I have a brain tumor – an oligodendroglioma – and just survived a craniotomy. It’s given me a nine-inch scar from ear to forehead and seizures.
Yet I avoid discussing it except with sick friends. My youngest brother died from Aids in 1991 and taught us this – it only adds work and worry. Nothing makes you sadder than a moaning: “So, how are you?”
The other reason not to tell everyone is that this is when you learn who your friends aren’t.
Trust me, the only route to survival is consistent denial and being busy, busy.
“What will you do if you are told you only have a month?” is what one friend asked. “Well, I’ll hang up on you, if you call”, I wanted to say.
Things people say in the face of another’s misfortune come across as schadenfreude: “You’ll feel stronger after all this is over!” Huh?
But “Whoaaaaaa, dude!” remains acceptable. It was my niece Lucy’s favorite when she broke her back snowboarding.
The kindest thing is to empty the patient’s fridge, then re-stock it with eggs, coffee, milk, so they don’t have to leave bed, says my neighbor Suzanne. The victim may not crave Uncle Bill’s Greasy Midnight barbecue; but ruthless binning may be needed.
In the US, plates-for-one come in containers dated for later tossing: tacos, stuffed peppers.
As I walked into the church – grand piano, drum kit, saxophones, table altar, pews of tranny queens – I was assaulted by embracing trannies
And I’m superwealthy in nieces and godchildren, thanks be.
It took my neighbour Suzanne (aka “Border Collie” or “Woof Woof“) five hours to empty and refill the fridge. I’ll do hers. My niece Annie and “Border Collie” barred the news. “News’d make anyone puke, fer’godsakes.”
Some things help. Fellow teachers took me to an LGBTQ all-faith rainbow gospel services. As I walked into the church – grand piano, drum kit, saxophones, table altar, pews of tranny queens – I was assaulted by embracing trannies.
“Assaulted” is just the only word for being embraced by transgender love and divas – black and white, gay, trannies.
Then the choir: Wade In The Water, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. I'm swinging between two manly black queens, singing "Rain! Rain down on me!" whether I like it or not. Turns out I do like it.
But who will I turn out to be if I ever do remember who I am?
* * * *
A week later came an answer: someone with a giant headache.
I’ve read a bleak account of what craniotomies do from a site called HeadNurse.com. I’ll have black eyes (or one), swollen cheeks, a shaved patch, a sore tongue.
After the op, niece Annie and I watched nature shows about pandas. Days later I was in terrible pain and Annie became more worried, rotating compresses.
A week after, Annie had to call 911 when I had a seizure. Within minutes paramedics were asking me questions I couldn’t answer.
If you can choose where to be told you have a 'oligodendroglioma', don't let it be where I was
“Who’s the president?” asked one. And how is that going to help her recover, wondered Annie? By next day they were asking me my birthdate, year, and as many words starting with “F” as I could: “frilly, frou, fou-fou, frenemies, flu...”
“Math is the only area she can do,” shrugged the neurologist. “Really? I can do math? That’s new,” I puzzled.
Later Annie read in the notes: “Was only able to list three ‘F’ words, and two were ‘flu-flu’.” Annie thought it hilarious but also wanted to defend me, saying, “This is a woman of words!”
* * * *
If you can choose where to be told you have a “oligodendroglioma,” don’t let it be where I was, teaching a class of 45 level three English as a second language ( ESL) students on irregular past verbs, the history of George Washington and the American War of Independence. “Past of ‘to fight’, ‘swim’ and ‘go’,” I roar.
Then comes a call from the doctor: “Scans from your last MRI show a concerning mass on your right frontal lobe” – the seat of verbs, vocabulary, cognition, and concern. Uh-uh, it explains everything...
I’ve come to hate the words “concerning,” also the word “incidentally” and “glioma”. “Incidentally” means it was found accidentally (while testing for something else) and had been there a long time, baked-bean-sized. Many people never know they have them.
I did tell a few students and they couldn’t have been sweeter – hugs, a recitiation of Paul Revere’s “Give me liberty or give me death!” speech.
And now I’m sporting a bunch of lucky Koranic charms in hand-sewn leather pouches containing pages about the “birth of little baby Jesu”. “Are you sure?” I asked Turkish Muglu. “Yes, there are more pages about Jesus in the Koran than about the prophet!”
What else helps? A stone inscribed "be brave" that my sister's husband David gave me. It lent me strength to sing When The Saints Go Marching In on my way into the operating theatre.
My memory’s returning. My scar isn’t visible.