I've Had Better Weekends

The headaches are becoming unmanagable. I can't tell if they're anxiety, or if they are related to the tumor. I'm sneaking off to bed more and more, sleepy all the time, in pain most of it. I manage one workout, and give sex another go round, with the same painful, disappointing results. I find myself afraid to do normal things, like run, or bend over, or stand up quickly, less because of how it will affect me physically than because of what it will do to my state of mind should I experience pain. I am existing in limbo, unable to focus on any future event, to make any decisions, until I "know."

Today is not a good day.

I Get to Wear a Head Cage

The MRI wasn't bad. Given the proliferation of "open MRI" centers and the fact that the ER recommended I take valium before I have one, I was not looking forward to the experience, especially as I am given to claustrophobia. In fact, it was almost anti-climactic. I was bored through most of it, save those moments when the implications of having a brain scan to confirm a tumor came crashing down on me.

It's Friday, August 4. I'm one week from my 36th birthday. Jack and I go out to dinner, and stop for drinks at a local bar on the way home. The headaches return, and we've not finished one beer before we have to leave. I'm in bed by 8:30.

I Embark on a Frustrating Journey

I don't know where to start, so I start at the top. I want a neurologist, a good one, at a reputable instution, and I'm lucky enough to work for a top university. I apply online for an appointment, and leave a message with my primary physician telling him I need an MRI to assess a meningioma. For two days, I get no response from either.

Plan B. Phone calls. I am successful in securing a referral for an MRI, but only if I come in for an "evaluation" with my family doctor. Everyone wants a piece of the action, I guess. I speak to a referral nurse at the aforementioned university medical center, and am told I should skip the neurologist and go right to a neurosurgeon. I try not to let this scare the bejesus out of me.

The neurosurgeon's office won't make an appointment until I've had an MRI. and the radiology department is too busy to answer the phone. My primary doctor recalls reading my CT scan, doesn't recall the details (he thinks I have a 2cm hematoma) and doesn't have the scan report in my chart. He offers me some reassurance that if I have to have a brain tumor, this is the one to have, which makes me want to strangle him with his stethoscope. He does manage to get me a referral very quickly for my MRI, for which I have miraculously secured an appointment at the ungodly hour of 7 am the next morning.

WebMD Ruins My Evening

That voice, that little worrying whore who has stolen so much of my precious time over the years, won't shut the f*&% up.

I have been known to spend hours on line, diagnosing myself with everything from leukemia (didn't I bleed an awful lot after I cut myself shaving last night?) and lymphomas to multiple sclerosiss, and, of course, brain tumors. Sometimes the voice just whispered, making sure I was constantly aware that it could come at any time, that diagnosis that changes everything, that widows my husband and leaves my children motherless. Other times it screamed, enveloping me, rendering everything else irrelevant, consuming me completely. Over that 10-minute drive home from the ER, the whisper was building steadily, and I indulged in a habit I'd broken years earlier...WebMD.

Meningioma. I spelled it wrong initially. How could I have something I couldn't even spell? Little did I know within days I'd be an expert on the topic.

Meningioma. It actually didn't sound that menacing, despite the dread -oma suffix. Maybe it was some sort of cyst, scar tissue, a pimple on my ass for all I knew. It couldn't be anything terrible. I mean, it couldn't be a brain tumor. No doctor would tell you you had a brain tumor, no matter how small or benign, and send you on your way with a "have a good evening" in the same breath.

Brain tumor. I'd dedicated my adult life to worrying about just such an event, and in the moment that those two words appeared on the screen, I realized something...I had never actually thought it would happen. Somehow I had believed that all the anxiety, all the sleepless nights, all the moments I sacrificed joy to worry, would pay my dues, and it would never come to pass.

But there it was. Brain tumor. It existed in the lining of my brain. It exists in the lining of my brain. It's almost certainly benign, and though with only one CT scan I'd heard conflicting reports on size, it was small. But it's a brain tumor. Two words. Ten letters. My life changes.

The Beginning

We've been married 11 years. We've been together since we were 19 and 20, 16 years in total. That's a long time. While it brings security and familiarity, it also brings security and familiarity. Things were not going well. I was bitter and acting out, Jack was oblivious and in denial. I squandered most of a once-in-lifetime vacation to Ireland on resentment, but in the end, we had a breakthrough, and things were moving ahead. We were suddenly connected, adventurous. I was attracted to him in a way I hadn't been in years, and we were bonding again, emotionally, physically, finding ways to enjoy each other beyond the mechanics of being two working parents with active children just trying to get through the day.

But fate's a bitch. One Friday evening I experienced a mild headache after sex. Nothing notable. My head hung off the edge of the bed a bit, and I assumed blood rushed to it. The two beers I'd had with dinner probably didn't help. The next morning I hit the gym, ran 40 minutes on the treadmill, part of my daily routine. Later, during my weight circuit, the headache returned. It was annoying, but not debilitating. I was able to finish my workout, and was looking forward to a date with my husband that evening, looking forward to it more than I had in years.

We had a lovely evening, and the next day I awoke feeling better about us than I had in recent memory. We were renewed, alive, in love again. We approached sex with a refreshed vigor, and the results, as it turns out, may be disastrous.

That Sunday, as I reached climax, I was gripped by the "thunderclap," a term I'd read over and over again as I became addicted to internet searches on the topic. It was a pain I'd never experienced before, sudden, intense, immobilizing...in that moment of pain-induced delerium, I could see Joe Pesci in that scene from Casino, crushing a man's head in a vise, and my only thought was "this is how that must feel."

I collapsed onto the bed holding my head, unable to move or to answer the simple questions my panicked husband was throwing at me. It was blesssedly short-lived, and though I experienced a dull throbbing the rest of the day, that level of intensity passed within the half hour. It nagged at me the rest of the day. The hypochondriac I'd always been, her voice long silenced by a vegetarian diet, strict exercise regimen and yes, a little better-living-through-chemistry, was once again whispering in my ear.

Monday felt normal, and I decided I would quell the unease by getting back on the horse, so to speak. Alas, it was not to be. Once again, with orgasm came the pain, and concern gave way to distress. Jack, normally the optimistic voice of reason, compounded my panic with his own, grabbing the laptop and quickly searching for my symptoms. While coital cephalgia is almost always benign, it can indicate a brain bleed, especially when they are a new occurrence.

A trip to the ER, a CT scan and spinal tap later, I was assured I was not suffering impending death from a ruptured aneurism. My scan was, in fact, "mostly" normal. Upon discharge, I was informed that I had a 3 mm meningioma, and I should get an MRI. Despite my dedication to the hypochondriac lifestyle, it was a term of which I was ignorant. I left the hospital feeling reassured, trying to figure out when I might get around to an MRI, deciding it was best to wait until after my tummy-tuck surgery, schedule for two weeks later. After all, the ER doc wasn't terribly concerned, how bad could it be?