One Year

At 10:15am one year ago, I received a phone call that would forever change my life. I was driving from my first MRI appointment, headed back to work, when a doctor told me that I had a large brain tumor. She told me they were holding an angio machine for me and I needed to come back to the clinic as soon as possible for immediate testing. They thought I had a cluster of veins - an arteriovenous malformation - within my brain tumor and that I had life threatening brain hemorrhaging. Those were her words.

After accidentally running through an intersection, I proceeded to pull the car to the side of the road. She never asked me what I was doing before blurting out the diagnosis. She did not ask if I was seated or if it was a good time. I didn't cry immediately, instead, I asked her if I was going to die. She said, "We hope not, but you need to get back here as soon as you possibly can."

When I hung up the phone with the doctor, I instantly dialed Danny's number. The second I heard his voice on the other line I lost it. Sobbing, I told him that I have a large brain tumor, and brain hemorrhaging and I reiterated the conversation with the doctor. He told me he'd be there in 2.5 hours, the distance between us. I then called my parents.

My mom answered the phone. I could barely speak. All I could manage was to tell her my location and that I couldn't drive. I heard my mom emphatically yell my father's name. We hung up the phone. As I waited and sobbed, I looked out the windows of my car, somehow noticing that my car was still in drive. I shut the engine off. I was on the side of HWY 97. It was a beautifully crisp day. There were cherry blossoms all around me. All I could think of were the cars passing me on the road. I thought about how no one would know why my particular car would be stopped. People were going about their day, headed to work, taking their kids to gymnastics, and here I was with the worst news I'd ever heard. I didn't know if I was going to live or die.

I will never forget how I felt. I'll never forget having to tell Danny and my parents. I was hysterical. I was absolutely devastated to break the horrible news, I knew that they were all going to be crushed and afraid. I cried for that. I cried for the pain that I knew they would feel. I cried because they're all so wonderful and they didn't deserve this stress, this change, this challenge. As I was waiting for my parents to come help me get back to the hospital, I deeply understood the magnitude of what was happening. I didn't know all of the medical details, or what was to come next, but I understood the severity and at that moment I gained an instant comprehension of the value of life.

My Health Is A Gift

Today, my mother, my father and I wrangled all of my medical bills and did my taxes. It was incredibly emotional. Looking through the paperwork, seeing terms like emergency anesthesia, catheter insertion, physical therapy, contrast dye, speech therapy, etc. brought be back to what I've gone through in the past year.

It was eye opening to review all of the itemized bills, listing in black and white what I dealt with. It made me so thankful for my amazing body and mind. They're so resilient, so hard working. It's pretty easy to go day by day, but when I look at the big picture this whole experience is incredibly profound.

Danny brought into our relationship a beautiful lab/Chesapeake Bay retriever mix. I've come to see my body just like Emma (the dog). My body follows my mind everywhere I go, happy, full of energy. It does the best that it can on any given occasion. It thrives on challenges, seldom complains and wants to please me.

I view my physical body and my mind as two different entities. I think it's because I've seen first hand how they are intertwined but can exist relatively apart. They're very different but equally important.

I am forever grateful for my body. My body blows my mind. I went for a run today after work. I had been feeling heavily burdened by the reality of all of the medical things my body and mind experienced. I wasn't sure if I could do the three mile minimum that I like to place on myself for workouts. Once I stepped on the treadmill and started running, I began thinking about how badly I wanted to run after the surgeries but literally was not able. I thought about all of the work, all of the baby steps, that I had to do to get to the place where I am now.

Around the fourth mile I started quietly crying, pushing faster and faster, eventually ending with the final mile in 7.3 minutes. I can only hope that the guys on either side of me thought the salty streaks were sweat. It was a mix of happy tears and pain for my body. I'm not sure if that makes any sense. What I'm trying to say is that my body has been through so much, and it gives and it gives and it gives. The poor thing has been brought to the brink, and still it rises up through the pain, the discomfort, the confusion. My body is a gift. Each little cellulite, every masculine muscle, all of the wrinkles, even my lone saddlebag. I care much less about the imperfections these days because it takes me everywhere I need to, lets me push it to no end, and keeps coming back for more. I know I'm lucky. My health is a gift.