Continuation of writing

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I finished the next portion of the story of my life and so I share the first and last paragraphs:

Fear and recovery

Reflections on surviving a Brain Tumor

  

He stood there, tall and thin with wire glasses that looked dark against his pale skin.  He was the "best" neurosurgeon in the area and in his white doctor's coat, he exuded confidence.  He had a MRI scan in his hands and he looked down, as if studying what he had already study many times, for the first time.  I did not see a neurosurgeon, nor even a doctor, rather I saw a judge and in his coat was not white nor a coat, it was a dark robe.  In his hands was the verdict he was prepared to hand down, for some infraction I did not commit.

He looked down at the scan, looked up, and spoke; "It is a tumor, it is against your brain stem, it has to come out."  I stood stunned as if I had just been sentenced to the executioner's guillotine.  He must have seen the blood drain from my face for he looked down at the picture in his hand again and looked up; "Yes, it has to come out.  The sooner the better.  I am away next week, but we will schedule for the following week.  I have to be here after the operation."

Fear, deep, gripping fear rose up inside of me and all I could do was nod my head, yes.  Was there some one outside waiting for me?  I could not remember.

The doctor interrupted my train of thought and said; "I need to get one more MRI, just to make sure I get all of the...".  He pronounced some word that was gibberish to me, I assumed it was the name for the type of tumor and he continued; "The doctor who did the MRI thinks it is...".  Again, a meaningless, unpronounceable word, which sounded exactly like the first world, but he continued; "but I think he is wrong."  I asked him about the headaches, the ones that brought me to his office in the first place.

... and the last portion:

I would love to say that everything continued without mishap, until I fully recovered, but this is an adventure and adventures are full of ups and downs, missteps, mishaps and misdirection and my adventure of recovery is not an exception.

A cloud of fear lingers still around my thoughts, a fear of going to that place of shadow where my mind was of no use, but never more do I have a fear of death. 

As I wobble on my feet, like an old man, when I stumble and fall; or not fall, or when my eyes become strained and the glasses no longer correct my vision and all I see is double, my heart becomes troubled and I waver on the path that is my adventure.   It is at these times, and there are many, those closest to me, those of my community who are my family, help me back onto my feet to continue.

My life has changed, whether I accept it or not, I have left the job, the one where I found so much joy and moved on.

My road to recovery continues, for it is not finished. 

There is not an end, but something new each day, encompassing the rest of my life.

Sharing a piece of my recollections from 7 years ago

I shared this with my writer's group and there was silence after, what is your response?

The weeks in the hospital, turned into a month and I discovered that the hospital had lab top computers one could use and I put a request in immediately.  I had never used a laptop and I was surprised that I learned quickly, even only using one eye.  I was even more surprised that I remembered all my convoluted passwords and other's birthdays.  Most importantly, I reopened my blog and posted my recovery progress daily.

Typing was a chore, but I had decided this was a recovery exercise.  I wrote in a manner that was not always straight forward, using many allegories, and metaphors, and similes. What I wrote enunciated both the struggle and the hope I had.

Slowly, I improved and was able to walk with mechanical assistance (a walker in the hospital and a cane after).  It was coming on two months being in the hospital.  The swelling in the back of my head was still there, the double vision was still there and my swallowing problem were still there. 

I wanted out and began to try to hide the swallowing issue, for I had been told that if that did not improve, I could not go home. 

I had two clear MRSA tests.  The hospital wanted a third, but I wanted out, so my doctors released me and after almost two months I was finally home.

There was therapy at home, helping me to regain my balance and to walk better.  The therapist at the hospital gave me a simple wooden cane to use and it kept me from falling many times.

There was still the issue of the swollen head and the neurosurgeon proposed implanting a shunt to help remove the excess fluid.  I had heard of those devices and agreed to it just before Halloween.  It was day surgery and removed the excess fluid before I left the hospital.  I had hoped it would improve the double vision, it did not.  I began to prepare for a somewhat normal life and felt it was time for my mom to go home.  I could only see easy going from here.  She was old, and as much as she wanted to help me, I felt it was I who needed to help her.  She insisted that she stay for my birthday, a bit over a week away and then she left. 

In my blog, I began writing about headaches, fortunately, I do not remember this.  I "blogged" less, but always wrote about the headaches.  I cannot recall much of this, for while the excess fluid around my head was gone, the shunt was still working, draining more cerebral spinal fluid.  I was unaware, but slowly my ability to think was becoming severely reduced.  That strange scientific number that I used as a touchstone to prove my mind was still working, not only could I not remember, but could not remember why it was important.  I was beginning to lose my ability to perform the simple task of making my bed after a nights sleep.   My housemates were always helping me.  I do not know how I functioned at all, but I think I was operating on my heart, not my mental capacity.  It was during this time, I took a long walk by my self to buy a gift card for an upcoming birthday.  On the return trip, I collapsed on the pavement in front of a gas station.

There are strange pieces of memory, but nothing complete.  I do not remember falling, but was told I just folded up onto the sidewalk.  I remember a woman's scream, the flashing lights of a fire rescue truck and a paramedic's gentle hands lifting me onto a gurney for the trip to the hospital.

This time in the hospital was full of partial memories, nurses cleaning me, my primary doctor visiting me, a neurologist I had known when helping someone else years ago.  I am told there were many tests, but remember none of them. 

My family and the friends who visited were horrified.  My speech was slurred, my manner slow as someone who had severe brain damage.  It took numerous tests before the neurosurgeon came and from a MRI, saw that my brain was concave from too little cerebral spinal fluid.  He shut of the shunt and I awoke, cognoscente of my surroundings again.

I was shaken by the entire thing, for I have no other word to describe it.  I had lost the last thing that I relied on, bringing me to the realization that our entire existence on this earth is very, very fragile. 

At the same time, I was very, very thankful, for while I had lost things I considered important, things that I was proud to have, I saw that anything we have or are could be taken away in an instant.  I began to see this time, not as an ordeal, nor a trial, but of an adventure.  It was one that I could not foresee the end of, for it encompassed the rest of my life.