Monthly Archives: May 2013

A year on

Certain anniversaries are hollow. One year after your girlfriend dumped you. A year after your dog died. 12 months following your diagnosis of something that caused an epileptic seizure. There is a knowing that it is a significant date, but a need to avoid it. As with all significant dates, there is no escaping it. The calendar does not lie.

I decided well in advance of the 17th of May 2013 that I am taking the day off and will limit my driving. Just to be safe! On the day, a year before, leaving work on Thursday evening at about 6 pm was not out of the ordinary. Feeling tired was also expected as I was working hard and my working hours was often stretched to after 17:00. Waking up under bright lights on a hospital trolley was however unusual in the extreme. A first I can say in all confidence. A first since birth to be precise.

But there I was, dressed up in an angel white hospital gown. There was Anneén, in tears, describing an accident I was involved in on my way back from work. I was? I was. A tow-truck driver found me in my car next to the national highway after he spotted my car under a bridge against a guardrail. My car was not seriously damaged, but I don’t want to think that I might have ended up in the ongoing traffic if the barrier did not bring me to a slow stop. But thinking about all the scenarios remains vague and hazy as I have no memory of these events. Anneén could have told me that I was hit by a meteorite and I would be without any evidence to disprove it. Apparently I had two further seizures before the ambulance arrived. Apparently I was aggressive when they tried to rouse. Apparently so. All the things I just don’t know. It left me puzzled. And so were the doctors initially. Brain Scans done. Bloods taken. The initial diagnosis was Neurocysticercosis. This is described as, “Patients from an endemic areas presenting with seizures, a normal neurological examination and spontaneous resolution after therapy with albendazole”.

But no, this was not accurate. Follow-up MRI Scans showed that rather than going away, the “part” in my left frontal lobe was gaining in size. “It’s a brain tumour” the kind neurosurgeon informed. And so the journey of uncertainty, fear, anxiety and worry started. I was operated on. Twice. A craniotomy was performed to remove the brain tumour on the 6th of August. Two weeks later I had a bit of leakage upstairs and another operation was performed to close the leak in the meninges. So, twice my skull was flapped open and twice the repairs were done. Treatment followed in the form of radiotherapy, chemotherapy and more chemotherapy. Not the journey I was expecting for 2012 and the start of 2013. But so I was.

Long Table RestaurantOne year on. It was not a bad day, it was just day. Anneén and I took the girls in the late afternoon for drinks at the Long Table restaurant that overlooks several wineries and scenic views towards Stellenbosch. It was beautiful, autumn colours painted the landscapes, the red wine was wonderful and we were thankful. Grateful that it is year on. Grateful that we completed the treatment journey, was blessed with a clear MRI Scan in March 2013 and that life reflected how it was prior to May 2012. We have both been working hard, keeping fit and keeping our focus on the immediate future.

But that night it suddenly grabbed me. It all suddenly felt too much. The memories were all too real and dragged me to the ground. It was just awful. Awful, awful, awful. No silver lining, no moment of meaning, no inspiration, no affirmation of life. Drained empty. Fragmented and hollow. I took a hiding and needed shelter. I believe it was grief. I was struck down by
grief of what I lost. Of course there are so much that I did not lose – my family, my life, ability to work and to be productive. And we were touched by the kindness of people who cared and prayed for us. But it robbed me of my illusions of invincibility and good health, my sense of self and being in control of my well-being and abilities, my delusions of immortality. Maybe it killed off those parts of me that I had to let go off, but never had to time or awareness to strangle.

It would not have been the route that I would have chosen, but maybe grief taught me that it is not always about my choices. My choice might only be in the ways that I come to terms with where my life took me. My choice in how I love my wife, my girls, my family and friends. How I engage with my colleagues, the people I consult with, the random strangers that I pass and the world around me. How I find my own path amidst the uncertainty that comes with a brain tumour and the emotional ripples it leaves. How I find my strength in faith, friendship, hardship and discipline. How I stand up when a wave mauls me into the sand. And that I will do.

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Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, Psychology Reflections, This thing called life

The last chemo tablet standing

And there it was. One out of the last 4 Temadol tablets to go. Even though my mind knew the relief to have reached this point, my body was not at the point where it felt it. The milestone can be celebrated on another day. But after the initial 30 days of chemo and radiotherapy and now, with one tablet to go, the past 6 months have been about picking myself up and then going into survival mode for 5 to 7 days, picking myself up again. Only one of today’s 4 left to go.

 

Thinking back, the running helped. In between the treatment stints, putting running shoes on and getting into running mode cleared my mind and my body felt stronger after been knocked down after every 5 day chemo round. I know that people respond differently to chemo. My experience was overwhelming fatigue. I felt the energy draining away and I had to work hard after each “day 4” to get going again. But I have been able to keep pushing myself. Going to work helped. Seeing my colleagues, meeting with clients and knowing when to take it slow helped. Grateful for the odd public holiday, like being able to stay at home yesterday on Worker’s Day to rest properly.

Most of all I am grateful to Anneén who took on so much more on her shoulders when I was down and almost out, when I could not be there for her and our girls. In those times when tiredness dragged me down, Anneén was strong for us. We celebrated when my last MRI scan came back clean and I celebrate her carrying us carrying us through tough and uncertain times. Thanks babes!

One last tablet.

Off you go.

Go do your dark magic.

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Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life