In life, in all of our lives, there comes
moments when we lose small parts of ourselves or we lose entire pieces, we toss
aside the things we deem to be surplus in preparation for an event that
eclipses all that have gone before it, or the pieces simply remove themselves.
A moment happens in life when we either become the person we were meant to be,
or we fall at the wayside not able to truly find whom we are. Profound moments
of importance that not only define our futures, but that define us.
I have had my moments, where I accepted
that something bigger was going on, where I accepted death, and experienced the
utter joy at realizing the endless capabilities of life after waking up from 4
brain surgeries. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I made a few promises to
myself, one of which was that I would not lead an ordinary life. I would not
succumb to mediocrity after being granted a second chance. Having said that, it
is hard to accept what has happened, and to continue a normal life unhindered
by the endless nags of having cancer is extremely difficult. Every pain I feel
at 3:44am, every random headache and every lapse in memory, I begin to remember
the promises I made to myself. Whilst I never want pity or sympathy for what I
have been through, I have come to realize that to come to terms with cancer is
much more a mental battle than it is physical, and some people will never
realize the toll it takes. It is not a short game, you play the long game in
this instance.
This battle has cost me more than I let on,
anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder and a little bit of OCD are the direct
ramifications and mental battle wounds that I wear proudly, the physical wounds
have now been covered up by hair but they will always be there… aching in the
dark. I have lost a few other very important parts of my life that helped me
through the fight, one particular piece that held me together when all else
failed, and they were instrumental in seeing me through to the end. It is easy for people to forget what cancer
survivors have been through when there are no direct wounds to associate with,
and I would have it no other way.
It is hard to not lose yourself, your
character and your ability to fight when you are diagnosed. It takes unique
individuals like Jeff Guyer, Jess Nicholson and Wesley Ingle, to stand up
against the insurmountable odds, and stare this thing right in the eye. I know
their fight, I know their worry at 3:00am in the morning, and the realization
of things that every other lucky person will never have to accept. It is hard
not to change, to perceive life differently, and to realize that some things
are given but other things are taken.
Cancer unfortunately takes things away from
people and families. I include myself as one of the lucky ones, someone that
could’ve gone down a very different path and come out with a very different and
obscure outcome. I will never fully understand the emotional impact I caused my
family and loved ones, and whilst it was me on the table, it was them who had
to go through long flights to London and Palo Alto, it was them who endured
hours of scans and even more hours of waiting whilst I was in surgery. We all
lost something back in January 2012, but we also gained something. We gained
foresight, the ability to not want to live with boundaries and limited
horizons.
I now find myself only 2 weeks from another
check-up, and it always makes me reflect and take stock of the positive things
I have gained, as well as the negative things I have left behind along the way.
I find my sleeping patterns have altered yet again, and a good friend of mine,
Nicholas Knuppe, picked that up during a recent trip to Cape Town. He
recognized the stress beginning to form up under the armor I have so
meticulously pieced together. I always try to remain positive, but sometimes
the mental anguish caused by something like this is so severe and traumatizing
that I am forced to relive the fight over and over in my dreams.
I have to keep reminding myself that I made
these promises, that I would not lose myself in this fight, I would come out
the other side and stay true to the promises I made. The promises are my own,
but you can imagine that they are not shallow, or short-sighted. I confess,
these last few months I have been partying a little harder than I should have,
and it was an attempt to find myself, and the attempt still goes on. I am still
trying to find the pieces I lost along the way. Cancer hurts you, it hurts your
ego, your pride and damages your existence. It is the stark reminder that we,
as humans, are not invincible. That at 24 years old, we can be diagnosed with
brain cancer, that there are bigger things going on, and that death is a very
real and an ever present reality. Those realizations are the things that strip
the armor away, and expose a person who is scared, not afraid of death but
rather of what I would leave behind after death. There are things unsaid,
gratitude not given, appreciation for life not fully recognized. I still feel I
have this great debt that needs to be repaid.
I have always enjoyed learning about
people, and their unique stories. I often find myself sitting opposite someone
on the train or plane, wondering what their story is, and the truth is that we
all have incredible stories to tell, it just takes a big moment or sequence of
events for us to communicate to each of our incredible stories. We all lose
things along the way, we fight to hold on to every piece we have before going
into untested waters, but we quickly cast aside or lose the parts we no longer
need or can hold onto in order to carry on. My family, loved ones and friends
were the things that I couldn’t have done without. Everything has it’s time,
everything has an expectancy, and we can spend our whole lives looking for
something or someone to come along and create a change in ourselves and the way
we live our lives.
It is strange how things happen, this
morning I was at work, quietly minding my business and still trying to get into
the swing of things. I lean forward to read something on my computer screen
before I feel a small trickle of liquid escape my nose, and as I watched that
small, red blob fall from my nose and begin to rotate and flip in the air an
instinct arose and kicked in. I knew it was a nosebleed, and historically
speaking, nosebleeds and brain tumors/cancer do not go well together. The fear
is quickly overridden by experience; I plug the bleed, and send off a message
to my dad. After consulting with both my parents and my neuro-surgeon, we head
off to Umhlanga Hospital to meet with Dr Stephan Joubert. He begins his
meticulous checks, asks a few standard questions followed by a few more
in-depth and nerve racking ones. After which he poses 3 scenarios, all of which
he feels the tumor is inactive in. For safety sake, he suggests that I head off
for another MRI. If you have been following this blog, you will understand my
utter fear for this machine. It has changed my life a few times already, and
what they see once I’m in that tunnel has the power to change it all once
again. We all agree that I will go for the MRI, but not before stopping at the
emergency rooms for some blood tests, hemoglobin checks, and to register my
bleed time (not sure about that). I comply and go through all the tests, and
shortly after the resident doctor prescribes some relaxants/anti-anxiety
medication in order to calm me down. You can understand my apprehension, and
the requirement to load up on some of these pills.
Before I know it, I have completely passed
out in the waiting room, and I am woken up by my dad and the nurse picking me
up and leading me to the MRI room. The thick metal door of that room wakens me
from my comatose state, and I am back in reality, ready to go into the machine
albeit 2 weeks earlier than expected.
I hop on the bed, thrust out my arm in
anticipation for the contrast/dye, give the all clear and slide in. If you are
claustrophobic or have any fear of confined spaces, you will not appreciate an
MRI machine. The head cage slides tightly over your skull; you can feel its
casing press closely against your skin, only to be further reinforced by
padding to prevent you from moving even an inch once the machine starts up. I
hear the familiar drone of the machine as it begins to start up, I feel the
plastic panic ball in my hand in case of an emergency, and I then close my
mind, devoid from all external stimuli. I close my mind so that not even I can
force a thought while I am in the machine. I fall back to sleep. I wake up 25
minutes later by the nurses pulling me out of the tunnel. I realized I had
fallen asleep in perhaps the hardest place to fall asleep in, in the world. The
sound that the machine emits vibrates in your skull, in your bones, and reminds
you that it is looking at things far beyond the capability of the human eye. I
rise up off the bed, and walk into the diagnostics room where I am greeted by
my father and Stefaan, they confirm that all is in order, and fortunately I
still have a brain. Great time for comedy, guys, thank you very much. I have a quick
glimpse at my scan, recognize the tumor sitting in my 3rd ventricle,
and without giving the tumor a second look I head out the door. I didn’t need
to see anymore.
I walked out the doors knowing, once again,
I had overcome a personal milestone. Without anticipating it I had endured
another day from hell, faced fears and answered questions that no one should
have to, and once again I am here, writing to you. I am telling you my story,
so you can feel my pain, experience my joy and perhaps learn the lessons about
life that I have, without having to go through the painstaking and heart
wrenching moments required.
To all the people I spoke to and was in
communication with today, whether it be on Facebook or mobile, Thank you. To
one special person who I spoke to over the phone, thank you. Your words and
calmness always have a way of calming the storm.
We find resolve and human spirit in the
weirdest places, you cannot find them unless you are looking for them. I
continue to learn more about this thing called life, everyday!
