Chapter 102: Brave and Strong
Gloves by Fighting Pretty, a fabulous non-profit I highly recommend supporting.
Guess what?! I have GREAT news. Come with me on my great news journey.
Last week, I had a 90-minute MRI scan. Yes, you read that right. I was stuck in that tiny claustrophobic tunnel for 90 minutes with the sounds of jackhammers pounding around my caged-in skull. If you think I’m being dramatic, put your head under a metal colander, close your eyes, and play a YouTube video of “jackhammering sounds” for 90 minutes. Make sure not to move any tiny part of your body and you’ll get an idea of the first step on our journey.
(if you actually do this, pretty please send me a picture!)
After those lovely 90 minutes, the fun continues! Take the colander off your head and spend a few hours sitting in your local cancer clinic. Look around you and see people of all ages, in all stages of cancer treatment. Some old, some young, some bald, some in wheelchairs, some walking, some happy, some very very sad, some listening to music, some drawing in their sketchbook, some reading, some smiling, some crying, some alone, some with their one allowed visitor, some learning they still have a whole life ahead and some learning they’re nearing the end.
As I sat with my fiancé in the cancer clinic, I was somewhere in the middle of this crew. Short hair, not crying but definitely not smiling, anxiously picking at my cuticles and trying to meditate on a mantra, “I am brave. I am strong,” my go-to for trying times. Unsure if I’d hear good news or if I’d find myself undergoing a third brain surgery instead of my wedding next month, I tried to stay calm…
Sip on your coffee and wait for your name to be called. Once it is, you get that rush of adrenaline: that feeling of being called off the bench at soccer practice in fifth grade, “Oh shit, I’m up. Get me the hell out of here! I’m terrible at this sport.” [As I’ve written before, I failed PE class. Sports were not my jam.]
Next stop on the journey: Entering the clinic. After the pre-soccer nerves have fully kicked in, you’re asked ridiculous standardized screening questions including, “have you been struggling with anxiety, fear, or depressed thoughts?” Umm…hello?! As a physician, I understand logically this question is supposed to screen patients for mental illness, but is the beginning of an oncology appointment prior to receiving scan results the ideal time to ask this? Am I anxious before I’m supposed to run around a soccer field balancing my uncoordinated body while simultaneously kicking a ball and dodging all the much cooler, much more graceful girls around me? Damn right I am.
“No, I’m perfectly calm and content, thank you.” Ha!
Next up, get your blood pressure and other vitals taken, then wait. This time, there aren’t other people sitting in the lobby to distract you, just standard doctor’s office décor. This part, for me, is incredibly strange. I frequently find myself struggling not to hop onto the swirly stool, log in to the computer, and check my patient messages. But, here, I am not doctor. I am patient and I have no idea what’s coming.
The journey ends (this time) with great news from the neuro-oncologist. The 90 minutes of colander head and jackhammer sounds were worth it.
This intensely long scan provides data on the status of my brain cancer and on my previous radiation therapy. It can tell the difference between new tumor growth and radiation scar damage. Last week, my brain photographer captured a photo of a crystal-clear hole in my right frontal lobe. This stunning black hole was surrounding by light grey stars. Lovely, beautiful, radiation damage scar stars. No tumor. No swelling. Nothing besides radiation and surgery doing exactly what they were supposed to do.
Something about typing that sentence made me want to say, “Praise be!” but then I remembered that comes from the Handmaid’s Tale and that is far, far too close to home right now. So instead, I’ll shout an excited “Great, good fortune!” from my hero RBG.
Our journey doesn’t end here. It starts here. Every single time I get news like this, I’m extremely happy, but I’m also extremely motivated.
A stable scan means I have more time. More time to help others. More time to raise awareness for brain cancer, chronic illness, disability inclusion, mental illness. More time to make change. To foster inclusion and hope. To share “I am brave. I am strong” with others who need this even more than I do.
Each stable scan is a gift of more time I was never promised. Each stable scan is another wake up call: I am lucky. I am still here, even though others with this cancer are not. I have four more months before that next scan. Four more months to make a difference, to tell my story in hopes it will encourage and inspire others to tell theirs.
I am a 31-year-old woman with incurable brain cancer. I have a chronic illness. I have a disability. I have been divorced. I have dealt with depression. I have had to fight for disability rights at work. I have faced rejection in more ways than I can count. But, despite it all, I am brave. I am strong.
So, today, once you take that crazy ass colander off your head, please remember:
You are brave. You are strong.
I am still here for a reason, and so are you.
Fondly,
Courtney
© CB2022