Second Quarter Complete: 4.0 GPA

 

Friends keep teasing me, You know you don't have to get perfect grades, right? And conceptually, I know they're right, but I have wanted to go back to school from before my diagnosis. Just before we found this BABT (big ass brain tumor), I was oscillating between combined master/PhD programs, regular masters programs, or law school. I wasn't sure, but I knew I wanted to continue my education. 

I've waited so long for this.

As I spend days, nights, and weekends, headaches, tears (both happy and sad), filled with delirious laughter, awe, and gratitude, I sink further into the gift of curiosity, of expectations, timelines, and responsibilities. I cut my teeth into new sounds, words I had forgotten. My brain feels like it's both thawing, and growing at the same time. 

A few days after this round of classes ended, I was finally able to digest the gravity of what I'm accomplishing. Well, that's not entirely true, I think it's impossible for my mind to catch the weight of this, but it feels fucking significant. I remember being in the hospital, the speech therapist at my side. She's showing me a list of words and she asks me to read the first one aloud. I stare at the page, my face flushes hot, my eyes filling with tears. I know I failing, but I don't know why. She's sad, and I don't know why. I want to make her proud of me, to make sense of these things she's pointing at. But I can't. So I cry.

Doctors at University of Washington answered my mom's question one day, while I sat quietly, Will she be able to go back to school? And the PhD said, No. She will not have the capacity. And since that day, even as I have improved, and improved, surgery after surgery, much surpassing their expectations, of both cognition and lifespan, I believed them. That's the elusiveness of accuracy that our brains manipulate, especially when there's damage involved. 

I'm not a reliable narrator, and I can see that now. I am not stupid. I'm not slow. I'm not other. I'm capable of learning. I'm capable of hard work. I have as much drive and desire as everyone else. 

I am here. I'm alive. And I'm doing it all while living with brain cancer. 

I start my first practicum this week, and my next MRI will be at the end of June. Life is full, and chaotic, exciting, exhausting, and it's mine.

15 Year Diagnosis Day

 

Fifteen years. Can you believe it? I definitely can't. 

So much has happened, so much has changed. What if I never had a brain tumor? Instead, it was a baby. I used to refer to Herman as my tumor baby because he has taken so much of my time and effort; I lost my identity and gained a new one, much like a mother. 

Fifteen years is such a long time to navigate a cancer that never goes away. I've never lived without a tumor, not since we found him. It's exhausting, and rewarding all at the same time.

When you get a life-altering diagnosis like this, never knowing how each day will progress, it's impossible to plan. It's scary and hard to live a full life, well, at least it has been for me. I've tried to reframe things along the way, always working to create a positive spin when I get afraid or sad, or lose another friend or get bad news about my health. It became a muscle for me, and it's been one of the most beautiful things I've been able to cultivate. It's something that I'm grateful for every day. 

Fifteen years. I wish I could celebrate with Udzi and Leor. I wish I could celebrate with Crush. I wish I could celebrate with Jessica. I wish I could celebrate with Marly. It feels like a momentous birthday, but no one is showing up to the party. 

Fifteen years. I should feel better than this. I shouldn't be crying sad tears. 

Living with cancer creates all the flavors of grief. They hit throughout each day, coming in waves. Some smell like freshly baked bread, or warm cookies, others hit like a hot, humid day with week-old trash. Pungent. Invoking an impossible desire to vomit. 

Fifteen years creates trillions of feelings, reflecting is hitting all at once. 

Thank you for following me along this journey. For being here in this moment in time few thought I would see.