Making plans without knowing the future LJ Idol entry
Benign a non-fatal condition. Although benign tumors will not metastasize or locally invade tissues, some types may still produce negative health effects. The growth of benign tumors produce a "mass effect" that can compress tissues and may cause nerve damage, reduction of blood to an area of the body (ischaemia), tissue death (necrosis) and organ damage. The mass effect of tumors are more prominent if the tumor is within an enclosed space such as the cranium. (Wikipedia)
In retrospect, I can discern what the symptoms* were. Though a general fog was keeping my awareness cloaked, I had been having regular headaches, vomiting, unexplained weight loss, and other unrecognized and under-appreciated symptoms for a full year before I went to a new doctor for completely unrelated reasons. I needed an annual check-up, albeit some five years overdue. My reporting of middle of the night recurring headaches got the doctor's attention however. "Let's send you in for an MRI," she said. "We'll check your sinuses; maybe they're infected. And you know, to rule out a brain tumor," she added with a sheepish chuckle.
She's nuts, I thought. But dutifully I scheduled the MRI, making sure it was to occur on the following weekend, so as not to miss any work at school. I'm nothing if not responsible.
The following Saturday morning I made my way to the imaging center. Uncharacteristically, I got lost on the way. Boy, these directions are screwed up, I complained to myself.
"We got some good pictures," the technician commented as I left.
That's kind of an odd statement I said to myself as I walked out the door.
"Here, take this CD with the pictures," he said, and handed me the case. And I drove home, some ten miles down the very busy San Diego Freeway.
Once home, I saw my son taking a nap on the sofa and decided that sounded kind of nice. I sure had been "lazy" lately. I lay down, preparing to indulge. After resting for a few minutes, I called out to my husband, "Oh, by the way, I have a CD from the MRI. Maybe we should look at it."
He inserted it into the laptop and we clicked through perhaps three dozen shots of my brain. I was concerned by some large white areas visible in the scan. I went back to resting. He began to talk about asking the doctor about the scan next week. I got up to google brain anatomy. I was curious, but not overly concerned. Those white areas were weird, however.
An hour later, the phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered.
The voice on the phone said, "Hello. This is Dr. Martinez. Do you have a friend with you?" (Hmm, that's rather an odd question I thought.) She asked again, once or twice.
Finally I answered in the affirmative, "Yes, my husband is here."
"I want you to go to the emergency room Right Now. Do not drive. Have your friend drive you."
Somewhat dumbfounded, I agreed that I would do that. "Oscar!" I called to my husband. "They want me to go to the ER."
We took another look at the MRI photos. This time he spotted a large orange-sized circular area on part of the scan. It even appeared to be elbowing the other hemisphere of my brain to one side by as much as a centimeter. "Wow. You don't have to be an MD to see that that's not right." he commented. Later I learned that the white areas were totally normal. But the bulge was obviously not.
Did I panic? Strangely, no. Did he? Perhaps, but he kept it to himself.
So, the Saturday afternoon some four hours after the MRI, I was checked into the emergency room and then moved into ICU. When doctors came to check on me they offered, that since I hadn't had any symptoms, I probably had a menigioma, which would mean it was benign, would be 100% curable, and probably had been growing a long time. "Maybe five years!" they offered. We informed everyone we knew what I had. It was amazing to us how many people--maybe twenty or more--who reported to us that a friend of theirs, or a sister, or a workmate had had the same condition. When a vice principal at my school, a man I admire greatly, told me that he had had the same type of tumor twenty-five years ago in Israel, I truly took hope. If he can be as capable as he is now, then undoubtedly I will survive this myself. Perhaps it was knowing his history that empowered me to be calm and let the doctors take care of business, without me worrying.
By Monday I underwent a pre-operative angiogram to detect the exact location of the blood vessels in the tumor. This sounded easy-peasy. They would simply insert a catheter into the blood vessel in my upper thigh and thread it up into my brain (!) and take a look around. They would also inject some substance designed to block off blood flow to the tumor, thus making the surgery to remove it much easier and also to begin to starve the mass.
Much later I learned that the angiogram was far from being totally "easy-peasy," I ended up with bruises to my legs that lasted for at least two weeks after the procedure. Likewise, bruising from my two IVs remained even longer. It was the doctor who did the angiogram who commented that going into the brain was never to be taken lightly.
Tuesday I was scheduled for a three hour surgery to remove the brain tumor. I had begun to anticipate this event as salvation from that which was afflicting me. Four hours and forty-five minutes after beginning, the surgeons finished excising the 75mm growth. My husband, his friend Dr. Bill Braun, and one of my sons kept vigil in the waiting room. Unbeknownst to me, they were virtual basket cases of worry. Thank goodness Bill was there to keep them company, answer the myriad of questions they came up with, and more or less distract them.
When I woke up from surgery I guess I was giddy. Maybe it was the drugs. I began to talk a blue streak. I was cracking jokes a mile a minute. (Still my favorite: Since they removed a large mass from my head, I was told I had operating room air in my head. They would solve this by having me breathe pure oxygen to replace atmospheric nitrogen with oxygen. Henceforth I declared myself an official "airhead.")
However, it required a lot of energy to talk, so I made an effort to choose my words very carefully. No way was I going to say "Hand me that thingy." I knew I had to make my words count. So I would say, "Hand me that green sippy cup on the top of the table on the right side of the room by the window and hold it for me while I drink." For this reason I used a lot of what most people would consider "big words." It was all about trying to be concise. Meanwhile my entire family spent the proverbial 24/7 attending to my needs. In the middle of the night I could express my wishes simply by croaking the word, "ice" and one of them would leap to my aid. They also spent most of this time with their cell phones permanently attached to their hands. I was ready to complain until I realized they were making a valiant effort to inform the world of my new situation. Meanwhile, in spite of having my head wrapped in gauze, mummy-style, they all turned to me constantly asking how to spell various words. We all concluded nothing had gone wrong with my language abilities!
I spent the following week sucking in pure oxygen, beginning to eat soft food, and starting physical therapy. My co-teacher came in to visit two days post surgery. "Can I bring you some In-N-Out?" he offered helpfully. As scrambled eggs were the only thing I felt I could manage to chew, I politely turned him down. I appreciated the thought, however!
"I won't be back at work until after the first of the year," I informed him. Privately I was thinking Yeah, right, like that's going to happen. He informed me later that he was thinking exactly the same thing. By the Monday after my surgery, they sent me home. As we left the hospital, one doctor remarked that I may have had the tumor "for twenty years!"
Going home! Hallelujah! I hadn't slept a wink the whole time I was there. No, it was not about noise or interruptions, though those occured constantly. The one unintentional thing I think the surgery did remove was the brain cells that told my body to sleep. I hoped that would resolve itself. As long as it didn't, I knew I wouldn't be able to manage a full time job, even if everything else was fine.
In the days immediately following my surgery, I was exceedingly dizzy when sitting up. I needed training and practice to manage to walk by myself. Writing was physically difficult. Remembering the names of common things like "elephant" or "accordian" were initially impossible. They showed me pictures and I had to identify them. But, No, they never asked me, "Who's the president?" or "What year is it?" But they did always ask me what the date was. I cheated a bit by reading the nurses' board in my room. But they were happy because I was "utilizing my resources."
At home I made extremely rapid improvements. Though at first I was unable to negotiate the traverse to the bathroom in the middle of the night or take a shower by myself, I soon began to go on one mile walks in a nearby wild area with one of my sons. I was going to get over this thing! I was determined! I continued to tell my co-workers that I wouldn't be back at work until after the first. They, and my students, responded with overwhelming attention and concern. Meanwhile, believe it or not, I began to plan the remodeling of a bathroom in our home. I was going to make use of this time off from work! At the same time, I was prohibited from driving. I was definitely getting better, but it was obvious that I had a long way to go.
Along about January I was facing the dilemma: do I really want to go back to work? My husband (delusionally) thought I was perfect. (That's what husbands are for!) I sensed that I was not. I still wasn't sleeping. I became exhausted after a busy day. I didn't want to imply to my co-workers that I was busily improving our home, and in fact having the time of my life with such projects, but I didn't want to come back. I settled on telling them that, "I was eager (I used that word!) to come back, as long as it was only for two days a week AND that I would be gone for two different two-week periods to participate in pre-planned foreign travel." I knew that sounding eager to come back, but presenting them with an impossible suggestion, would take care of the "When are you coming back?" question. Meanwhile, I was better, though not at 100%. My improvements were so dramatic, yet so gradual, it was difficult to see them. How to predict how I would feel by April? By June? By next September when school would gear up again? On any given day I felt pretty good, but had a nearly impossible time predicting the future-- six months down the road.
I did agree to teach summer school. I finally bowed out of my job at my regular school. I visited today (June 9th) and contemplated that it was pretty fun to be there. But full time? I still can't predict just how well I would do with a forty hour per week commitment. I am hopeful that by September I will be fit as a fiddle. But who knows? All I know is how I feel today. All I can do is be optimistic.
And maybe plan another house improvement project!
Before. Waiting in the ER to be admitted. Notice hair, long bangs, length to cover ears and down to nape of neck. Notice attractive hospital gown. (pukey green.)
Evening after angiogram. They were going to have me fast for a second day, but I protested! You can see I look a little fatigued. A box of mac and cheese sits on the hospital tray next to me.
Son Eric feeds me post-surgeryI am reclining, following doctor's orders not to lift my head. I am hooked up to a star warsian jumble of hoses, wires, and IVs. My head is now wrapped in a swami-like turban of gauze.
A therapist holds my safety belt as I give walking a try with the help of a walker. Fortunately, by the time I left the hospital less than a week later, they had swiped my walker and even told me I didn't need a cane. However, they were all constantly admonishing me not to fall.
Eric, whose profession is police officer, provides some solidarity by shaving his own head to match mine. (Such buzzed hair is not unheard of for cops.) A gift, a stuffed toy seal pup, rests on my right shoulder while Eric affectionately rests his head gingerly upon my left.
My son and I as of yesterday. We both have more hair!
And a little bit better view of me taken at Easter. My hair is silvery and perhaps 2" long.
To view entire album of related photos, visit this flickr link. Warning, Some photos may be more graphic regarding incisions than you may be ready for!
Additional notes:
*SYMPTOMS:
After the surgery, my brain fog began to lift. I realized that I had had the recurring night-time headaches for more like six months, rather than the two months I initially told the doctor. I also had experienced morning sickness-like vomiting sessions on random occasions. My memory wasn't what it once was, but whose is? What really should have been a red flag was the fact that, without trying, I had lost thirty pounds within the year leading up to the discovery of my tumor. I remembered an episode a year previous in which I felt very ill at an evening get-together that couldn't be explained by a common flu bug. I even thought back to a hiking situation nearly five years previous in which I had had uncharacteristic altitude sickness at 4000ft elevation.. As an experienced high altitude (9000-14,500 ft elevation) hiker, that was unthinkable. Why the heck had I not questioned any of these things? (Especially the weight loss!) Lest you suddenly feel that maybe YOU have a brain tumor, they did give me one bit of advice. It is headaches in patients who previously are unaccustomed to having them that triggers their concern.
My new nickname at home is "The New Mer." (Mer rhymes with fur and is their name for me.)
I have three sons and a husband. At least one of them, and usually all of them, were there the entire week. The only exception was my son who lives in Germany, who broke his usual habit by calling every day.
My hair grew in from the bald shave I had. My husband and multitudes of other people have complimented me on my style. When hubby would jokingly compliment me and ask who my hairdresser was, I would respond, "Dr. Jackson." I have trimmed my hair twice since it has grown in and I am keeping it ultra-short. I love it!
Final note: I must thank neurosurgeon Dr. Robert Jackson, his assistant Darren Johnson, PA; Dr. Kwa, Dr. Goldberg and a huge team of experts for so expertly saving my life, as well as my brain function. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Dr. Karen Lau for sending me in for the MRI in the first place. One moral of the story: Be happy you live now. Get yourself to the best hospital you can if you face a similar medical emergency.
Moral #2: Be sure you have medical insurance!
In retrospect, I can discern what the symptoms* were. Though a general fog was keeping my awareness cloaked, I had been having regular headaches, vomiting, unexplained weight loss, and other unrecognized and under-appreciated symptoms for a full year before I went to a new doctor for completely unrelated reasons. I needed an annual check-up, albeit some five years overdue. My reporting of middle of the night recurring headaches got the doctor's attention however. "Let's send you in for an MRI," she said. "We'll check your sinuses; maybe they're infected. And you know, to rule out a brain tumor," she added with a sheepish chuckle.
She's nuts, I thought. But dutifully I scheduled the MRI, making sure it was to occur on the following weekend, so as not to miss any work at school. I'm nothing if not responsible.
The following Saturday morning I made my way to the imaging center. Uncharacteristically, I got lost on the way. Boy, these directions are screwed up, I complained to myself.
"We got some good pictures," the technician commented as I left.
That's kind of an odd statement I said to myself as I walked out the door.
"Here, take this CD with the pictures," he said, and handed me the case. And I drove home, some ten miles down the very busy San Diego Freeway.
Once home, I saw my son taking a nap on the sofa and decided that sounded kind of nice. I sure had been "lazy" lately. I lay down, preparing to indulge. After resting for a few minutes, I called out to my husband, "Oh, by the way, I have a CD from the MRI. Maybe we should look at it."
He inserted it into the laptop and we clicked through perhaps three dozen shots of my brain. I was concerned by some large white areas visible in the scan. I went back to resting. He began to talk about asking the doctor about the scan next week. I got up to google brain anatomy. I was curious, but not overly concerned. Those white areas were weird, however.
An hour later, the phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered.
The voice on the phone said, "Hello. This is Dr. Martinez. Do you have a friend with you?" (Hmm, that's rather an odd question I thought.) She asked again, once or twice.
Finally I answered in the affirmative, "Yes, my husband is here."
"I want you to go to the emergency room Right Now. Do not drive. Have your friend drive you."
Somewhat dumbfounded, I agreed that I would do that. "Oscar!" I called to my husband. "They want me to go to the ER."
We took another look at the MRI photos. This time he spotted a large orange-sized circular area on part of the scan. It even appeared to be elbowing the other hemisphere of my brain to one side by as much as a centimeter. "Wow. You don't have to be an MD to see that that's not right." he commented. Later I learned that the white areas were totally normal. But the bulge was obviously not.
Did I panic? Strangely, no. Did he? Perhaps, but he kept it to himself.
So, the Saturday afternoon some four hours after the MRI, I was checked into the emergency room and then moved into ICU. When doctors came to check on me they offered, that since I hadn't had any symptoms, I probably had a menigioma, which would mean it was benign, would be 100% curable, and probably had been growing a long time. "Maybe five years!" they offered. We informed everyone we knew what I had. It was amazing to us how many people--maybe twenty or more--who reported to us that a friend of theirs, or a sister, or a workmate had had the same condition. When a vice principal at my school, a man I admire greatly, told me that he had had the same type of tumor twenty-five years ago in Israel, I truly took hope. If he can be as capable as he is now, then undoubtedly I will survive this myself. Perhaps it was knowing his history that empowered me to be calm and let the doctors take care of business, without me worrying.
By Monday I underwent a pre-operative angiogram to detect the exact location of the blood vessels in the tumor. This sounded easy-peasy. They would simply insert a catheter into the blood vessel in my upper thigh and thread it up into my brain (!) and take a look around. They would also inject some substance designed to block off blood flow to the tumor, thus making the surgery to remove it much easier and also to begin to starve the mass.
Much later I learned that the angiogram was far from being totally "easy-peasy," I ended up with bruises to my legs that lasted for at least two weeks after the procedure. Likewise, bruising from my two IVs remained even longer. It was the doctor who did the angiogram who commented that going into the brain was never to be taken lightly.
Tuesday I was scheduled for a three hour surgery to remove the brain tumor. I had begun to anticipate this event as salvation from that which was afflicting me. Four hours and forty-five minutes after beginning, the surgeons finished excising the 75mm growth. My husband, his friend Dr. Bill Braun, and one of my sons kept vigil in the waiting room. Unbeknownst to me, they were virtual basket cases of worry. Thank goodness Bill was there to keep them company, answer the myriad of questions they came up with, and more or less distract them.
When I woke up from surgery I guess I was giddy. Maybe it was the drugs. I began to talk a blue streak. I was cracking jokes a mile a minute. (Still my favorite: Since they removed a large mass from my head, I was told I had operating room air in my head. They would solve this by having me breathe pure oxygen to replace atmospheric nitrogen with oxygen. Henceforth I declared myself an official "airhead.")
However, it required a lot of energy to talk, so I made an effort to choose my words very carefully. No way was I going to say "Hand me that thingy." I knew I had to make my words count. So I would say, "Hand me that green sippy cup on the top of the table on the right side of the room by the window and hold it for me while I drink." For this reason I used a lot of what most people would consider "big words." It was all about trying to be concise. Meanwhile my entire family spent the proverbial 24/7 attending to my needs. In the middle of the night I could express my wishes simply by croaking the word, "ice" and one of them would leap to my aid. They also spent most of this time with their cell phones permanently attached to their hands. I was ready to complain until I realized they were making a valiant effort to inform the world of my new situation. Meanwhile, in spite of having my head wrapped in gauze, mummy-style, they all turned to me constantly asking how to spell various words. We all concluded nothing had gone wrong with my language abilities!
I spent the following week sucking in pure oxygen, beginning to eat soft food, and starting physical therapy. My co-teacher came in to visit two days post surgery. "Can I bring you some In-N-Out?" he offered helpfully. As scrambled eggs were the only thing I felt I could manage to chew, I politely turned him down. I appreciated the thought, however!
"I won't be back at work until after the first of the year," I informed him. Privately I was thinking Yeah, right, like that's going to happen. He informed me later that he was thinking exactly the same thing. By the Monday after my surgery, they sent me home. As we left the hospital, one doctor remarked that I may have had the tumor "for twenty years!"
Going home! Hallelujah! I hadn't slept a wink the whole time I was there. No, it was not about noise or interruptions, though those occured constantly. The one unintentional thing I think the surgery did remove was the brain cells that told my body to sleep. I hoped that would resolve itself. As long as it didn't, I knew I wouldn't be able to manage a full time job, even if everything else was fine.
In the days immediately following my surgery, I was exceedingly dizzy when sitting up. I needed training and practice to manage to walk by myself. Writing was physically difficult. Remembering the names of common things like "elephant" or "accordian" were initially impossible. They showed me pictures and I had to identify them. But, No, they never asked me, "Who's the president?" or "What year is it?" But they did always ask me what the date was. I cheated a bit by reading the nurses' board in my room. But they were happy because I was "utilizing my resources."
At home I made extremely rapid improvements. Though at first I was unable to negotiate the traverse to the bathroom in the middle of the night or take a shower by myself, I soon began to go on one mile walks in a nearby wild area with one of my sons. I was going to get over this thing! I was determined! I continued to tell my co-workers that I wouldn't be back at work until after the first. They, and my students, responded with overwhelming attention and concern. Meanwhile, believe it or not, I began to plan the remodeling of a bathroom in our home. I was going to make use of this time off from work! At the same time, I was prohibited from driving. I was definitely getting better, but it was obvious that I had a long way to go.
Along about January I was facing the dilemma: do I really want to go back to work? My husband (delusionally) thought I was perfect. (That's what husbands are for!) I sensed that I was not. I still wasn't sleeping. I became exhausted after a busy day. I didn't want to imply to my co-workers that I was busily improving our home, and in fact having the time of my life with such projects, but I didn't want to come back. I settled on telling them that, "I was eager (I used that word!) to come back, as long as it was only for two days a week AND that I would be gone for two different two-week periods to participate in pre-planned foreign travel." I knew that sounding eager to come back, but presenting them with an impossible suggestion, would take care of the "When are you coming back?" question. Meanwhile, I was better, though not at 100%. My improvements were so dramatic, yet so gradual, it was difficult to see them. How to predict how I would feel by April? By June? By next September when school would gear up again? On any given day I felt pretty good, but had a nearly impossible time predicting the future-- six months down the road.
I did agree to teach summer school. I finally bowed out of my job at my regular school. I visited today (June 9th) and contemplated that it was pretty fun to be there. But full time? I still can't predict just how well I would do with a forty hour per week commitment. I am hopeful that by September I will be fit as a fiddle. But who knows? All I know is how I feel today. All I can do is be optimistic.
And maybe plan another house improvement project!
Before. Waiting in the ER to be admitted. Notice hair, long bangs, length to cover ears and down to nape of neck. Notice attractive hospital gown. (pukey green.)
Evening after angiogram. They were going to have me fast for a second day, but I protested! You can see I look a little fatigued. A box of mac and cheese sits on the hospital tray next to me.
Son Eric feeds me post-surgeryI am reclining, following doctor's orders not to lift my head. I am hooked up to a star warsian jumble of hoses, wires, and IVs. My head is now wrapped in a swami-like turban of gauze.
A therapist holds my safety belt as I give walking a try with the help of a walker. Fortunately, by the time I left the hospital less than a week later, they had swiped my walker and even told me I didn't need a cane. However, they were all constantly admonishing me not to fall.
Eric, whose profession is police officer, provides some solidarity by shaving his own head to match mine. (Such buzzed hair is not unheard of for cops.) A gift, a stuffed toy seal pup, rests on my right shoulder while Eric affectionately rests his head gingerly upon my left.
My son and I as of yesterday. We both have more hair!
And a little bit better view of me taken at Easter. My hair is silvery and perhaps 2" long.
To view entire album of related photos, visit this flickr link. Warning, Some photos may be more graphic regarding incisions than you may be ready for!
Additional notes:
*SYMPTOMS:
After the surgery, my brain fog began to lift. I realized that I had had the recurring night-time headaches for more like six months, rather than the two months I initially told the doctor. I also had experienced morning sickness-like vomiting sessions on random occasions. My memory wasn't what it once was, but whose is? What really should have been a red flag was the fact that, without trying, I had lost thirty pounds within the year leading up to the discovery of my tumor. I remembered an episode a year previous in which I felt very ill at an evening get-together that couldn't be explained by a common flu bug. I even thought back to a hiking situation nearly five years previous in which I had had uncharacteristic altitude sickness at 4000ft elevation.. As an experienced high altitude (9000-14,500 ft elevation) hiker, that was unthinkable. Why the heck had I not questioned any of these things? (Especially the weight loss!) Lest you suddenly feel that maybe YOU have a brain tumor, they did give me one bit of advice. It is headaches in patients who previously are unaccustomed to having them that triggers their concern.
My new nickname at home is "The New Mer." (Mer rhymes with fur and is their name for me.)
I have three sons and a husband. At least one of them, and usually all of them, were there the entire week. The only exception was my son who lives in Germany, who broke his usual habit by calling every day.
My hair grew in from the bald shave I had. My husband and multitudes of other people have complimented me on my style. When hubby would jokingly compliment me and ask who my hairdresser was, I would respond, "Dr. Jackson." I have trimmed my hair twice since it has grown in and I am keeping it ultra-short. I love it!
Final note: I must thank neurosurgeon Dr. Robert Jackson, his assistant Darren Johnson, PA; Dr. Kwa, Dr. Goldberg and a huge team of experts for so expertly saving my life, as well as my brain function. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Dr. Karen Lau for sending me in for the MRI in the first place. One moral of the story: Be happy you live now. Get yourself to the best hospital you can if you face a similar medical emergency.
Moral #2: Be sure you have medical insurance!