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Remember the yesterdays
Plan your tomorrows
And Celebrate your TODAY!
Psalm 30:2 “O
Lord my God, I called to you for help and you healed me.”
This is my third
attempt on paper and fiftieth mentally at writing this blog post. What to say, what to say…. I am fortunate to have had my brain tumor and
learn from that experience and I have grown from it. I’m still working on writing a book that will
likely shock and entertain many that know me well. I am so very thankful for my life. I consider myself one of the luckiest women,
EVER. I think God chose me, for this
special experience in life. He chose me
to walk a path that has not been easy every day, and he’s not finished with me
yet. I am celebrating life today, 5
years out from major brain surgery. I’m
celebrating that I’m not laid up in some hospital wondering which family member
is watching my kids and if I’m going to be able to take them to school the
following year. I am so
b l e s s e d.
Update on health
stuff: the tumor is still present,
although small now. It is in the bony
matter of my brain. It’s in the part
that cradles the optic nerve. Two years
ago, there was some growth and Cyber knife radiation was performed. I did NOT do well with that. I had a Severe allergic reaction and was in
neuro icu for several weeks. It has
permanently affected my frontal lobes, which affects Everything in life(that’s
just awesome)! I recovered some from the
radiation, but a recovery to pre-radiation status is not in the cards. My brain is swollen. Period.
End of story. The radiation may
have been successful in shrinking the tumor or at least stopping the
growth. Time will tell for sure. It takes 4-5 years to know. For now, we continue to scan via mri every 6
months and monitor the tumor and swelling.
Overall, I feel well. I work, I
run, I care for my kids. Rex and I have
date nights. We have a very full
life! I am one of the luckiest women on
the earth. The Lord has blessed me
richly with friends, life, children, the best mother, and an awesome husband,
Rex.
And here’s a blurb
from a piece of the writing I’ve been working on, with the very talented
Priscilla Tallman providing editorial services.
Men In Blue
Two men dressed in blue attire and wearing warm smiles put
me on the stretcher. I was instantly put on bed rest. Complete bed rest. The
kind that comes with a bed pan bed rest. If I need to use the restroom from
this point forward it will be in a bean shaped, mauve colored mini-potty.
Seriously, it was more effort to maneuver myself to “go” on that thing than if
I had calmly walked myself to the restroom. But, whatever, doctor’s orders I
guess. They impressed upon me that with a mass that size on my brain any
physical exertion could bring on a stroke. In fact, they could not believe that
I hadn’t had a stroke already. Be calm and stay put. In the bed. Bed rest.
For now, I rested on the stretcher and my two friendly EMT’s
wheeled me through the winding hospital doors to the ambulance. They opened the
back doors and popped me into the rear cabin of the truck like a good little
patient. There’s only one gigantic problem. I don’t do back seats. My husband
knows this, my family knows this – my body definitely knows this. I know what
you are thinking, what kind of person is concerned with tossing their cookies
on their way to brain surgery? Well, I was and I had enough experience with car
sickness that I just wanted to be comfortable on the ride to my next stop. I
basically told the driver about my seating arrangement. One of the other men dressed
in blue kindly offered me an anti-nausea medication to satisfy my request
because apparently I only had about a snowball’s chance of getting in the front
seat of this emergency vehicle. I refused the medication and politely informed
“other guy” that although it may relieve the nausea of many people, I have not
had similar results and in fact took it during much of my second pregnancy and
it barely took the edge off…then I promptly rolled my eyes and began scheming a
plan to ride shotgun.
I Call Front Seat!
“I’ll just sit up front,” I said. “Yes, that will work best”
I stated with the confidence of a woman determined not to lose her lunch (or
whatever meal I had last) all over my new friends or my new emergency wheels.
My ambulance buddies almost had a heart attack at the thought of this actually
happening. The other man in blue exclaimed “that’s against the law!” But I
would really feel best if I could ride up front. Both guys in blue struggled
for a moment. The truck was silent as they stared at one another in shock. I
could see their minds teetering back and forth on whether or not to let me ride
shotgun and finally, they relented and we negotiated a deal. We would leave the
hospital driveway with me in the back and when we were out of range, we would
pull over and as quickly as everyone could move they would unhook my monitors
for a nanosecond and then Rex and I would switch places. Ready, set…GO!
We drove away from the hospital and once we were safely out
of range, the ambulance and pulled into a lowly lit convenience store parking
lot. My friends in blue disconnected me from my monitors and at that instant
the plan we had cooked up just moments before was in motion. Rex jumped out of
the front seat and into the back of the truck. I shimmied my way – don’t forget
I was in a backless hospital gown – to the front seat without anyone seeing me
or my backside. The whole seat change took only a few seconds and I was a much
happier camper up front. I was extremely grateful for this victory. Although it
was a small one, at least I felt as though I still had some control over where
my world was going, even if it only seemed that way. My guess is that my
friends in blue knew how grim my diagnosis was so they figured “what the heck?”
let her be comfortable on the ride to the next stop.
My family who had been on pins and needles since the first
phone calls, was following close behind during the seat changing ordeal and
later confided to me that they were frightened when they saw the ambulance pull
abruptly into an empty parking lot but soon realized that “of course, Chrissy
needs to sit up front.”
Just as we were merging onto the freeway, my high school
friend Nimisha called to see what was going on. I had called her in a frantic
panic a few hours earlier for words of wisdom. Nimisha is a Pediatric
Nephrologist and she was just landing in Los Angeles after spending a week on
the East Coast for a medical conference. She asked what was going on and I told
her that I didn’t really know but that I was on my way to the Barrow’s
Institute. “What’s the name of the hospital? I’ll look it up” she asked. I told
her again and then told her everything I had been told to this point. I repeated
that I had a large brain mass and they said it wasn’t good. She spoke
comforting words about how lots of people live through brain tumors and, in
fact, most of them are not terminal. I told her they didn’t tell me what kind
mine was. Just then, one of the men in blue handed me a copy of the transfer
paper work to read to my friend.
Okay, blah , blah, blah…blah, blah…here it is…
Large mass behind
right eye, looks to be glioblastoma multiforme. You know that silence you
have when you are watching World News and you are seeing something horrific
unfold right before your very eyes? That is the silence Nim had after she let
out a small gasp that could only mean something very terrible. I knew it was
bad. I just knew. Nimisha is one of the kindest, compassionate and encouraging
people I have known in my years. She is always gentle and kind in her words and
although she tried to conceal the severity of it (which she did to some
degree), she still was the bearer of some difficult words. “That was one of the
two that I was hoping you wouldn’t say, but you’ll be okay. You will make it,
you’re strong. I’ll look up the hospital you are going to and see what they
have to offer. We’ll talk soon,” and that was that.
I gave the papers back to my driver friend and we sat in
relative quietness until it was time to stop again and return me to the back of
the truck prior to our arrival at the hospital.
What was unclear to me at the time, but soon came into view
was that Glioblastoma Multiforme, or GBM, is one of the most common and
deadliest of malignant brain tumors. Classified as a Grade IV (most serious)
astrocytoma, GBM develops from the lineage of star-shaped glial cells, called
astrocytes - astrocytes support nerve cells. GBM develops primarily in the
cerebral hemisphere but can develop in other parts of the brain, brainstem, or
spinal cord. Mine was on the frontal lobe (where specifically on your brain did
it develop).
We pulled into the half circle drive for ambulance arrivals
and my ambulance driver friends wheeled me through the hospital and into the
elevator where I would soon learn that when you are faced with death, an f-bomb
delivered by an ambulance driver can be extremely encouraging. “Stay strong”
said the tattooed ambulance driver. “You can beat it. Don’t give up. You can do
it!” He said and then followed those statements with expletive after expletive
of how I was going to kick the posterior side of this glioblastoma. And
although I am a God-fearing, bible reading, hallelujah shouting woman of God,
when God chooses to use people, he will use a tattooed, f-bomb dropping
ambulance driver if need be. I will never forget the words that man delivered
so passionately to me in that elevator. It is exactly what I needed at that
moment.
COLD
We arrived to the floor where I would spend the next few
days. The big steel doors opened, ushering us through the winding hallway of
the ICU neurosurgical floor. It was quiet. It was cold. It was scary. The
people I passed on the way to my room were sick. So sick. It looked and smelled
like death everywhere. It sort of reminded me of an old war movie where there
are lots of injured soldiers lying in rows of beds, their faces stricken with
despair and hopelessness. I look among the sea of faces and lock eyes with a
man, likely in his eighties, on a breathing machine and staples across his
forehead. I feel like I need to gasp or come up for air. My lungs struggle for
breath. Cold breath. And before I can breathe in the cold air, the moment is
gone. This is not a place for sight-seeing or taking in scenery, no matter how
horrific. They need to get me to my room, so onward we go.
Once I am in my room, my ambulance friends lift me onto my
new bed. I get re-read the rules of my bed-rest and reminded of how to use the
bedpan. The drivers and I nod to one another and give a knowing smile as we
mentally recount the switch-o change-o that just went down in the parking lot
of a Subway restaurant fifteen miles back. I giggle just a little when I think
of the fit the ER doctor who gave me the bed rest orders probably would have
had to know what we had just done.
The room is cold and clean and state of the art. I mean this
place is high-tech. If any of those people back on the hall can be saved, then
this is definitely the place for it to happen.
And
this is where my miracle really gets good.
I go in for surgery, and the prognosis ends up being a meningioma,
instead of a GBM! Hallelujah! The Lord spared me! I’m given time on earth to raise my children,
my precious Logan and lovely Tuesday who were then 5 and 2 years old. I’m given a second chance at health and life
and marriage. In the blink of an eye, I
had lost my health and regained it. I’m
a lucky gal, and I now know what it’s like to “Live like you’re dying.” The doctors were wrong, and I’ll take it! I’m
here now and thriving 5 years later. May I challenge you to live life like you’re
dying? What would you do different today
if someone told you you had 2-5 months?
It could happen to you….
