those kinds of things are kind of important. In short, you are never the same, assuming you actually wake up, after they cut brain tissue. So you can see why I’m glad they didn’t have to cut through mine.
Here’s another fun part: the operation was supposed to only take an hour and a half, but I was open on the table for four. The reason was because the doctors had to be extra careful, due to a small surprise. Turns out, the team of doctors discovered only once my skull was open that the cyst was just two millimeters from the brain stem – basically the control system for your body. You damage that, and the repercussions are horrendous. This means when I went in for the first MRI on the 7th, I was (per the doctors’ best guesses) very, very close to a seizure, or going into a coma. Or worse. The thing could have killed me if I had gone on much longer without knowing about it. Just good luck? Maybe. But I’d like to think that was a miracle, too. I had every chance to die during this – if even one small thing was different I very well could have – but it is had become more and more obvious that someone wanted me to live. My reasoning is that you just can’t dodge that many obstacles without a little outside help. There was only one right road to take, and I know I wasn’t behind the steering wheel. (for the record: it wasn’t a fun ride, and I'm glad it is almost over)
Originally, the doctors prepared me for weeks of physical and occupational therapy either at an institute or at my house, being as the tumor was located in a place that effects balance, and both fine and gross motor skills. I am stubborn and impatient and I wanted out of intensive care. To prove I was ready to be released from the hospital, the physical therapist watched as I went up and down two flights of stairs with no help. And this was only four days after surgery. Another miracle. Now, weeks later, I am walking, and talking, typing and seeing normal. I do, however, have two main side effects: a quarter of my head is numb, and my hearing is extremely sensitive. I think I got lucky.
It has been over two and a half weeks now since the surgery. I am still in extreme pain (due to internal swelling and the brain shifting back into place – it has a quarter of my brain cavity to reoccupy), am still feeling nauseous (generally due to the afore-mentioned pain), and on a steady diet of pain meds (they make me feel stupid and I hate them). But, at least I’m improving.
Once the swelling goes down (I am on another round of steroids to assist in this, although there is a remote chance I’ll need another brain surgery to fix it for good), I have an almost certain shot at a normal life. I’ll be able to raise a family some day, with a wife, and kids, and teach them all the lessons that the experience taught me so suddenly. I’ll teach them that as long as you are healthy, and your family is healthy, life is always good, and you should never complain. I will teach them that there is nothing as important as a family that cares. Because they are the ones who will support you, and cry for you, when you are too weak to support yourself, and too worried to cry. One day too, I will be able to teach them that you need to take advantage of every opportunity, and to always make the best of what you have, because you don’t ever know when it all will come to a halt, like it did for me on the 7th. And the most important thing is, I will teach them that miracles do exist. I know, because in a matter of days, I experienced several. And I am alive and typing only because of them.
In the past few weeks, I’ve spent several hours a day on this site just reading, to take my mind off my current situation and the pain that comes with recovery. Yesterday I read about Mahinmi signing with the Spurs, and that put a rare smile on my face (to contrast this: an hour earlier I was hugging a tree and trying not to throw up, because straining causes out-of-this-world pain, and for perspective I have a very high pain tolerance. Hell, I have osteoporosis; I’m used to pain and it still sucks). I hope, under the tutelage of Chip, the discipline of Pop, with Duncan setting the example and the French camaraderie with Parker, this dude is going to be something special. Or, if I am wrong, I hope he at least appreciates this opportunity. Laying in the hospital bed, minutes away from someone opening up my skull, I though about all the opportunities I had wasted already in life, and where I might be if I had taken advantage of them. I hope this guy takes advantage of the situation he has been presented: the ideal environment, and body, and attitude, to succeed. On August 9th, I appreciated just waking up again. And when I read Ian signed with the Spurs, I appreciated just having my eyesight (which was at risk pre-surgery) to read the news.
Today, tell your wife, or kids, or mom or dad or whomever you are close to that you love them. And that you appreciate them. Because you do, you really do, more than know. And more than I hope you will ever find out. Because they are the ones who will support you, and cry for you, when you are too weak to support yourself, and too worried to cry Be happy for your health. And I’ll be happy for the few hours each day that SpursTalk keeps my mind off my current situation, and helps me forget the road ahead. I know it is going to be rough, but at least each day is getting better. Starting with the Mahinmi signing I was well enough to read. And ending, hopefully (and unrelated to Ian), with a Larry O’Brien trophy. And I’m lucky, thanks to the good news I received in the lab reports, that I’ll be alive to see it when it happens.
Go Spurs Go.