An Ordinary Day

Tomorrow at this time, I will be at Hopkins for my five-year brain tumor MRI and neurosurgery appointment. They will make me sign a bunch of consent forms, then give me a sedative, before putting an IV in my arm. It will be my right, because that is the one with the "best" veins. I always ask them to please not talk about my veins, because it makes me queasy. They always do, anyhow. 

I will be strapped down so I cannot move my arms, and then a Hannibal Lecter-type mask will be locked over my face. I will be told not to move, and to keep my head still. As soon as they tell me this, my nose will start to itch, it always does. I will be fed into a tube, where the banging, clanging, will go on for an hour. 

It will be loud, it will be cold. I will refuse a blanket (eww, hospital blanket!) and try to think positive thoughts, although my mind will wander to the injustice of how this became my life, why I am here, my fears, my hopes, and eventually, how RIGHT NOW my nose REALLY itches and I sort of have to sneeze. 

The MRI will end, and still sedated, I will wait for the neurosurgeon. I'll be told by a nurse to go get a cup of coffee or some lunch, but I'm still queasy, from the sedative and the IV and all that vein talk, so I will wait, with the book I brought unopened on my lap. 

The neurosurgeon will arrive, he will measure the tumor on the screen and compare it to past scans, ask me about my symptoms, check my reflexes, ask me some questions, "Who's the President? Subtract 7 from 100, keep going ... Remember these three words, watch, pen, ball ... OK, what were those words?" (Maybe I should be studying now?)

It is routine - my twelfth visit - yet, it never is. Because you never get used to being slapped in the face by your own mortality. It never feels "normal" to confront a potentially life-limiting illness in your 30s (my doctor does not enjoy the word "terminal"). 

When I was first diagnosed, the five-year survival rate was 32%, or maybe 50%, depending on what you looked at. "You are a statistic of one. That is all," said the neurosurgeon. I thought that was bulls^%t, because it was MY statistic of one, not his. 

My son was four, I was worried he would never know me. He'd have fuzzy memories, of course, but if I were gone, he would never REALLY know me, as a person. 

Scariest of all was that thought of putting my son through the sudden death of his mommy. Or the opposite, a gradual decline, a long goodbye, diminished vitality, and then a slow death. Which was worse? Did it matter? I could not control this. 

So here I am, five years later, and my nine-year-old boy knows me. I still have the same worries, and more. Facing a serious illness is, in a word, devastating.  Emotionally, physically, financially. Every possible facet of my life has been shattered by me being sick.  

Even my decade-long marriage has been a causality.  Sometimes people fall together during a crisis, and sometimes they fall apart. We were the latter. We had plans - law firm partnership for me, share in the Hamptons, 2.3 kids, a golden retriever ... not this. Not this! 

And, yet, even amidst all the devastation, I am still here. I am still standing. I am still fighting. I am still me, in all the important ways. I am funny (sometimes inappropriately so), I am an excellent writer (and working on getting a book published this year), I am a caring, involved mom, I am a loving and empathetic friend; I am a terrible cook, I am awful at math, I am always ten minutes late for virtually every moment of my life, I have little patience. 

I am both incredibly strong, and extraordinarily weak, sometimes in the same day. Sometimes in the same hour. In short, I am human. 

My son still has his mom, and he knows these things. 

Last night, we had a completely ordinary Tuesday, I picked him up from school, we went out for macaroni and cheese, we walked to the library to pick up some new Thea Stilton (him) and Jodi Picoult (me). He laughed, I laughed.  It was happy, it was easy, and I was content. 

Here's to five more years of perfectly ordinary days, and then five more after that. 

Wish me luck.