Winking at Fear

Yesterday, I turned a year older. And, it has officially been 4 years, 3 months, and 25 days since I was diagnosed. I have had three brain surgeries. I have tried almost every brain tumor diet on the planet. I have gobbled hundreds of thousands of pills. I have researched. I have exercised. I have meditated. I've dodged seizures; I have endured them. They've injected shot after shot to boost my immune system, and to fight my tumor. I've done the high dose IV drips. I drop venom in my nose, and I swish it in my mouth. I've traveled the country, and around the world, to meet with doctors for second opinions, for surgeries, and treatments. All that, and so much more, and yet I feel like an imposter, like this isn't my life.

I got the email yesterday, a great birthday surprise, that I am included with five other bloggers to be posted on the National Brain Tumor Society website. As I read the other posts I felt like a voyeur, like I didn't belong. It's confusing because I relate to so many of the things that they wrote, yet, with others I have no experience: radiation, chemo. It's as if they were long lost family members; we had never met, but somehow I recognized myself in their faces. I loved the variation of stories, of perspectives, of journeys. The voices, although different, carried similar threads of hope, fear, frustration, gratitude, and determination. Everyone had gone through a lot, whether it had been surgery, or treatments, or a combination. But some of these fighters truly astound me with what they are conquering, what they're capable of enduring. I read the blogs yesterday but I keep coming back to reread them, trying to soak it all in. When I was first diagnosed I tried support groups and they were horribly depressing. In contrast, I'm finding that those who chose to blog about their experience aren't just wanting to connect, they want to help. They want to reach others, far and wide, in the hope that their experience will save another some trouble; to help connect the dots faster.

I am now 34 and it feels old. It feels solid, grounded in my situation, in my brain tumor reality. Kind of stuck. And in my life of contradictions, I feel removed, and floating. I was emailing, the other day, with my cancer buddy Lo, and we were recognizing how you get diagnosed, then everything stops. You keep swirling through scans, and treatments, and scans, and treatments, and year after year you get older but your world stays the same. You try not to, but from time to time, you can vividly imagine where your life would have gone, the road that was washed out before you. 

This year, to distract myself from my inevitable hamster wheel of treatments, at the recommendation of my buddy who did the same for her 34th year, I have decided to do as many things as possible (within reason) that make me uncomfortable, that scare me, that push my limits. I envision lots of nervous laughter, and triumphs. Probably a good deal of sweat, and awkwardness. Living with cancer/brain tumors makes it impossible not to live in some state of fear. More so than most. I challenge myself to open my arms this year to fear, to look it in the face, cock my head, and give him a wink, then jump.

So cheers to another year! This time, instead of cancer pushing my limits, always cancer driving my fear, or cancer making my life uncomfortable, I will take control and steal away some of cancer's power. I'm ready for a different type of fear, and a better adrenalin rush.

Here's a few photos from my birthday celebration, checking out Crystal Mountain, with Dan (including my attempt at a photo bomb). The year is already off to an exciting start... 

Working With A Governor

You know what's crazy? You get diagnosed, you go through surgery, you recover, then the real test comes in living your life knowing that you have tumor cells in your brain, that the tumor (always) comes back (according to your doctors) then you start over again. Each time they dig in your brain you hope you wont die. You hope that the majority of your brain, the stuff that makes you you, will remain after they fiddle. That you won't be too damaged. You know before hand that you'll never be the same, no one ever is, but all you can do is hope that it's a minor shift. You go home, you fight, you research, you add treatments, you change your diet, you work incredibly hard. And at the same time, even though your whole life has been derailed, all of your dreams put on hold, except for a twinge of sadness here or there, you're just thrilled to be alive. You live your life revolving around scans and treatment, knowing each scan could be all it takes to devastate, that each treatment may not be enough. You battle fatigue, you battle the horror of seizures. And all the while, through it all, you're just happy to be capable of reading, and writing, and walking, and running, and laughing, and recognizing the beauty of each moment, of everything around you and most of all that you're able to fight. Cancer has a way of stopping the world from spinning. Everything happens at once, then not at all.

Tomorrow morning at 8:00 am is the MRI scan. Again they poke, jerking that needle into my vein, readying my body for the contrast dye that will tell all of my brain's dark secrets. Each MRI, each scan, is the biggest test of my life. Essentially, I live each day studying for this moment, for each exam. I remember my parents telling me when I was in my 20's, with admiration, that I was the consummate student - that it was my lifelong passion. We just never knew that I would be attending my own university, earning my own solitary degree. A degree in my body, my health, my survival. I love learning about the facets of tumors, of tumor life, how to outsmart them, to jump the hurdles. Sometimes it's scary. Sometimes it makes me viscerally ill. Regardless, I continue. My only wish is that I would have more energy, that my brain wouldn't shut down. Since the first brain surgery my body has a governor, and there is nothing I can do to change it. I work within specific boundaries that my body dictates. You guys know I fight it, pushing too hard at times. I keep hoping that just like with a muscle, all my mind needs is exercise to gain endurance. Doesn't seem to work that way though.

Sorry for the delay in my email responses, I'll probably be backed up for the next week - I'm still having to take daily naps to catch up after all that research. Please send a second email if you have an urgent question and I'll do my best to get back to you. For now, Dan's sneaking me off to hit golf balls (a close second to my favorite - the batting range) to de-stress.

As ever, but profoundly obvious, my fate is in the hands of the universe. Let's hope I've done enough to keep that parasite at bay.