Second Chances...

I've always been a hard stick, but usually a nurse or phlebotomist can find a viable vein after one or two jabs. I knew I was in trouble when after multiple jabs and vein blow outs by two nurses on both arms the head nurse had to be summoned. After being instructed "Do not flinch" and transforming into a human pin cushion--seven sticks to be exact--success at last.

Now I was ready to brace myself for the yearly visit with the tube to ensure my ex-roommate remained just that.

Today I am grateful for:

*Celebrating my golden "second chance" anniversary. Eleven years tumor free sounds great to me.

10x The Triumph

"Clean as a whistle."

That's all I needed to hear hugging Dr. Black. I've undergone numerous MRI's, but this one in particular had me especially on edge. The proof was before my eyes as Dr. Black scrolled past clear image after clear image on the computer.

Proof I still had nothing upstairs, well tumor speaking that is!

Meningioma-free.

Ten times the triumph.

Ten Times the Trouble...

Yes, it's that time of year again. Not the dead of winter during Colorado's known coldest month. Nor making only-to-be-broken resolutions. I stopped making those years ago. It's that time of year when I brace myself for the inevitable and pricey date with one very intimidating body of steel and magnets. An MRI.

People still ask if I get nervous even this far out from my ex-roommate's eviction and the answer is always yes. And perhaps even more so this time because when I take the strapped down plunge next Wednesday, I'll find out if I can proclaim I've been meningioma-free for 10 years.

Until then, this tenth MRI is ten times the trouble and...

Anxiety.
Angst.
Biting nails.
Butterflies.
Cold sweats.
Distress.
Dread.
Edginess.
Fidgeting.
Fright.
Goose bumps.
Hebbie-jeebies.
Ill at ease.
Jitters.
Killing time.
Kleenex.
Letting air out.
Misery.
Nail-biting.
Obsessing.
On pins and needles.
Panic.
Quivering.
Restlessness.
Strain.
Stress.
Suffering.
Suspense.
Tense.
Torture.
Trepidation.
Unease.
Upset.
Ventilating.
Vexing.
Waiting.
Worried stiff.
X-ray--clear?!
Yes or no in my head wondering about the results.
Zapped energy all the while waiting.

Before the Sun Rises

It was nine years ago today, but it still feels like that morning. A damp, cold, gray, Colorado winter morning when the sun had yet to rise and peak through my shutters stirring me from sleep. Instead, the high pierced shrill of a phone performed the sun’s daily ritual.

With receiver pressed firmly against my ear, an uneven, sterile voice greeted (if you could call it that) me. The unfamiliar, gravelly voice delivered a fate I still carry to this day and will until my last breath.

It only took four words.

“You have a meningioma,” the hollow voice uttered.

“A whaaaat?!” I stuttered back.

“A BRAIN TUMOR,” the voice continued, sending chills down my spine.

How do you even spell that I wanted to know as I desperately rifled through my nightstand drawer in search of a pen, a pencil—ah, heck my Mac Spice lip liner would do.

Men-in-gioma sounds more like a group of guys test-driving the latest foreign import, with all the bells and whistles, not to mention the 2.9% available financing option.

If only it could have been that simple.

The line went dead.

But surely it was me who was dead. I had become that damp, cold, gray Colorado winter morning.

Just hours later, I sat in horror as my newly appointed neurosurgeon explained the MRI I’d had the night before. Never-before-heard terms soared over my head.

Middle third sphenoid wing meningioma.

Cavernous sinus.

Lateral ventricular compression.

You’d have to be a brain surgeon to understand any of this stuff. Thankfully, the man in the overly starched, white lab coat standing in front of me was.

I forced myself to look at the snapshots of my illuminated brain. Images of a baseball-sized mass glared back at me in defiance. My husband was a major league ballplayer at the time, but I never imagined I’d be looking at the equivalent size of one in my head. Surely there had been a mix up. I was healthy, only 32 and trying to start a family. Maybe this explained my struggles to become pregnant the past year.

“You’ve probably had this tumor for over a decade,” my neurosurgeon solemnly announced.

“A decade!” I choked. I had had a “roommate” living inside of my head for 10 years? The only roommates I ever recalled having were back in college and graduate school, who shared their English Lit notes with you and gave you aspirin and a glass of water after a night of one too many beers.

I couldn’t get out of my head the Kindergarten Cop scene in which Arnold Schwarzenegger shouted, “It’s not a tumor!” I so wanted to believe this. But this wasn’t a fictional movie.

It was real life and it was mine. Surgery would be long and risky, but I didn’t have a choice. Just eight days later I underwent 12 hours of delicate surgery to remove the roommate that had invaded my brain and my life.

I was well on the path to recovery when another blow sucker punched me. An oozing orifice led to emergency surgery—my second in just three months. Would I ever heal or had a brain tumor diagnosis forever altered the Liz I once knew?

Despite my resolve it proved tough to heal once again and doctors remained skeptical I could become pregnant, save for adoption or IVF.

It was a miracle that I’d survived two brain surgeries, but my greatest miracle arrived Sept. 6, 2001, when my daughter, Hannah was born. And on April Fool’s day 2004, my second miracle, Hunter, debuted a month early. Both naturally. I owe my life to them for had I not been trying to have Hannah and Hunter, you wouldn’t be reading this today.

And I’m no longer afraid of phone calls before the sun rises.

Tube Thoughts...

You think I'd be used to this by now. After all, I've had more MRI's than I can count on two hands. I know for some it's easier with each passing year, but for me I think it's getting harder as I rack up the point of no return years. I can't help the fear that the longer I'm a meningioma survivor that one day my perfect record will shatter. I'm on a Cal Ripken Jr. streak if you will.

Enough of the doom and gloom!

Much earlier today, I underwent my nth date with the MRI tube. On the upside, the scans that used to take 45 minutes have significantly shaved off minutes--a bonus for the claustophobic. Call it the drive-thru MRI if you will. With that said, the sensations haven't changed or the newly added features I experienced for the first time today. Did someone say earthquake simulator?!

So in an INXS "Mediate" sort of way, my ruminations about my meningioma journey thus far from earlier today while in the tube and as I awaited my follow up report with everything crossed...

Anticipation.
Vibrations.
Ruminations.
Frustrations.
Gyrations.
Meditations.
Various sensations.
Recalibrations.
Questions.
Undulations.
Illumination.
Isolation.
Deformation.
Aggravation.
Perspiration.
Realizations.
Imagination.
Mixed emotions.
Mutation.
Medications.
Trepidation.
Operations.
Gestation.
Contemplation.
Deviation.
Infiltration.
Speculation.

And then I received word from the oracle aka my brilliant neurosurgeon....

Actually his smile gave away the results before he uttered them.

"Perfectly clear." Then he flashed me two thumbs up.

My reaction aside from obvious relief?!
Liberation.
Elation.
Gratification.
Celebration.
Exhilaration.

What a difference nine years makes.

Oh No Not Again

Oh no, I'm not talking about already breaking a new year's resolution, but rather the looming doom I always feel during this time of year....the dreaded MRI.

Three days from now to be exact, I'll get strapped into that all too familiar hollow tube and get shot up with enough gadolinium to rival the Fourth of July. All in the name of ensuring my ex-roommate aka the baseball-sized meningioma brain tumor I had evicted nine years ago, isn't back and back with a vengeance.

Two years ago I had a scare—the suspected residual tumor or scar tissue—doctors still can't determine which it is—indicated change. Not enough for my neurosurgeons (never thought I'd say that in my life time, I have a team of neurosurgeons at my disposal.) to be concerned at the time. So I'm on WAW or Wait and Watch as us brain tumor survivors call it. On the upside of having a brain tumor, I’ve mastered an entirely new lingo.

Wait for what? For the ex-roommate to defiantly proclaim its presence? Watch it move its prized possessions back in and get accustomed to former cushy and comfortable surroundings? I certainly hope not, but it's not up to me to decide. I'm comforted by the fact that if my tumor ever decides to rally in cells and grows, I know what to expect. After all, I’ve read the Meningioma Master Plan Eviction otherwise known as my path report. I know how the doctors excavated my roommate.

Bipolar electrocautery was utilized as well as a large Leksell, Midas Rex, a 15 blade and for a lovely touch—a corkscrew to pop open my dura. The MMPE also states, “The CUSA (Cavitron Ultra-sonic Aspirator) was used to try to debulk the tumor but the tumor was so tough and fibrous that it would not adequately work. Using an attachment, a ring attachment on the Bovie, this was used to internally decompress the tumor.”

The first time I read those haunting words I had an image of the trademark mustard yellow Stanley Steemer cleaner vans delivering super powered vacuums to suck out my stubborn roommate.

And then…“At this point, utilizing the bipolar electrocautery, the biopsy forceps, several various-sized patties were taken of tumor.”

I couldn’t help but think of McDonald’s.

“Meningioma Melt and super-size the fries please.” I always knew there was a reason for my aversion to the Golden Arches.

“This tumor was hard, fibrous,” the MMPE made particular mention of a second time. Well, what did they expect—it had been adhered to my brain for the last 10 years. Why would it want to leave all the comforts of home—free room and board and a plentiful food source?

I further learned that I had narrowly escaped having a blood transfusion, and my bone flap was secured in place with three bone buttons. While that explained the three indentations I could feel in my head, similar to a bowling ball, it also raised more questions. Whose bone was now residing in my head—I certainly wasn’t missing any of mine that I was aware of—and what if a button gradually unthreaded itself? I’m not much of a seamstress, but I don’t like the thought of loose bone buttons floating around in a pool of cerebrospinal fluid.

Bottom line—I'm a brain surgery veteran with 15 hours of grueling and delicate surgery under my thin-skinned skull. I have the upside down question mark scar to prove it.

Oh no not again is right and hopefully next Tuesday will yield two pieces of great news--my ex is obeying its restraining orders and I'll breathe easier.

Welcome to Wacky Wednesday!

Ologist-Outed...

I’ve had it. I’m done. I wish I could quit you all, but the sad reality is I can’t. I’m only 41. Aren’t I still considered too young for all of this?

It all started my senior year of high school when I acquired the first of the ologists. My gynecologist— my mother’s to be exact. Dr. Feldman. I didn’t think it proper to have a man touch me in places no other man had before. I found my own—a female— when I left for college.

I was safe for a long time and could deal with the cold stirrups on an annual basis. I pretty much was ologist-free in my 20’s. The trouble all began as soon as I hit my 30’s or what I refer to as my mid-life crisis years. Thankfully, I finished with them a few August's ago.

After a routine visit with my gynecologist, she noticed blood in my urine and referred me to an urologist. What was he going to feel when I coughed? A misdirected urine stream? I endured tests and was told nothing was wrong.

Nothing wrong that is until my years of Southern California sun worshipping urged me to seek an ologist on my own—a dermatologist. My body checked out fine except in places where the sun had never set its eyes. Two office visits later, my ass resembled Swiss cheese. I only shudder to think how the rest of me will look as time marches on.

Not many months after the Swiss cheese episode, I discovered a lump in my breast during an early morning shower. Back to the gynecologist I went. Days later I saw a radiologist. A week later, my breast tumor was removed. Back to the gynecologist for a post-surgery follow up. I think you get the drift of how I spent my early 30’s

Hold on, I’m not done yet.

Nine years ago, I began having seizures, migraine headaches, infertility issues. I just wanted to become a mother and I went from one puzzled doctor to another. I had an MRI. A radiologist read my scans and less than 12 hours later, I was assigned a neurosurgeon. I had a baseball-size meningioma brain tumor, which required immediate surgery.

I survived the surgery, but my drilled-into psyche didn’t. I added a fifth doctor, a neuropsychologist, to help me cope. He didn’t offer ologist coping strategies though, which in retrospect, would have been helpful.

I healed and life went on. I bore the daughter I was told I couldn’t have. Her arrival brought great joy, but not in terms of the seizures I started having again.

I added neurologist to my growing list of ologist docs. This one gives me drugs and they don’t come cheap.

Five years ago, miracle child number two came along and with that, a knock-me-down fatigue I’d never experienced before. Back to the gynecologist who makes referral to expert endocrinologist. I donate vials of blood and am diagnosed with funny sounding disease—Hashimoto’s—to be exact. My thyroid is slower than a turtle’s pace. More drugs, but these come much cheaper.

And even though I do have hemmorhoids—a lovely souvenir two pregnancies gave me—I don’t think I’m quite ready to go down the proctologist path.

I am now on a first name basis with my pharmacologist. My yearly planner is pre-booked with annual visits to gynecologist, dermatologist, radiologist, neurologist, and endocrinologist.

Luckily, I was able to break up with the neuropsychologist without any hard feelings.