Getting into a New Headspace
On moving in. And moving on.
Before
I moved into a new apartment on September 3, 2020. The day prior I had been diagnosed with a meningioma, a usually benign tumor of the covering around the brain. Less than two months before that my boyfriend of 7 years, with whom I was living at the time, broke up with me. Oh, and there was a worldwide pandemic going on.
Despite all of this suck, I was unable to feel the full brunt of the trauma. The 7.3-centimeter meningioma was pressing on my frontal lobe, the region that governs one’s emotional expression, among other key cognitive functions. One of the more frequent “symptoms” was that I would zone out, sometimes in the middle of a conversation, and generally presented with a flat affect and monotone voice. Thoughts and speech came slowly, if at all.
The urgency to remove the tumor meant an immediate appointment with the surgeon the day after diagnosis — moving day. My brother accompanied me to the doctor while my 28-year-old son supervised the movers, directing them on what to take out of storage and deliver to my new digs. (Because my boyfriend and I had been living in his house, most of my belongings were jammed into 3 nearby storage units.) There wasn’t going to be room for everything in the apartment, so my son would have to call a few audibles. Since he had not lived with me since college, he had little idea of what I needed or wanted in the new place beyond couch, TV, table and chairs, but he did the best he could and I was grateful for his help.
For several weeks I lived in what felt like, well, a storage unit, with boxes piled high and furniture shoved wherever there was room. I had a roof over my head, but it didn’t remotely feel like home. Like my vague, jumbled thoughts, nothing — not household items, personal papers or clothing — was stored in a logical place or orderly manner. With my kitchen essentials buried in boxes, I did very little cooking and pretty much lived on takeout; this was just as well since I couldn’t get my act together to grocery shop or follow a recipe. Cotton-ball brain meet chaotic disorder.
After
Once I had the surgery on September 28, it all came crashing down on me: I was in the midst of an existential health crisis. The man I loved and the future we had planned were gone. My behavior changes had been so gradual that he had taken them personally, broken up with me, and immediately started a new relationship. I now had to navigate life as a single person again, a status I once rocked but had thought was behind me. When they cracked open my skull to remove the tumor, my heart burst open as well, flooding my affronted brain with grief, sadness, fear and anger, and adding emotional insult to injury.
I was in a fragile emotional state to be sure, but with cognitive capabilities and a powerful drive that I hadn’t had in years. I was down, but I was NOT going to stay there. HELL NO. When I got divorced 22 years ago, I met with a tiger-lady lawyer who wanted to rake my ex-husband over the coals. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time, and based on his income she wanted to go after him for $72,000 in annual alimony. “Suzanne,” she said in a voice dripping with condescension, “you’re never going to make $72,000 a year.” I remember thinking, “Oh yeah?”
So I asked myself, “what do I like to do and what am I good at?” Writing shot to the top of that (very short) list. I worked hard to carve out a career for myself as a marketing copywriter, knowing when the alimony ended I would need to be making enough to support myself. I kept tiger lady’s patronizing remark in the back of my mind for motivation, and eventually exceeded that figure and never looked back. Take that, tiger lady. Go ahead and underestimate me. You’ll just add fuel to my fire.
That fire served me well as I faced a daunting physical and emotional recovery. I was not going to wait around for time to heal my wounds. I was going to get my house in order, both literally and figuratively. My lovely apartment — a 2-bedroom, 2-bath, 2nd-floor corner unit flooded with light — was only 3 years old, so everything from architectural features to appliances felt fresh and new. Colors were neutral and lines were clean, yet it still felt warm and inviting. Here was a clean slate upon which I could write my comeback story. Not just back to the person I was before, but onward, to someone better.
Because there was a bit of a breather with Covid that September, I was able to have family and friends come over (one at a time with masks on) to help me unpack boxes and try to get organized. However by mid-October, just two weeks after surgery, Covid cases were surging again and it was not worth the risk to be in close proximity to others indoors. Though I was still feeling wobbly and weak, I worked my way methodically through box after box and got stronger each day.
It went something like this: Rip off tape. Open box. Confront household items I hadn’t seen for nearly 2 years. Ruthlessly interrogate each one. “Do you deserve to be here? Do you serve a purpose? Do you vibe with my evolving style and the apartment’s character? If not, there were 3 options: Sell it, give it away, trash it. I did a brisk business on Facebook Marketplace, though I made next-to-nothing. I didn’t care about the money; I just wanted to purge, to let go. Let go of nonessentials, of tchotchkes, of sentimental relics that were cluttering my headspace and my living space. And practically speaking, to pass on useful items to other people who needed them. I got just as much satisfaction out of gifting people toys for their children or curtains for their windows as I did out of pocketing a few dollars for my old fireplace set or Bose speakers.
That all said, I wasn’t completely going it alone. Family and friends ran errands, grocery shopped and dropped off meals; I didn’t have to cook for a month. I also had a ton of emotional support — phone calls and check-ins from loved ones near and far. A small group of dear friends would come by for a weekly walk into our charming riverside town. I was extremely appreciative, and despite not being able to gather with family due to Covid had one of my most gratitude-filled Thanksgivings ever.
Little by little, things came together. In my head and in my apartment. At one point, amazed by my progress, my best friend jokingly asked me what I was “on.” For the record, I don’t do drugs, though when I was sick two people who should have known better whispered behind my back that I must be. It’s ironic (and now that I’m healthy, kind of amusing) that pre-surgery I appeared to be stoned and post-surgery quite the opposite — an about-face I attribute to being physically tumor-free and psychologically high off the new lease on life I have been given. Somewhere along the line it dawned on me that my recovery was tracking with the transformation of an unfamiliar suite of rooms into a home in which I felt cocooned and comfortable, and that I was growing to love.
Next
The fact that I had a treatable condition and not a progressive disease (like Alzheimer’s) was an enormous relief. None of us knows what the future holds; I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. But should I be lucky enough to navigate the next few decades relatively unscathed, I now have the potential to go beyond where I had been, cognitively and otherwise. I’m on my way, with an open mind, an open heart, and a chill little oasis to call home.
