In Over My Head Part 2

The next few minutes were a blur even in the moment.  I remember telling myself that I needed to breathe and blink, because I wasn’t doing either automatically.  And I heard the words tumor, neurosurgeon appointment tomorrow, this is serious, do you want me to go get your boyfriend? 

Yes, please.

The sandpaper tissues scratched my tear-soaked face.

Blink. 

Tears. 

Oh my god.

Friends and family were called.  Emails were sent via my dial-up Internet connection.  Calls started pouring in.  I couldn’t answer, couldn’t say any of it out loud.   It’s strange, but I remember so clearly that the outfit I wore on that first day was never worn again.  It was donated very quickly to charity.  I just couldn’t bring myself to put on the tumor uniform again.  I didn’t want to see any reminders of the day that everything changed.

Day two.  I dropped the shampoo bottle in the shower.  It banged loudly on the shower floor and the noise frightened me and shook me into a realization.  I was someone I had never been before—the person everyone was going to think about when his or her day went south and they would say to themselves:  it could be worse, I could be going through what poor Stephanie is going through right now.  I was that person.  I was 25 years old and I didn’t want to be that person.

I was early for my appointment with Dr. Bruce Mickey.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Most people my age have a doctor and a dentist.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Dr. Mickey is still considered one of the best neurosurgeons in the nation; the article I read in the salon reminded me of that fact.  At the time, I would have preferred to meet him at a dinner party rather than because I had a tumor on my brain.   His practice was run with military efficiency.  His nurse, Sue, called my name and Jay and I followed her down the long hallway to an exam room.  Orange carpet lined the hallway and bright abstract artwork dotted the walls.

We waited.  And waited.  And waited.

There was nothing to say to each other.

Dr. Mickey arrived in a bright white coat embroidered with his name in navy blue thread.  He tie was in position aligned perfectly under his Adam’s apple.

Nice to meet you.  Nice to meet you.  He sat on a black leather stool with stainless steel legs and black wheels.  He asked for my scans from the day before.  He put one scan up on the bright white illuminated light box and the images of my skull and brain came to life.  Then another scan, and another and so on until there were five scans filling the wall.

Silence.  The wheels of Dr. Mickey’s stool turned from one scan to the next back to the first, over to the second.  Silence.  10 minutes of silence as Dr. Mickey meticulously reviewed the images before him.  Jay squeezed my hand.  I couldn’t handle the silence any longer.  “Can you see how still I was during the MRI?”  Jay smiled and nodded.

Dr. Mickey turned to us as if he just realized he wasn’t the only person in the room.  “Well, I think we need to do some additional tests.  The tumor you have needs to be evaluated further and I would like to send you to get a CT Scan with contrast fluid.”

I was still experiencing headaches and double vision and Dr. Mickey did not think those issues were related to the tumor.  Just a coincidence that the tumor was found during the MRI.  I don't know why, but I thought that could be a good thing.  I knew I had three issues then-tumor, unexplained double-vision, and a cluster of migraine headaches.

The CT Scan procedure started off similar to a spinal tap so that the contrast fluid could be injected into my body.  The gurney I was on was tilted with my head directed down so that the fluid would naturally move downstream to my brain.  I remember I was wearing a periwinkle Nike t-shirt and black yoga pants.  Jay had to work but his brother Jamie had a break in his schedule from law school and dropped me off at the hospital for the test.  I have no idea what we talked about as Jamie drove me to my appointment.  I am sure I couldn’t have told you that five minutes later either.

Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting. 

Chat with the radiologist.  Throw in a stupid joke to break the ice.  He’s nice.  Hold still.  Don’t breathe.  Don’t move.  Don’t itch.  Don’t think about it.  Count to 100.  1…2…3…4…5…breathe. Don’t move.  20 minutes.  How much longer?  Don’t move.

“Okay, we’ve got what we need,” the radiologist said as he pushed up his glasses.  “Dr. Mickey is going on vacation for a few days, but I am sure he will call you next week with the results.”

I went into desperation mode.  “Dr. I-don’t-remember-your-name-nine-years later, I know you aren’t supposed to say anything, but I don’t think I can wait until next week.  Is there anything you can share with me that can help me make it until my appointment with Dr. Mickey?”  Tears started to fall onto my periwinkle shirt creating dark purple polka dots.  I was overwhelmed by my own feelings but I controlled the tears before they turned into sobs.  I wasn’t prepared to have to wait that long.  I couldn’t.  But I didn’t have a choice.