Abi-normal: Part One

Just when you think Cancer is going out the door, the bitch comes back yelling, “Hold my beer!”—Karen Spiegler

Photo by Gaspar Uhas on Unsplash

After the seizure in October 2021, I recovered well and felt good. The holidays came and a new year, 2022! My bi-monthly MRI and CT scans looked good with no evidence of disease. Until June 2022. 

With the My Chart online portal, I can view the scan reports prior to seeing the doctors that ordered them. I can determine if there was anything of concern and prepare questions for my appointments. However, one cancer side effect you don’t hear much about is SAT (Scan Anxiety Trauma). This hadn’t hit me yet because my scans results had been good for eighteen months. That June MRI result reported a new lesion on the left side of my brain. Well, shit. My appointment with Brain Guy was several days after the MRI. SAT hit hard and I spent those days agonizing on what it meant.

When I met with Brain Guy I asked, “Soooo, brain not good anymore?” He said this could be zapped like the first one. That would take care of it. However, his zapping machine was broken and the cancer center was in process of having it replaced. He referred me to another radiologist with the Cleveland Clinic that could do a Gamma Knife procedure. This procedure is a bit different from the STRS that was done on the right side brain lesion, but it does the job.

I met with Brain Guy2 and he explained the procedure, which I will detail in a later entry. This new lesion was larger than the first one. He recommended two Gamma Knife treatments. The first one was scheduled for two weeks later with the follow up treatment a month after that. 

I went home worried, but hopeful. After all, none of my doctors had steered me wrong so far. Sadly, my body decided to throw a whammy in there to make it more interesting. 

The first indication that something wasn’t quite right was when I noticed my left ear hearing was greatly diminished. The chemo cocktail I was on left me with horrible tinnitus. However, it had suddenly gotten much worse in the left ear only.

A couple of days later I had overwhelming racing thoughts concerning projects that I swore I would finish—someday. I became obsessed about it. The more I tried to organize these thoughts the more confused I became. It suddenly hit me I HAD to  clean the upstairs bathroom and throw away all of the ancient cosmetic paraphernalia. If I didn’t do it RIGHT NOW it would be left for someone else to dispose of when I die and they couldn’t be trusted to do it right!

I should have known I was spiraling because anything that requires cleaning is my idea of personal hell and makes me very angry. I love a clean house, but I hate being the one that has to keep it that way. My cleaning method is the Scarlett O’Hara route, “Fiddle-dee-dee, I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

I scrubbed that bathroom from top to bottom. My mind raced and raged. Why do I have so many bottles of half used lotion?  Why did I keep this old toothbrush? I filled a garbage bag so heavy I feared it wouldn’t make it to the garbage can. When I came in to get a new bag for the upstairs trash can, I was appalled at how disorganized the kitchen closet was. It must be cleaned NOW! Never mind that it hadn’t been touched in years. It had to be done immediately. 

I lost track of time. What was I doing? Oh yes, the upstairs bathroom.  The throw rugs needed to be put in the wash. I went to the laundry to put the rugs in, but they were done? My husband must have put them in and didn’t tell me! He hadn’t. I didn’t remember doing it. 

I made a sandwich and went outside to eat. Throughout all this, my husband had been reading on the deck. He looked at me and asked if I was okay. The words were not there. The words were in my mind, but I couldn’t speak them. Eventually, I managed to say I was fine.

All that evening and night, my mind raced and raged.  In the morning I showered and decided to get the bills paid. I didn’t remember that I had already paid them. I overdrew our banking account. 

I wrote in my journal. This was the entry: ISome weirdness is samene whine words. I chance is a some dice my words and I[ve weird front is going.  This I do do this and ine chime Mae posthong my words is must off. Off with words. They are coming the me. It makes to come to me. Some his to me. I am sane and I am I am going to same. I have if and I shore go. 

I told my husband I needed to go to the emergency room. Got the stroke, seizure, CT, MRI protocol. Been there done, done that. Legs move, feet wiggle, hands up and down, follow the finger up, down, side, side, stick out tongue, how many fingers, where are you, do you know why are you here? That last soul searching question every damn time. “To find truth and justice, you SOB!”

The diagnosis was the new tumor was causing brain swelling. I spent four days in the hospital on a steroid drip. Obsession came to visit and stayed. He was my worst friend and insisted on focusing on every failure, disappointment, poor decision, regrets—so many regrets. I didn’t like me nor anyone else. My husband got the brunt of my anger. He did nothing right and I couldn’t stop telling him. There was no joy in my Mudville world.

MacDuff came to see me in the hospital. During his visit, I would try to be the usual cheerful, charming character, but she was getting lost in the clouds. He was obviously concerned and said he was going to contact Brain Guy1 and talk to him.

Next morning, Brain Guy1 came to see me. I told him, “Hey! You lied.” Then I felt bad. Brain swelling and steroids had turned me into a nasty bitch. BG said they were going to get this swelling taken care of and more tests done to see what was happening in my noggin. They needed to check to see if the first tumor had residual cancer cells acting up. And if more lesions keep coming, then what? Blasting as they come, but I might eventually need whole head radiation. Again, no guarantee for super powers. Rats. 

On the Roids, my clearest thought process was between 4-6 am. Then crash to confusion until later in the day. I thought all this would postpone the Gamma Knife treatment, but no. I needed to have it done as soon as possible. 

During this time, I felt I had been the epitome of a Karen. (Ha!) I was rude and judgemental, but I simply could not express myself nor even read anything that made sense. For someone that loves wording it was frightening. And that made me angry as well. It made me think of my Mom and her years of dementia. Was this what she experienced? For the first time, I began to think that death was preferable to this living torture. 

There was nothing funny about being abi-normal. However, I did have a sparkling clean bathroom.