Chapter 32: We will not suffer alone
One of my best friends, Käri, and me (pre-COVID days). Laura Ann Photography
Tuesday, March 24th, 2020: Reflecting on my initial tumor diagnosis in Thailand.
On January 23rd, 2020, I spent nearly two hours lying in an MRI machine in Thailand waiting to see how, or if, my life would soon change.
One day prior, on January 22nd, 2020, I was a healthy 29-year-old resident physician living on her own in Chiang Mai, thinking on a regular basis “How is my life so wonderful?” “How did I get so lucky to be here?” “Can it possibly be true that my work day ends at 3pm and the most difficult questions on my mind include, should I get another Thai massage today? Then, where should I go for another excellent dinner after said massage?”
The evening of January 22nd, I was sitting in bed researching my next two travel adventures. The first would be a solo hiking trip in Colombia in April, the second a solo island-hopping adventure trip to Greece in July. I saved my well-researched itineraries in my type-A travel planning folder on my computer shortly before I was disturbed by an all-too-familiar sensation of left hand cramping followed by throat tightening, which I would soon conclude were partial seizures, my body’s only symptom of brain cancer. Literally, one week prior to this, I had no symptoms of the large tumor growing inside my skull. No headaches, no nausea, no vomiting, no speech or balance issues, no weight loss. I wasn’t even tired. I felt amazing, actually! I was in the best shape of my life.
Later that night, I had another partial seizure and by mid-day the next day, I was stuffed like a scared little sardine into a cramped MRI machine waiting to hear my fate.
Could I actually be having seizures? I can’t be sick “for real” can I? I’m 29 years old. I’m newly single. I’m thriving in my career! I’ve been working my ass off, in college, then in medical school, and now in residency, to “become” some brilliant, more successful version of myself. The finish line is so close I can almost taste it!
Haha, I laugh at my naïve pre-diagnosis self now. There is no such thing as the finish line! Just enjoy the path and don’t worry so much about what is, or is not, waiting for you at the end. Did you run the marathon just to cross the finish line? Or, did you run the marathon to show yourself you could do it? I’ve learned not to run to see the finish line anymore. I prefer the views along the way. That is where the beauty really lives.
I thought, lying there in that MRI machine, I must be losing my mind and not having seizures at all. They must be panic attacks, I told myself, only to start feeling my left-hand tingle and my throat muscles tighten up while in the MRI machine as threatening Thai-pop music blasted around me. No, as a physician, I knew this was likely a seizure. This was not a panic attack. Damnit, my life is about to change forever. I knew this, then.
Sometimes I think back on the morning of January 23rd and wonder, could I go back to that morning and enjoy one last mug of coffee in peace without knowing what was to come? Would postponing the inevitable change anything? Could we go back to our pre-COVID-19 isolation days and enjoy one last meal out with friends without knowing our lives were about to change?
Would postponing our inevitable suffering make us suffer less?
For me, my new answer is no. Postponing suffering will not end suffering. Postponing it will likely make it worse when we think we have outsmarted it, only to have it come get us when we least expect it. At least, if we expect it, we know how to deal with it. I think, instead of postponing our inevitable suffering, we should find small moments of joy and happiness during the suffering which can make the suffering a little more manageable. A family friend once told me her motto was “Never postpone joy.” I liked this. But, now, I offer you the reverse.
“Never postpone suffering, because without suffering, you cannot truly experience joy.”
Ok, back to the story:
When I asked the MRI tech if he had found anything on my scan (see chapter 6) and he said “Yes,” I felt like I was suffocating.
“One mass or multiple masses?” I asked him, thinking I could narrow my differential diagnosis down to cancer, an infection, multiple sclerosis, or a shitty MRI machine. In my mind, cancer was the last possible thing I expected to see when I walked into the control room and started to take pictures of my scan. I thought over and over again, damn it! “How could I have been such a fool to bathe elephants in that dirty stream and give myself a parasitic infection?” “I can’t believe I’ll have to spend the last week of my time in Thailand in the hospital.”
Cancer, ha! No way, I thought. That was the very last thing on my mind.
Why would a healthy, happy, thriving young physician have brain cancer?! And what cruel world or deity would give her this diagnosis while she was currently starting the last week of her lovely self-exploratory journey in Thailand?
But then, I saw the MRI images. And suddenly, I knew. This was not MS. This was likely not an infection. Or, if it was an infection, it was a massive infection that would likely kill me long before I got home to the US.
This was a giant, baseball-sized brain tumor. How long had this piece of shit been hanging out in my brain?! Taking over my life, slowly, without an invitation?
Stupid tumor, didn’t you think to check in with me first to make sure I was ok sharing this special part of my frontal lobe with you before you so selfishly took over my territory?
Honestly, I thought for a few minutes I could just bargain with the damn tumor and it might see it made a horrible mistake by messing with the wrong, stubborn lady, and cower away in fear. The longer I internally yelled at the tumor, however, the more menacing it looked on that little computer screen. It wasn’t scared of me. Not in the least.
The tumor knew, somehow, though, that I was terrified of it. That stupid tumor held all of the power in the room. It took over my life within 30 seconds of me first recognizing it. It plagued my thoughts. It momentarily took away every hope and dream I had ever had for myself. The tumor was my suffering. It filled up every pore of my being as I painfully realized I had no idea how to deal with it.
What about my career? What about my solo hiking trips? What about the amazing Sak Yant tattoo I was supposed to be getting from a Buddhist monk in the morning (honestly, I’m still bitter about missing this? What about my life? What about my poor family? Do I have to tell anyone about this or can we just keep this a stupid little secret, you dumb tumor? I begged with it. I pleaded with it, just go away. You are not welcome here. I’m too busy for you and the suffering you've already started to bring.
The problem with this tumor, however, is that, like it’s unobliging host, it was stubborn and goal-oriented. It had no intention of coming to a reasonable agreement with me. This stupid tumor wanted to stay in my brain and torment me, scare me, make me and my loved ones suffer.
That fucking tumor looked at me with its creepy tumor-eyes through the MRI imaging screen and told me in no uncertain terms, “your life will never be the same, lady.” “This is what you get for thinking you have everything under control.” “You are in control of nothing.” It laughed at me, in an eerily similar way to how COVID-19 is currently laughing at all of us.
Ok, maybe I sound a little crazy here. But between high doses of steroids, insomnia, and pandemic-panic, all I can do is try to share a funny story with you all so bear with me.
Cancer cells, viruses, all look at us living our “happy, comfortable” lives and they laugh. They see vulnerable people who think their wealth, their material goods, their politics, their religious beliefs, their fancy food and fancy clothes can keep them safe. For how smart people can be, we can also be quite stupid.
Thinking we are in control only brings us momentary happiness when we seem to be winning the game, when, for a brief moment, we are temporarily outsmarting the cancer cells, the viruses, the suffering, that we don't want to admit is soon to come for all of us.
When you finally realize, perhaps at age 80, perhaps at 29, or perhaps today, as you sit in your fancy house with your material goods and suddenly recognize that a stupid, brainless virus too small to see or a sneaky, devious cancer cell too tiny to feel is taking over the comfortable life you worked so hard to create, will you still be able to be happy?
When the suffering finds you someday, like it found me in that MRI machine when I least expected it, will it take over you, or will you have a strategy to outsmart it?
How do we find happiness in a world where suffering continues to exist, and always will?
Today, I share with you a quote by Ram Dass after he had a debilitating stroke:
“Suffering didn’t make me more fearful; it made me more real.”
Today, I am 5-days out from my second craniotomy. I feel tired, I feel weak. I have moments of utter hopelessness. After my first craniotomy, I was surrounded by family, friends, loved ones. I knew I would suffer- from pain, from fear, from fatigue. But, within 3 weeks, I recovered. I was back to work full-time; I was back in the gym; I was socializing with friends. Now, however, I am suffering once again.
I sit inside, like most of you, wondering, when will I be able to see my friends again? When will I be able to go out to eat and take that hiking trip I had been planning? I didn’t survive two brain surgeries just to be stuck inside forever and be taken out by an brainless virus, did I?!
In “No Mud, No Lotus,” Thich Nhat Hanh talks about creating happiness. He states that there are “many talented people with diplomas, degrees, and long tittles. There are people who can invent revolutionary new machines and computer applications. We may like to ask them, “Can you create a moment of happiness? If you know how to do this, you can create something truly beneficial.”
Well, right now, I am suffering. I bet many of you are, too.
As I recover, I can’t use my medical skills to help my colleagues and patients during this pandemic. I can’t use my friendship skills to hug my loved ones while thy are feeling lonely through social distancing. I can’ use my hard-earned money to take my solo hiking trips and experience new adventures. I can’t even use the left sided-muscles of my face to send you a smile because my facial nerves are still irritated from surgery.
What I can do, however, is talk, and eat, and walk, and breathe. I can still brush my teeth, and wash my hands, talk to my family, call my friends, and pet my dog. I can still order pizza for delivery. I can still read a book and watch Netflix. I can still learn. I can still teach. I can still write. I can do these things, with full acknowledgement of my own suffering, and try to bring you a moment of happiness by being real. No one has it easy, especially not right now. It’s ok to suffer sometimes, just know you are never, ever suffering alone.
What I will do today, because it is all I can do, is share my story with you and hope it provides a moment of relief from your own suffering. Or, at least, I hope it brings a fresh perspective that suffering does not need to bring us fear.
What if suffering can bring us strength instead? If we are ready for inevitable suffering, we do not need to cower from it when it finds us. I like this quote I made up, so I'll say it again as a summary here:
“Never postpone suffering, because without suffering, you cannot truly experience joy.”
I share a mantra from Thifh Nhat Hanh that I dedicate to all of you today:
“I know you suffer, and that is why I am here for you.” We can get through this, together.
Fondly,
Courtney
© CB2020