Losing Yourself

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 3^rd 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!