But, I don’t want to do any of that. I don’t feel especially nostalgic about the tumor and I don’t feel very philosophical today. But there are some things about the entire experience that I think are interesting for me to share. So, here goes. (NOTE: There will be sentences here that describe what happens in a craniotomy such as the one that I had. Squeamish folks should stop now and catch me on the next blog).
In the beginning stages of the diagnosis process I shared with a neurosurgeon the timetable (about 8 weeks) that I expected for having surgery, recovering, and re-entering my graduate program (I had taken a hiatus from the pursuit of the M. Ed. In order to deal with this hiccup called tumor). He shared with me that I was overly optimistic and that I may not even be able to balance a checkbook when it was all over and I should expect a much longer timetable.
Bite me. I don’t like being doubted for what my body or my brain is capable of. I had surgery on April 3rd and started classes again on June 10th. That is 9.5 weeks. Overly optimistic? I think not. I was off by a little, but not enough to use ugly language like “overly optimistic”.
For the 13 months following brain surgery I remained a full time student until on July 8, 2013 I was conferred a Master of Arts, Education.
One of the first things that I was told when I was given the diagnosis was “Do not Google it”. Like that was going to happen. People were talking about using a saw to bust into my skull and do some repairs. No way was I going in to that experience without some prior knowledge. BIG MISTAKE. I tried today to go back and find the page I found two years ago that explicitly explained the process; the way my skull would be opened up, the bone flap from my skull that would be removed, the skin flap (in my case my FACE) that would be folded down, and so on.
I could not find that page and that is probably best. I found others and the memories aren’t all that awesome. You don’t want to see it just as much as I should not have wanted to see it back then. I knew I would be cut along the hairline from ear to ear. It had never previously occurred to me, however, that my forehead would have to be moved out of the way to perform the operation. That knowledge is still the only truly disturbing part of it all to me.
It took 50 staples to close my skull back up when it was all done. Yeah, I counted them.
Staples do not hurt coming out. That was a shocker.
I have an awesome scar just behind my hairline that I can see clear as day every time I look in the mirror. Others, however, have to be really looking for it to notice. My forehead is misshapen now and it sticks out oddly in two places that it did not before. So pretty.
There are two divots in my skull along the scar line from the drains that were put in for surgery. The one on the right side is deeper and not fully closed. I can press on the very middle of that one and feel tingling at the back of my head. I think it’s cool. Other people think it’s weird. Perspective, I guess.
I had planned to stay with my parents after surgery until I was back on my feet. It was clear to me on the day of my release from the hospital that the original plan wouldn't be happening. I went home, to my home, by myself for recovery. I did my own physical therapy in my living room. I knew that being coddled through recovery was not an option for a woman who just wanted to be well enough for her kids to come home. I knew that if I didn't make myself suffer and work through the early stages of recovery on my own, the process would take much longer; that was time without the boys that I was not willing to give away.
In the entire process, from diagnosis to recovery, there was only one single scary moment. The week after coming home from the hospital a soda froze and exploded in my fridge, dripping down the inside and getting everywhere, finally pooling at the bottom. I got on the floor to clean it up and found when I was done that I could not stand up. I was literally stuck in the middle of my kitchen floor, all alone, no phone near me, and no idea what I was going to do. Those were the moments of panic and fear in the whole process. While I had not fallen because I sat down voluntarily, I could not get up. Suddenly LifeAlert commercials weren't funny anymore. Eventually I managed to crawl to a dining chair in the next room and use it to pull and push myself off the floor.
The reason I could not get up once I sat on the floor is this: the muscles of the body atrophy more quickly than you may think. And while the surgery was on my brain, my body was sedentary for much longer than the nine hours it took to extract the tumor. I went into surgery around 6 am on a Tuesday and woke up mid-morning the following Saturday. I was unconscious, unresponsive, or sedated for four days. I remember one thing from those four days: my surgeon telling me that he got the entire tumor.
That’s it. Four days of my life gone. And I have one singular memory. It is surreal and weird when I think about it. And I still, two years later, am unable to adequately describe with words what that feels like. To go to sleep near the beginning of the week and wake up at the end of it is crazy.
There you have it: some of the highlights from the most insane time in my life. There really is so much more to that chapter in the history of Nikki, but like I said, I’m not feeling very philosophical today. Today, it’s just the facts.
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