Fighting Back: No Time For a Brain Tumor
A Brewster Smythe
January 06, 2008
Elizabeth Kubler Ross in her well-known book Death and Dying illustrated a model of five stages that many people rush through when faced with what is, what they may perceive to be - death.
When I was told I had a brain tumor, I had no idea what I was facing. Later in my journey, I realized that emergency room diagnosis are often raw and ragged. In a period of 5 hours my life had changed from one of relative health and engagement to one facing brain surgery. I also had no conception of what this brain tumor meant. No one had really explained it to me. However, through all of this confusion, one blazing emotion ran clear.
I was damn mad.
As I learned later, I was right on course, because anger is one of the stages in the process.
The reality of my life would never be the same. Yesterday, I was signed up to take two classes for my ongoing goal to reach my second college degree. Yesterday, I was primary caregiver for my two grandsons, 3 and 6. Who would take care of them now? Yesterday, I was active, writing articles, talking to coffee roasters, rushing here and there, exercising at the Y three times a week.
And then, there was the next day.
I did not have time for a brain tumor, I did not have time for brain surgery. People needed me, I needed them. Yes, this tumor was operable, but were they really telling me the truth? I had been in a hospital twice in my life. Those two times had produced two new people. What did I know about brain surgery? Who could I trust? And, why in the hell? Why, now?
My ways of resisting this reality took on a strange mode. My daughter had been with me in the emergency room, so she knew the diagnosis. I had her call my son in Florida and inform him. I called my sister, my sister who I talked to everyday. She lived over a thousand miles away. I asked her to call my parents and tell them. I just could not repeat the news to these people. My family.
Three days after the diagnosis I started to know I had a brain tumor, the reality began to actually sink in- and so did the fear. But, the anger propelled me. That anger led me to places I would have never known existed without the diagnosis.
One, a long highway, and my car gas peddle pressed to the metal, hitting an even 90 mph. I can’t put my family through this, I thought. Then, sanity returned. Two, scrambling, almost trying to escape the truth. I would wake up in the morning, with that first known feeling of goodwill, but then the truth of the day would come to me, and I would be so angry that at some points I really didn’t want to eat, reach out or even get dressed. Third, I wanted to kill the messenger. Certainly, this doctor who had given me the diagnosis was wrong. I hadn’t noticed anything. After all, look at all I had been doing prior to the diagnosis. How could someone with a brain tumor do all of that?
I don’t know, but I had, And all along, I had had a brain tumor. And now, I was mad!
When I was told I had a brain tumor, I had no idea what I was facing. Later in my journey, I realized that emergency room diagnosis are often raw and ragged. In a period of 5 hours my life had changed from one of relative health and engagement to one facing brain surgery. I also had no conception of what this brain tumor meant. No one had really explained it to me. However, through all of this confusion, one blazing emotion ran clear.
I was damn mad.
As I learned later, I was right on course, because anger is one of the stages in the process.
The reality of my life would never be the same. Yesterday, I was signed up to take two classes for my ongoing goal to reach my second college degree. Yesterday, I was primary caregiver for my two grandsons, 3 and 6. Who would take care of them now? Yesterday, I was active, writing articles, talking to coffee roasters, rushing here and there, exercising at the Y three times a week.
And then, there was the next day.
I did not have time for a brain tumor, I did not have time for brain surgery. People needed me, I needed them. Yes, this tumor was operable, but were they really telling me the truth? I had been in a hospital twice in my life. Those two times had produced two new people. What did I know about brain surgery? Who could I trust? And, why in the hell? Why, now?
My ways of resisting this reality took on a strange mode. My daughter had been with me in the emergency room, so she knew the diagnosis. I had her call my son in Florida and inform him. I called my sister, my sister who I talked to everyday. She lived over a thousand miles away. I asked her to call my parents and tell them. I just could not repeat the news to these people. My family.
Three days after the diagnosis I started to know I had a brain tumor, the reality began to actually sink in- and so did the fear. But, the anger propelled me. That anger led me to places I would have never known existed without the diagnosis.
One, a long highway, and my car gas peddle pressed to the metal, hitting an even 90 mph. I can’t put my family through this, I thought. Then, sanity returned. Two, scrambling, almost trying to escape the truth. I would wake up in the morning, with that first known feeling of goodwill, but then the truth of the day would come to me, and I would be so angry that at some points I really didn’t want to eat, reach out or even get dressed. Third, I wanted to kill the messenger. Certainly, this doctor who had given me the diagnosis was wrong. I hadn’t noticed anything. After all, look at all I had been doing prior to the diagnosis. How could someone with a brain tumor do all of that?
I don’t know, but I had, And all along, I had had a brain tumor. And now, I was mad!
Print
Email
