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?