Hitting a Wall

One of the most common things people told me during my brain tumor nightmare was that I was “so strong”. I gave an Academy Award-winning performance–for the month leading up to surgery I remained upbeat and did not freak out. Or at least that’s what everyone saw. I had my moments, I would find myself alone in the car running an errand when it would hit me: “I have a brain tumor” and the tears would pour. Several times I had a breakdown, but no one knew this, it was my secret. If I fell apart, my family would, too. If they saw me scared, they would be scared, too.

A couple of months after my surgery, when I had been weaned off steroids and my hair had started to grow back, I hit a wall. I was incredibly sad every time I thought of the prospect of having to have MRI scans for the rest of my life; it would be a constant reminder that I will always have a risk of another tumor. I could not shake off the “What if” thoughts.

To understand how I fell apart, I have to tell you about my past. When I was 17, my dad collapsed and died from a ruptured brain aneurysm. He was 45 and it was completely out of the blue. He had no warning signs. It was devastating for me and my family and little did I know how losing my dad would make me a paranoid parent. Once I had children, I had this fear that I would die young and not get to see my kids grow up. I know first-hand that losing a parent when you are young leaves a gaping hole in your life.

So fast-forward to when I was 40 and I was handed the diagnosis of a brain tumor and was told my surgery could leave me a vegetable or I could die. My kids were almost 11 and 13. I went into survival mode, otherwise known as denial.

I did not want to face that my worst fear may come true. I allowed myself those few breakdowns in my car, but I forced myself not to think of the possibility of my girls growing up without a mom. I went to many appointments with my surgeon before the big day and somehow managed to not focus on the risk factors, all I knew was that I had to have surgery; I did not want to hear anything else.

My denial was so strong that I never heard my surgeon tell me how big the tumor was. Almost two years after surgery, my story was profiled in Better Health magazine. When I read it, I pointed out to my husband that it said my tumor was “lemon sized.” He looked at me with amazement and told me Dr. Gorelick had told us that a couple of times!

When I realized that I could not shake off this depression afterwards, I made an appointment with a therapist. This was a huge deal for me, I’m Scottish and we Brits don’t do therapy. We put on a stiff upper lip and “snap out of it”. My therapist Jane helped me go back through the loss of my dad and how my diagnosis brought up old pain. She helped me realize how the two were connected to how I was feeling. I saw Jane for several months and I felt better than my old self. She helped me realize the futility of worrying.

During my journey I found out who my true friends were. They were the ones that listened to me and were understanding when I got angry or emotional. My therapist helped me deal with the feelings brought when up when people trivialized what I had gone through because “the tumor was benign.”

So why am I telling you this? I don’t want sympathy, I never felt sorry for myself throughout the whole ordeal, I never said “Why me?” If I can help one person realize that it is okay to admit you need help or if I help another brain tumor survivor see that what they are going through is normal, they may not get quite as depressed as I did.

I have said it before, but my tumor was one of the best things that happened to me. I am a better person for having gone through it all.