In the Clear! And, the “New Normal”

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In my prior post “Vacation Period?” Seriously…, I described the traumatic period between my last radiation treatment and my follow-up MRI.  Well, the day of reckoning had come – the MRI results were in.  ALL CLEAR!  No sign of cancer!

Without a doubt, I was indescribably relieved.  I cried tears of overwhelming joy.  That metaphorical tons of bricks weighing on my shoulders immediately lifted.  It was almost surreal.

Once my oncologist sat down with me celebrating the incredible news, we got to another topic… the emotional turmoil of those weeks leading up the MRI.  She knew full-well what I had been going through, thanks to multiple calls to her office.  Even with the clear MRI, she knew I needed help to process all of this.  So, she recommended several things, including seeing a therapist, as well as a psychiatrist for an evaluation to determine if I
needed medication to ease the anxiety that had overcome me during that period of time.

I had never been in therapy.  I was of the strong opinion that here in the U.S., we were over-medicating ourselves with antidepressants and drugs of all sorts.  I’ll be honest – I was against it all.  However, she felt that it was almost a “prescription” to seek out professional help within the hospital’s incredible counseling center.  So, because I literally trusted her and all of my doctors with my life, with much hesitation, I agreed.

Additionally, she suggested reaching out to the hospital’s social worker, who specifically dealt with neurology patients and particularly brain cancer patients.  I had an easier time agreeing to that idea.  It seemed a lot less clinical.  As it turns out, the social worker pointed me to some really great cancer organizations, particularly First Descents (http://firstdescents.org/).

During the dark period, it also hadn’t helped that I had been on a seizure medication known to have terrible side effects regarding anxiety/depression in some patients.  So, with the clear MRI, my seizure doctor was comfortable taking me off that medication and replacing it with another drug.  Changing that medication made a world of difference for my mental state.

Going back to the time period between my surgery and throughout my radiation period (approximately 6 months after my inital diagosis), I had actually been extremely positive and strong.  I had become heavily involved in the National Brain Tumor Society (www.braintumor.org).  I had also just signed-up for a post-treatment support group through CancerCare (http://www.cancercare.org/).  So, I will say I was fortunate that the dark period only truly lasted those several weeks before the MRI.  Now, with the news the MRI was clear, boy, did my whole outlook change!  I went back, almost immediately, to that fighter/survivor, who people had truly been amazed by.  People had called me an “inspiration” (discussed in my post https://braincancerbabe.com/2016/04/19/being-an-inspiration/) and yeah, I felt that way again.

So, life began to quickly normalize again.  I felt happy.  I felt strong.  I felt positive.  I truly felt that everything was going to be okay.  Of course, the fear of a recurrence remained in the back of my mind, but it didn’t dominate my thoughts.  I was meeting so many other survivors and realizing, “Hey.  I’m not alone in all of this.  Other people actually felt the same way I did!  This was NOT a death sentence”  I went back to work, part-time.  Although, I still hated my job and actually regret going back so soon.  I did see the therapist and set up a regular schedule of appointments.  The psychiatrist, thankfully, deemed that I did not need antidepressants.  Life felt good again.  It felt really, really good.

While yes, life did normalize, it was indeed my “new normal.”  I felt comfortable with the fact that cancer had changed my whole world, but it wasn’t all for the worse.  I truly embraced a new perspective on life, namely, “Live every minute of every day like it’s your last!  Appreciate everything you have!”

I saw how lucky I was to have come out of all of this with very, very few side effects.  I was doing pretty much everything I had been doing before cancer entered my world.  I mean, seriously – I had had brain cancer and brain surgery!  Yet, here I was, pretty much the same girl I had been.  I truly recognized what an amazing support system I had.  The kindness, concern and love from even strangers overwhelmed me.  Man, was I loved!

I continued to be monitored very closely by my neurology team.  At every visit, they were beyond thrilled that the dark days were behind me (which I now see as a very brief period of time in the grand scheme of things).  They loved seeing that girl they had first met, who showed what a fighter she was and how she continued to embrace life so much.

I was kickin’ ass.

However, things did change in early 2015.  So, that will lead to my next post and specifically, Round 2 of the cancer chaos.

 

 

“Vacation Period?” Seriously…

In my last post, So, you’re going to radiate my brain????, I talked about my 6 weeks of radiation.  As I described, radiation had become part of my regular, daily routine, as odd as that may sound.  Following the end of my 30 radiation sessions, my doctors dubbed the time until my next scan my “vacation period.”  Seriously?

There’s power in the words you choose, especially when it comes to cancer.  To call that time “vacation” is just simply wrong.  That term should never, ever be used.  So obviously, the period between the end of radiation until my next scan was by no stretch of the imagination, a “vacation.”

First, I lost that daily routine.  I was left all on my own to  find something else to do, day in and day out, to occupy my time.  From leaving my home to arriving back after radiation, I was out of the apartment for hours.  I wasn’t sitting around, pondering my own thoughts.  If there’s one thing that keeps you out of your head, it’s following a routine!

With the lack of that routine, things became VERY dark.  Frankly, this was the first time I truly felt the weight of what I had just gone through.  The “fight or flight” mentality had weakened.  I found myself sitting on my couch, hysterically crying, asking, “What the hell just happened to me?”  It never got to the point of, “Why me?” although that’s a perfectly understandable, common response.  However, it was the first time I truly thought about death.

My husband, my family, my friends – they had careers.  They worked all day.  I didn’t have any fellow cancer patients to turn to.  I felt completely and utterly alone, left with my own frightening thoughts.  Again, to call this a “vacation” makes me sick.

It’s a strange phenomena to me that the end of treatment was worse than undergoing the treatment itself.  I’ve heard both sides of this – some patients see treatment as horrific and ending treatment a true relief.  However, I’ve also met many survivors who felt just like me.  Again, each and every person is different, just as each and every cancer is different.  There is absolutely no judgment in either experience or opinion.

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Another frightening aspect of this “vacation” was the lack of contact with medical staff.  Sure, my doctors were a phone call away.  Yet, going back and forth to the hospital for 6  straight weeks meant there was always someone physically there to monitor me.  If I had an issue, or a question, it could be handled right there and then.

There was a specific incident I remember during that “vacation” when I came down with a simple, routine cold.  I convinced myself it was so much more.  I was sure the tumor was back and it was affecting my whole body.  I also feared that every little twitch in my left leg was an oncoming seizure.  My oncologist’s nurse had to practically talk me off the ledge.  Yet, she understood what was going on.  It wasn’t the first time a patient had called believing the most minor thing was the end of the world.

And so, I truly mentally, emotionally suffered those 6 weeks.  It also didn’t help that leading up to the next scan, my first bought of “scanxiety” hit.  For any cancer patient out there, I would safely bet, you’ve experienced this.  For anyone who isn’t familiar with the experience, it is basically an overwhelming fear/anxiety/stress leading up to the results of a scan.  Many compare the symptoms to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).  Uh, I can relate and wholeheartedly agree.  (As an aside, with no medical training whatsoever, I believe that the entire cancer diagnosis and what trauma follows brings about PTSD).

My immediate post-op MRI had shown that the surgery was a success and there had been a total resection of the tumor.  Yet, there was always that chance that there were cancerous cells still there, lurking around that no one could see just yet.  So, this next MRI was the first since my surgery.

The thoughts that consumed me: Would the scan show the tumor had already grown back?  Had the radiation worked?  Was there serious swelling on my brain caused from the radiation?  Could there be any visible side effects from the radiation?   Although, I didn’t even really know if that was possible…  Was I going to have to undergo another surgery?  This time, would they decide I’d need to start chemo?  Worse off, would they tell me that none of the treatment had worked and we simply had no other options?

At that point, I didn’t know about scanxiety.  I had never met or talked to a fellow patient/survivor, especially one my age.  I thought I was alone in this feeling.  Was I going crazy?  In fact, although I’m sitting here writing about it, I actually have a difficult time putting into words just how consuming and terrifying these thoughts were.  It actually felt like I was carrying a ton of bricks on my shoulders.  And worse off, no one around me truly understood, although of course they were sympathetic and tried to understand.

So, the time finally came where I underwent that first post-radiation MRI.  I don’t believe at that point I had been introduced to the magic of anti-anxiety medication.  So, as far as I can remember, I went into that MRI cold… nothing in my system to ease the fear of: 1.) going into that MRI tube, again; and 2.) the pure, raw fear of what that MRI could possibly show.  P.S. I have never ever once opened my eyes while in the tube, despite the countless MRIs over the last 2 years.

Luckily, the way my appointment worked, and still works to this day, I met with my oncologist just hours after my MRI.  So, I would know the results that day and then.  And that is the topic of my next post.

So, you’re going to radiate my brain????

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Following my initial brain surgery in April 2014, it took time to come up with the further “treatment plan.”  Given that I am so fortunate (insert sarcasm here), my tumor, an anaplastic ependymoma, is extremely rare.

All of my factors also played into how rare it was:

1.)  It was a primary tumor in my brain –  typically, my type appeared in the spinal cord and remained there,  or it would metastasize to the brain; there was absolutely no trace of cancer in my spine (confirmed through spinal taps – oh my god, the pain!)

2.)  My tumor is considered a childhood/pediatric cancer, so it is rare to find it in adults (some statistics show that only approximately 70 adults in the U.S. are diagnosed with a malignant, primary brain ependymoma every year.)

3.)  There are extremely limited studies regarding ependymomas, given how rare they are.  Thus, treatment options are basically – surgery, and/or radiation and/or maybe chemo.  Yet, the few studies showed that combining radiation and chemo didn’t make much difference, if any.  Thus, radiation was the standard protocol following surgery

4.)  My surgery resulted in a total resection of the tumor.  Thus, I was “technically” cancer-free, for whatever that was worth…

[DISCLAIMER:  This information is NOT meant to be taken as medical advice or gospel.  https://cern-foundation.org/ is the primary source for information on ependymomas)

So, following my surgery, I met my amazing “team” of doctors.  They are a god-send and I am literally thankful every single day for them.  My “team” consisted of my neurosurgeon, neuro-oncologist, seizure neurologist and radiation oncologist.  This didn’t even include the numerous doctors, who served on my hospital’s tumor board and studied my case alongside my primary doctors.

Together, my team came up with the plan – I would undergo 6 weeks of radiation (30 sessions 5 days a week) and no chemo.  I didn’t really think twice about it.  What other choice did I have?  I trusted all of these doctors.  I was being treated at one of the top cancer hospitals in the country.  Plus, there was really no other studies/information to show any alternative treatment.

Of course though, the idea of actually radiating my brain sounded insane!  Um, weren’t we all taught throughout our lives that radiation was a really, really bad thing?  Ex. “Don’t stand in front of the microwave!  Radiation!”  However, I don’t recall even asking that many questions.  I knew the really basic, possible side effects – swelling on my brain, fatigue, hair loss, etc.  So, I just kind of casually decided, “Okay, let’s do it.”

One of the most disturbing experiences regarding the radiation was the mask.  For those who don’t know, in order to radiate the brain, a patient needs to undergo a simulation.  Amongst other things, that involves forming a mesh mask to be placed on your face and around your head.  The mask would then be strapped down to the radiation table during your treatment.  It is so sci-fi I cannot even describe.  It is scary.  It is beyond uncomfortable.  It creates such pressure around your entire face and head.  Sometimes, it felt like I couldn’t breath properly or swallow.  I hated it.

I know some patients actually keep their masks.  I literally never looked at my mask.  I refused.  So, obviously I did not keep mine.

And so, I spent the first 6 weeks of my summer traveling 5 days a week to have my brain radiated.  The treatment itself never hurt.  It actually became very routine.  It was just a part of my day.

One of the most difficult parts came when I began to lose my hair from the radiation.  I never ever thought it would affect me so much.  Sitting on my couch, running my hands through my hair and holding clumps of it was overwhelming.  I cried – a lot.  I needed to get a hair piece, but I hadn’t actually lost enough to need a full wig.  When I sat down at the hair piece consult, I absolutely lost it.  I could not stop crying.  I guess it was one of the first physical signs that demonstrated, “Yes, you are actually a cancer patient.”  Frankly, I just didn’t look sick, or what we imagine a cancer patient is supposed to look like.  Yet this – this was an unquestionable physical sign that radiation was indeed entering my brain and causing side effects.  I was indeed a cancer patient.

Another side effect I wasn’t totally prepared for, despite being told over and over about it, was the fatigue.  It didn’t hit me as hard as I know it does some patients.  I literally went to my radiation sessions every day by myself on the bus and subway, which people were surprised by.  I made sure I walked every day.  I attended my PT sessions two to three times a week.  However, it took every ounce of my strength, both mentally and physically, to fight that fatigue.  Trust me, it isn’t just being tired.  It is a full body exhaustion.  However, as I was told over and over again, the best way to fight the fatigue was to basically, just fight through it.  So, I did.

I also spent a lot of time with friends and family enjoying summer as best I could.  I took a LOT of advantage of a friend’s pool.  I lounged on the beach as much as possible.  I laid out in the sun and read a lot.  I made sure I kept up my social life, although I obviously wasn’t frequenting the bars until 1:00 a.m.  I mean, for the first time in my life since my teens, I wasn’t working.  I was sure as hell going to take advantage of that!!!

So, after those 30 radiation sessions ended, my doctors advised that I would undergo my next scan in approximately a month to 6 weeks later.  I am still bitter and angry about this, but they called this my “vacation period.”  I wasn’t in treatment, so this was the time to rest and take advantage of my “vacation” from radiation.  It’s insulting to call it that.

My next post on the topic of Round 1 of my cancer life will go into the details of this “vacation period.”  Needless to say, it was NO vacation!

 

Allelujia! I’m Outta Here! But…

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After my initial surgery in 2014, I was released on Easter Sunday.  I was raised Catholic, but I wouldn’t say I am a practicing one, which I won’t go into the details or reasons behind.  Regardless, Easter does have a beautiful meaning.  It is symbolic of rising up, celebrating new life and for those who believe, it is a day of miracles.

I found symbolism in being released that day.  I was celebrating my new life as a cancer survivor.  I was someone who had just overcome overwhelming, dangerous, potentially life-altering (possibly terminal, but we won’t go there) brain surgery.  I was walking out of that hospital to return to my own home, my own bed, a hot shower and all in all, a return to a semi-normal life.  My surgery had been a success in all ways possible.  I felt it was a miracle.  Someone up there in the heavens had watched over me.  I have no doubt about that.

However, a strange phenomena that comes with the release from the hospital is a feeling of fear and unease.  For days, you had that “Call Button” right next to you.  If you needed anything, a nurse was right there to assist you.  If the nurse couldn’t ease your fears or your concerns, well there was a team of doctors who could help as well.  You were constantly monitored.  It was safe.

However, after the discharge from the hospital, that all changed.  You were essentially on your own to monitor everything you felt, experienced, etc. (of course, that would be different for those who required home services).  Was that feeling in my leg the beginning of another seizure?  Was the pain in my head just a normal side effect of the surgery, or was it something more?  What if I fell?  There was no physical therapist at my beckon call.

Then, there was the feeling of helplessness.  I had to have someone with me at all times for weeks.  It required my husband and family to all coordinate their busy schedules.  My husband didn’t want to rely on someone else, but life happens – he had to work.  I had always been a fiercely independent person.  This was all so new and so overwhelming.  However, I was fortunate to have all the support I needed.

At that point, I also had never met a fellow cancer survivor.  I couldn’t turn to someone and ask, “Is what I’m feeling normal?”  “Will this fear ever resolve, or will I be spending the rest of my life fearing things like another seizure, or worse even, this tumor coming back?”  Sure, I talked to my nurses and doctors about all of this.  They of course were kind and understanding, but I needed someone who had literally gone through this personally.

So, I began researching organizations dedicated to brain cancer and thankfully found the National Brain Tumor Society (braintumor.org).  Once I learned about their fierce advocacy, research and support systems, I looked no further.  I immediately started fundraising.  I was less than a month out of surgery and I contacted everyone I knew asking for donations.  By the next month, I was the highest individual fundraiser for their upcoming local event.  I truly believe that my incredible dedication to this organization saved me from some very dark, very detrimental thoughts.  I just dove in!  There simply wasn’t any time to focus on negativity and fear.

I cannot lie.  There were some dark moments.  I am fortunate enough to say though, they did not come often and they did not consume me.  My dedication to the National Brain Tumor Society (braintumor.org) consumed me instead.  So much of my strength and positivity  came through my work to advocate and fundraise.  It was my therapy.

Of course, my treatment did not end with the release from the hospital.  It would be weeks before we came up with a plan and that is a whole nother story for a whole new post.

The First Signs…I Totally Ignored

I can’t specifically pinpoint when the strange sensations in my left leg began, but I recall a distinct moment in late January when I felt something was off.  To celebrate my 34th birthday, I planned a great getaway with some of my best girlfriends and my poor husband (the only male surrounded by 5 women is never easy).  We spent days on the beach in the Caribbean, sipping beers and frozen drinks.  We went dancing every night, so much that all of us came back with sore feet.  We ate fantastic food.  It was one of the best trips, filled with so much fun, joy and love.

One of those days, a few of us began walking the beach, hilariously to the end where the nudist resort began – just for shits and giggles.  However, less than halfway through the walk I had to stop due to that sensation in my left foot and leg.  I causally commented that it had been happening for a little while, but frankly I didn’t take it seriously whatsoever.

 As the early months of 2014 continued, the episodes came more often and they grew more intense.  I remember walking down the streets of Manhattan and having to stop until the feeling subsided.  My left foot would essentially become numb with the electrical-type sensations traveling all the way up my leg.  I recall sitting at my desk while they started to come multiple times a day.  It no longer mattered whether I was walking, sitting or laying down.

I know there were a few episodes, but one particular time while working out on an ellipitical machine the sensation wasn’t just isolated to my leg.  This time, it traveled all the way up my left side into my face.  I honestly thought I had just been working out too hard, but this episode did scare me.

So, by Thursday, April 3rd, I finally saw my primary care physician.  Due to a history of multiple sclerosis in my family, my doctor was concerned.  She wanted a brain MRI and blood tests.  I was devastated by the thought of an MS diagnosis.  I had seen what it did to my aunt over all these years.  I just couldn’t imagine it.

I went to my parent’s house immediately.  I was crying when I first saw my father and explained what my doctor had advised.  He was floored, but directed me to keep it from my mother.  Obviously, she had also seen what MS had done to her sister and our family.  My father did not want her to know anything until something, whatever that something was, could be confirmed.  I won’t lie.  That was TOUGH.

On Saturday, April 5th, I went in for the blood tests, but didn’t receive any results.  Those would take days.  The MRI had yet to be scheduled – insurance holdups of course.  Needless to say, it was not the best weekend.

And so, Sunday, April 6th, in an attempt to relieve all of the stress, I went to relax and get my nails done.  My world would never be the same.

The history of my seizure that day is detailed in my post.

https://braincancerbabe.com/2016/05/17/having-a-seizure/

Following my diagnosis, I learned that the episodes had been seizures and clearly, there was no question about the “big daddy” grandmal seizure.  However, there had never been any other symptoms I could pinpoint to have led me to even fathom cancer.  I never had headaches, blurred vision or issues with my speech.

No one prepares for brain cancer.  I can’t imagine anyone even suspects it despite clear symptoms.  I never really even knew about brain cancer.  No one ever really talked about it.  No one publicized the symptoms or what to look out for.  (As an aside, these are the reasons I tirelessly work to raise funds and awareness for brain cancer).

I wish I had known the symptoms and more knowledge of this disease.  Quite possibly, it could have pushed me into that doctor’s office much earlier.

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Continued Hospital Stay

Release from the Misery of the Neuro-Observation & Continued Hospital Stay

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The day after the surgery, when I guess they realized nothing incredibly serious would happen, I was moved into a private room with a roommate.  I remained there another full 2 days.  I know I was in incredible pain, but I will never forget and always worship my day nurse.  She is not only my favorite nurse, but one of my favorite people!  God, did she help me get through those awful days.

The pain/pressure wasn’t controlled too well and I was purely miserable.  The body forgets the actual feeling of pain, but we remember it happened.  To add to that pain, my fear of nighttime continued.  As a blessing, my night nurse would walk the halls with me, once I could walk of course, while we talked about our lives, our relationships, work, what-have-you.  She is also on the list of top nurses.

A very tough moment was the first time they got me out of bed.  Again, I was an incredibly active person when this all happened.  It was insane to me that the simple act of getting my legs over the edge of the bed to stand was so hard, even though “hard” really can’t describe it.  I began to cry, saying, “I can’t do this.”  I felt so defeated by all of this.  What a blessing I had a wonderful nurse’s assistant who encouraged me saying, “I wouldn’t let you do this if I thought you couldn’t.”  So, with that, I garnered my strength and stood up.  I can frankly say, it was one of the greatest feelings and accomplishments of my life, and I’ve been pretty damn successful in everything I’ve done.

And so, with time and fantastic physical therapists, I was able to sit in a chair.  I graduated to using my IV stand to make it to the bathroom.  Soon after, I began to walk the halls although I couldn’t do the entire perimeter yet.  That came soon though.  During that time, I colored a lot.  I colored a beautiful cloth flag-type thing – I don’t know exactly what to call it – filled with butterflies.  I hung it on my IV stand, and walked and walked down those halls.  I remember people smiling as they passed by me.  I hope that picture of butterflies gave them some comfort and a tiny bit of happiness.  It did for me at least.

My hospital has a recreation center full of games, arts and crafts, books, painting materials, etc.  It’s a bit cheesy, but its such a valuable asset for patients.  It also has an outdoor patio.  Frankly, it’s a gift.  After being cooped up in a hospital bed, just minutes of sun and fresh air feels miraculous.  However, the first time I was wheeled onto that patio, I had a complete breakdown.  I think the joy of that little bit of freedom overcame me and it hit me like a ton of bricks all that I’d just been through.  I cried and cried until I asked to go back to my room.  Thankfully, I was able to pull myself together to eventually go back there.

Probably most important to my recovery was my attitude.  I didn’t want to stay in that awful bed.  I wanted to sit up.  I wanted to walk.  I wanted to get the hell out of there!  Sadly, my roommate did not have that same motivation and complained quite a bit when the staff tried to get her up.  Sometimes, she outright refused.  Her nurses would also tell her to call them before she ate anything because apparently she had diabetes or at least very high blood sugar.  She never listened.  In fact, her family would sneak her heavy, unhealthy food.  I also overheard that when she would actually be released, she would be admitted to a rehab facility.  Honestly, I felt damn lucky I wasn’t in that situation, or possessed her overall attitude.  I don’t blame her whatsoever.  We all handle cancer, and especially brain surgery, in our own way.  I believe it’s one of the most difficult experiences in the world!  I was just different.

Another overwhelming moment came when occupational therapy (OT) arrived.  The therapist asked me to draw a clock.  I just couldn’t.  My mind wouldn’t compute what a clock was and particularly, how to draw it.  I was asked to repeat several words.  Again, I couldn’t.  I graduated every school with honors, survived law school, passed two bar exams, yet I couldn’t do things kindergarteners learned.  However, the therapist determined I actually wouldn’t need OT.  She was sure it would all come back because frankly, I was fully communicating and was basically myself.  (Even now though, I have a hard time with that damn clock!)

My recovery progressed and every time the doctors evaluated me, I was on the right track.  Despite it all, I was actually doing great.  Remarkably well, in fact.  So, after the day of the surgery and 2 full days afterward, I was ready to be released that 3rd day.

Post-Op and the Dreaded Neuro-Observation Area

Post-Op

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I woke up in the post-op room, but I don’t remember feeling any pain whatsoever.  Frankly, I felt high as a kite!  Those were some gooood meds!  My whole family was shocked because I was wide awake, cracking jokes and acting as though everything was fine.  My surgeon came back to see me and I continued to joke telling him, “I’ve had worse hangovers!”  (My relationship with my neurosurgeon has always been light and sarcastic, which I love)

The nurse eventually told my family I needed to rest and once they left, I don’t remember much of that post-op room except for feeling strangely comfortable there.  (Again, they were some gooood meds!)

Post-Op Neuro-Observation

It was when they moved me to the neuro-observation room that hell broke loose.  The meds began to ware off.  I could feel the intense pressure of the awful gauze turban.  (I HATE that thing)  It was also nighttime.  I had a horrible fear of nighttime/bedtime suffering from years and years of insomnia.  I also had new nurses, who I particularly didn’t like much.  It was dark in there.  I was closed off in my own little section, curtained between three other patients who themselves had just survived brain surgery.  It was not a pleasant space.

The worst came when they advised I would have to undergo a post-op MRI.  It was then I suffered the first panic attack of my life.  I’ll be honest.  Looking back, the nurse and the nurse’s assistant did not handle it well.  The nurse said in a slightly obnoxious tone, “She’s having some sort of panic attack.”  The nurse’s assistant, a very large and aggressive woman, held me down.  Kindly, they at least IVed some meds and I did calm down.

Thankfully, and because my neurosurgeon is A-mazing, there was a total resection of the tumor.  I was technically “cancer free” which is a term I still don’t apply to myself even now.

Although I understand it and accept it now through therapy, my husband refused to stay with me that night.  Was it the best, kindest thing to do?  No.  Did he handle it well?  No.  However, I forgive him.  It was all just too overwhelming for us.

So, after he left, the second panic attack of my life came on.  I don’t remember much of it or how the nurse handled that one, but I know it happened.  Maybe I’ve blocked it out, for good reason.

Eventually, it came time to leave that dreaded area.  I hate that I’ve returned there two more times since.