In the Beginning, there was Ice
Last month I slipped and fell on ice. Already it has become one of those moments that you can kind of run your fingers back over time and point at it and say: “That was it. That was the moment when everything shifted.”
I was jogging on a paved trail in the park. I wasn’t watching the trail because I was watching my dog, Cooper, instead. He was off his leash and fully enjoying the ecstasy of a winter frolic in the snow-covered grass. I was calling for him to come back to me. As usual, he wasn’t listening. The next thing I knew I was falling and my head hit the icy pavement. Hard.
I didn’t lose consciousness. I did feel things happening in my head that hurt and weren’t normal. Sharp pains. I couldn’t get up. My skull felt fragile, like an eggshell. I laid on the cold ground and waited for the world to stop spinning. Eventually I was able to stand up. In a daze, I walked back to the car where my husband Matt and our friend Brent — also at the park for a winter jog — found me. They took me home and I tried to take it easy.
Several days later a black eye appeared. This along with my forgetfulness, dizziness, and the not-so-gentle prodding of friends finally convinced me I should get my head checked out. The doctors in Urgent Care sent me to the Emergency Room for a CT scan.
When it was time for results, the nurse came in with a stack of papers. Good news — there is no fracture and no bleeding. Just a very healthy concussion. You need to rest. And there is something else . . . this is a picture of a brain.
Wait, why are we talking about this?
The CT scan showed a mass in your brain. This is where it is . . . pointing. Mass. Cyst. Tumor. Meningioma. Acoustic neuroma. MRI. Neurologist. I don’t want to scare you.
Too late.
“Congratulations! You have a brain tumor,” Sanford said.
Sanford is my neurosurgeon friend, and when I gave him a call and read him my CT scan report I found he was equal parts blunt and upbeat about brain tumors.
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, I thought with my phone to my ear. He walked me through next steps. Told me who I should see — the brain surgeon in Seattle. The best. You’re asymptomatic, so that’s good. This is most likely very treatable, with a good result.
Christmas is in 10 days.
“So, if it’s growing slowly, will they just watch it for a while and see what happens?” I asked.
“If it’s growing at all it has to come out.”
Brain surgery.
I had a lot to think about over the next few days. I needed to have an MRI to determine the size of the tumor and what kind of tumor it was. From there I would see a neurologist to begin treatment. I was facing the reality that my life as I knew it might be over. I might need to stop working for a while. I might never be able to work again. The tumor might be malignant. I may not be able to go backpacking again, or dance, or write or do any of the other things that I love. My time with my husband and children might be limited. I might not be able to see my daughters grow up.
In addition to thinking about the future, I thought a lot about the past. Have I been a good mother? A good wife? A good friend? Am I proud of my life? Have I left the world a better place than when I found it?
In the midst of these swirling thoughts about my life I noticed a consistent idea continued to casually present itself — enough that it became a pattern or a synchronicity. I noticed it in things I overheard people saying. I noticed it on coffee mugs, in magazine articles, and in song lyrics when I turned on the radio. And most of all, I felt it deeply in my mind and heart.
And what was the grand message from the Universe?
Find simplicity.
I felt a profound longing for all that is essential and most meaningful in life, and I simultaneously felt a need to rid myself of anything and everything that distracted from these things. I thought perhaps a focus on simplicity would be the key to making it through whatever came next.
Finally the day came for my MRI. I was anxious for answers. I was scared of what they might be. I figured my best case scenario was a very small tumor that wouldn’t require open surgery. There were lots of possibilities for worst case scenario. Matt and I had talked the night before about what we would do if the news was bad. We planned out how we would tell the girls and when we would tell the girls. How we would pretend everything was okay and say we hadn’t gotten results yet and then tell them after Christmas. I didn’t want to ruin Christmas.
Matt came with me to the Imaging Center. When it was time, I put on a hospital gown, put in my ear plugs, and laid down on the platform of the MRI machine. There was a contraption that slid over my head and held it in place. My job was to hold absolutely still for 45 minutes. The machine hummed as the platform slid back into the white tunnel. There was a tiny mirror above my eyes so that I could look into the room. I could see Matt. I could see the window. There were trees outside and powerlines. Every now and again a black bird would fly by, happy and free.
The MRI machine made different sequences of loud sounds. About halfway through, the back of my head started to hurt. I was laying on the spot where I hit my head when I fell. I wanted desperately to move my head, just a tiny bit. I asked if I could. The nurse said it would mess up the results. I decided to do yoga breathing instead.
Finally it was over. They told me the report should be ready by the end of the day. We went home and I passed the time by stuffing Christmas cards. I didn’t write a letter this year.
Matt picked up the report after work. He called me when he opened it. I took a deep breath.
“It seems that your brain is unremarkable,” he said, trying to be funny.
“Wait. What?” I said, confused. I was too nervous for jokes.
“Babe. The report says there is no tumor,” he said softly. “You have a healthy brain.”
It’s hard to describe what it feels like to have all of your life’s possibilities suspended and then restored in one giant flood. There are no words really. The only way I can describe it is that it feels like gratitude. Overwhelming gratitude.
Sanford called me the next morning after finding the MRI report on his desk. I had asked that he be copied on the results.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, again and again. “In 37 years of practice I don’t remember another case where there was a positive CT scan and a negative MRI. This is VERY unusual. You are very, very lucky.”
Deeply. Humbly. Grateful.
For every detail of this story that I have shared, there are ten others that I left out. Some parts of this story I will keep only for my family, and other parts of the story I will keep in my heart and they will be mine alone. Suffice it to say that I am a person of faith. I believe in God, and in the power of prayer. I don’t have all the answers as to why my prayer was answered in this way, and why other prayers are answered in other ways, but I do know that God loves us.
Which brings me back to simplicity. You might think that I went through this experience and ended up back where I started. But I am not the same. I have been given a gift. I have stood at the edge of my life and have felt what that feels like. I know how I want to feel when I get there again. I don’t want to waste my precious time, energy, or resources on any object, any email, any obligation, or any worry that gets in the way of what I value most.
So now comes the challenge. As it turns out simplicity is hard. I have to figure out what simplicity means for me, and then I have to figure out how to get there. As it stands, my schedule is overcommitted. My garage is a disaster. I have too many pairs of shoes I never wear. I spend far too much time on Facebook and Pinterest. I’m not present for my children as much as I want to be.
I am at the beginning of this journey with a lot to learn.
I started this new blog because I want to document my progress for myself and my children, and I want to share what I’m learning with anyone who cares to come along with me. Please join me, and invite anyone you think might be interested to come too. We’ll go in search of simplicity together.
My favorite poet, Mary Oliver, asks a profoundly important question in her poem, The Summer Day:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I don’t know yet. But I’m ready to find out.
