Being a Brain Surgery Veteran is not at all awesome
Yup 3 brain surgeries and I’ve lost more than you know
Surviving 3 brain surgeries over 12 years has made me a bigger fan of the man and a lesser fan of many humans.
It never happens to you, even as the spouse. It is someone else inside the MRI machine fighting fear. It is someone else fighting to be alive under the knife. Someone else has to relearn walking and balance. The veteran part comes from battling every possible emotion before, during, and after the fact. It’s from realising who in your life is a true friend, and being grateful for any kindness; and from accepting that in moments of weakness, vultures do parade as people and take advantage. And just when you think you’ve immersed in every possible emotion, more surface. It all astounds.
The first time my husband had brain surgery was a heart-wrenching affair three days before my birthday. He had blinding headaches every morning that did not yield to espressos. He thought he could die; and Dr. Bok, the same doctor who 6 months later would perform brain surgery on Rolling Stone legend Keith Richards, pragmatically confirmed that there was indeed a 97% chance all would be well. The 3% kept me awake at night before and after, but my then-fiancee slept like a baby through the nights prior (and most of the days) after surgery. As he does.
They said he would be in hospital for 3 weeks. He was released in 13 days.
Less than 2 months after that particular surgery in 2005, we went to a John Digweed concert, he bungee jumped off the Auckland Bridge, and started DJing on his own weekly radio show back when that was still something for car radios; aptly bequeathed “Brain Salad Surgery” and quickly collected fans. Needless to say, I was (and am) quite a fan. We often joked about ‘six degrees of separation’ from The Rolling Stones being as one so meaningful as fingerprints in two brains made by the same surgeon.
Brain Surgery #2
A lot happens in a full decade. We moved through two different countries. At this stage in 2015 we were living in London and were on the brink of giving up on a dream to move back to Barcelona. The three kids reached various milestones across High School and Colleges. I started having major headaches spawned by the city we lived in unplanned (stuck in, really) for 7 years, and he was beginning to have The Headaches again…and this time peppered with running into door jambs and being generally less even-tempered.
The second surgery in 2015 was frightening, even if it was the second time around. Perhaps more so because it was the 2nd. I can’t say one was worse than the other for me. He seemed fueled by experience somewhat — defiant, almost. He was confident that he would somehow come out of it as unscathed as he was before and be back smiling and living life as we had; happy and able to face all manner of economic, emotional and psychological challenges. Because well, it’s what we do.
They said he would be in hospital for 3 weeks. He was released in 11 days. This was despite the fact that this surgery was utterly traumatic in many ways. It lasted 14 hours. I was more or less alone in the waiting room and this time he was in ICU post-surgery for 2 days and would not wake up when the defibrillator was removed. Doctors feared he may not talk. Walking would be a challenge. Sleep was stranger than fiction for me those days and I was on auto-pilot for weeks.
He did eventually, of course. He was, however, not the same. Depression is not a word that would ever be in the same sentence as my husband’s name. But it was present during that period. To this moment I cannot believe how long I waited for him to smile again. It was eons.
The shower of texts and affection we got during that period was moving. A beautiful friend from Sweden flew in to make us dinner one night. We never had moose meatballs before, it was amazing. The well of kindness humans are capable of drawing from is certainly deep.
Meanwhile on the flip side, the most toxic human I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with launched her plan. As I was on auto-pilot and still over-delivering on my 30 hours of work a week, a junior executive at my workplace orchestrated a grand gesture of putting together a spectacular gift basket of expensive items from Marks & Spencer and Fortnum & Mason as she played chess with people’s emotions to get the promotion she schemed for. Her Bullying Training Courses at Prep School served her very well. It amazes me to date that no one saw it in any way odd that emotions were rallied 60 days Post-Brain Surgery II.
2015 was a blur of unpaid bills, struggles with three jobs and three kids and somehow we managed to be back in Barcelona. We were in Dream City in time for Christmas.
Brain Surgery Number 3 was 2 months ago today.
Hopeful and petrified at the same time. He bounced back from the 1st, was deflated somewhat by the 2nd…
I did what every sane woman in my position would do. I shared my pain and fears and didn’t bottle them up. I asked for help.
It was actually surreal. The kids are now old enough to understand the true consequences of things and WhatsApp was my window to the hearts and minds of friends and family around the world. My middle child and I drank Malbec in the waiting room.
This time the ordeal was a “mere” 8 hours, was all the doctors hoped it would be, and successful by all clinical markers.
6 days later. Not DJ decks yet, but it’s a start.
(Not Pictured: He is smiling. Both chocolate boxes are empty.)
The thing is, 2016, is the year everyone rues for the death of every celebrity they love; and the nightmares of Trump, dead (or murdering) migrants and Brexit are flooding everyone’s doom-and-gloom notifications…
My love survived brain surgery number 3.
…And the dark side: The CEO I was working for during the time period of Brain Surgery Number Three gave me notice while my husband was recovering. The proverbial pink slip in the form of an email. I thought this extremely strange given our recent (good) history together…and given the fact that I had armed myself mentally for this round and actually wrote web copy and shot product videos in the Hospital Waiting Room to keep myself sane and unbroken.
My work was in the cloud and time-stamped in Google Drive, Trello and Slack.
Here’s a harsh truth about humanity that’s spawned a bitterness I aim to flush out of my system when I press ‘Publish’ today: We very possibly are maturing emotionally far slower than Technology is progressing.
The fact that I kept working in November last year, coupled with the fact that modern medicine in 2016 now warrants this type of brain surgery ‘routine’, made my CEO believe I was out looking for another role. He must have trolled my public profiles and decided for himself that I had used ‘another brain surgery’ as this time period’s ‘my dog ate my homework’. Hell, after all, my husband recovered so swiftly. Quickly enough that he doused his pain with an unreal amount of chocolate, sat down with friends and family laughing in just a few days and posted a few hysterical (and not so hysterical) things on Facebook. The image on this blog was taken barely 17 days after they performed death-defyingly serious brain surgery on him as he walked with me in Paris…
I looked into my boss’ sad blue eyes in the board room 20 days after brain surgery number 3 and we discussed my last 30 days of work for him. He said ”I’m really sorry. I thought you had made the whole thing up because you were looking for another job.” I very nearly cried. It was actually the first time in Pre or Post-Brain Surgery III period that I could have just cried like a girl. I fought it though and only now do I comprehend the full spectrum of emotions then: Emotion #1 from my end was self-centred as I felt deeply horrified that I would come across as the kind of bitch who would do such a thing. Emotion #2 was more icy and edgy — like I got stabbed with a sharpened vanilla popsicle — blunt, cold and ridiculously high in calories despite its lack of flavour. This guy is a sad story and it hurts to think that someone (or many) had screwed him over so badly in the past that he carries the burden of this kind of human paranoia and suspicion. I genuinely felt devastated and sorry for myself and him.
I saw the epitome of how immature people can be in the face of modern technology. Marketing automation and digital technologies were tools I wielded to deliver work. I anchored my emotions onto hope and love; and I was with my husband 100% throughout all his surgeries — before, during and after. But we as humans are capable of so much strength and in trying to be stronger for ourselves and our loved ones, it must be confusing to those who look at your Status Profile and Tweeted Metaphors and consider all that as the sum of all parts of a unique human experience. If you skimmed through this story you may not get it. Unless you know me, know me, you may not get it.
I’ve lost my willingness to be an expense on someone’s spreadsheet. It feels strangely liberating and it seems but natural to start again and build new things, laugh a lot, maybe play Scrabble. Hello 2017, bring it all the fuck on.
