Chapter 15: Who says you can’t cry on the StairMaster?

Laura Ann Photography

Saturday, February 15th, 2020: Thoughts about life and death on a cloudy morning, Saint Paul, MN

Imagine you were told what you will die from, but not when you will die from it. This is essentially the information I have been given.

What would you do with this information? Would you want it? Once you have it, it’s sort of hard not to think about it.

Then again, perhaps I only think I’ve been told the correct information. Most likely, my brain cancer will be the thing that kills me someday. But then again, maybe it won’t be. As a type-A, somewhat neurotic life planner, I’ve always wondered if I would want this much information. I’ve been given a more detailed guidebook to my life and my death than most people get. Maybe I shouldn’t complain about this.

I have a type of brain cancer that will not “go away.” I will live with this cancer until I die, either from it, or from something else beforehand (if I’m incredibly unlucky). This cancer is not something that can be “cut out” surgically. It is not something that is “always” treated with a certain type of chemotherapy or radiation. This type of brain cancer is rare and understudied. Of course it is. I mean, I like to be unique, but this is a little more than I bargained for.

I have been diagnosed with a vague and unsettling type of brain cancer that can kill me whenever it sees fit. Some people live with this type of cancer for many, many years with relatively few symptoms. Hooray! Well, sort of. Problem is, we don’t know how long I have had this cancer. Have I had it for one year or for twenty years? If it’s been there for one, I might be in luck to live a long, relatively unchanged life. If it’s been there for twenty, hell, then this year could be my last. We won’t know these answers for quite some time, so stay tuned.

When I think about this, it brings up a few thoughts. First, we are all dying from something, even if we don’t know what that is yet. Second, none of us know how many years we have left to live, yet we live our lives expecting many more years to come. Should we be living this way? Or should all of us, whether we’ve been told it or not, live as though this year could be our last year? I’m starting to think the second way is best.

Perhaps I have been given the most incredible gift. I can live each day, each year as if this is the last one. If they keep coming, great! If not, at least I will have tried to live each moment as the best moment of my entire life. In some ways, this news is the greatest gift of all time.

Friday, February 14th, 2020: Graduating from snail to middle-aged pug, Saint Paul, MN

Today was an absolutely fantastic day of recovery! I am calling today my day of graduation from snail to slow, but somewhat cute middle-aged pug. For those interested, here is what a jam-packed day of recovery looks like for a very cool, very hip 29-year old woman post brain-surgery Ha, ha.

- Organization: My fabulous mama, Mary, spent the morning with me and “Mary Kondo’d” my entire apartment while it took me one million hours to shower, do a load of laundry, and eat breakfast. Team success!

- Shopping: I bought two pieces of beautiful Buddhist artwork in Thailand and both made it back, miraculously, in perfect shape. I brought these bad boys to Michaels and picked out some gorgeous frames for them. The art cost a full $10 in Thailand, so naturally, I spent about $300 on frames.

- Lunch: After shopping, I was tired and needed to sit down for a while. How did I used to stand in line at the hospital cafeteria, buy a mediocre sandwich, and finish eating this (while standing up) in about 3 minutes flat? I should have been a marathon lunch eater. Now, I need to sit down and actually enjoy my lunch or I’m too tired to eat. Go figure. Mom and I had a lovely lunch date and I kept thinking, why did I always rush this glorious part of the day?

- Gym: No excuses, back at it again. Although this time, the gym led to my first public emotional breakdown since my diagnosis. It’s a somewhat sad, somewhat funny story I’ll do my best to share with you. Since I’m still a little slow and unsteady on my feet, it’s been nice to go to the gym with a buddy. I figured I would ask the gym for a few extra guest passes this month given my unusual situation. I explained my story and my request to a man at the front desk. He was very, very confused. He brought me into an office and told me to explain my story to a manager. This manager was also very, very confused. He brought in the general manager and asked me to explain my story to the general manager as well. By this time, I was getting pretty tired of explaining the same damn story. How many ways can I tell you people “Hey, I had brain surgery one week ago, can I just buy some extra guest passes?”

Part of the problem seemed to be that I looked “normal.” I was wearing gym clothes; I had just finished a workout on the StairMaster. I was speaking normally, walking normally, and I don’t have a shaved head. By the end of my third retelling of my strange, sad story, the general manager looked at me and asked, “So wait, who is the patient that had surgery that you want to get guest passes for?”

Really?! “Me, you fucking moron.” Ok, I said it in a nicer way than that. Once he finally figured out that I was the person who had had brain surgery (honestly, I thought I was pretty clear the whole damn time), I received looks of absolute shock and awe. Both managers kept saying “Wow, when was your surgery?” and “Wow, but you look so good” etc.

The manager then started to compare “war stories” with me. He was friendly and trying to be relatable by saying things like “When I had surgery, I remember how hard it was to have a weight limit” etc. This was nice, but it continued. He started to ask me specific details such as “How long will you have a weight limit?” and “When will you be able to get back into deadlifting?” He meant well, but as his questions went on, I realized how few of them I was able to answer. My “limitations” will not necessarily be related to my surgery; instead, they will depend on the speed in which my cancer decides to kill me. As we’ve been over, this could be tomorrow or not for forty years.

I looked up at him and said, “Sir, I cannot answer these questions because I have brain cancer and the timing of my recovery is unclear. I would like some extra guest passes so I can enjoy exercising with friends for as long as I have left on this Earth.” I started crying when I said this. It was the first time I have publicly cried since I was diagnosed, and I can only assume it occurred because it was the first time I have had to admit to a complete stranger that I am not “normal” and never will be again. I also don’t like to ask for special favors.

I’m sorry to this manager, because he was really left speechless at this point. I walked away with unlimited guest passes and stopped crying after I bought myself a new book and a brownie. Brain cancer has some perks, after all.

- Galantine’s Day: After an emotionally and physically draining day, I wanted nothing more than a “normal” night out with my girlfriends. We ate Thai food, we watched live music, we talked about boys. Thank Goddess for them.

Life lesson of the day: It’s ok to cry at the gym sometimes.

Fondly, Courtney

© CB2020