Simultaneous

February 16, 2020

I decided to walk and take the metro on the coldest day of the year. It’s only a four-block walk from the metro, but in 17 degrees, it feels like 17 blocks. I finally walk into the building. They’ve moved offices since I was last here two years ago. I make my way to suite 210 and walk up to the front desk. After a few minutes, I’m asked my name and date of birth, handed the requisite clipboard with forms attached, and told my name will be called soon. I flip through the paperwork and fill everything out. I’m waiting for my name to be called and I can’t help the antsiness that comes over me. I’m swiping through my phone and nothing can hold my attention. I finally realize I’m nervous.

I review my notes again, go over the symptoms I’ve logged and the questions I’ve prepared, and all I can do is sit and let my eyes roam over the waiting room. Finally, a middle-aged woman with long, dark, curled hair walks down the hallway toward the waiting room. She’s wearing knee-high black boots, a white doctor’s coat, and a kind smile. She calls my last name which turns some heads in confusion and I gather my things as I rise.  

I walk down the hallway and follow her into a small exam room. I appreciate it when she nods to the chair instead of the exam table. She asks what brings me in and I say that what I really want is to be told absolutely everything is normal for my body and a refill on my migraine medication. I recount the symptoms that brought me here and she’s typing up notes while simultaneously bringing up what looks like images from an MRI. I’m assuming it’s one of mine.

She’s nodding and her eyes are scanning over the images and she says, “well, it’s time to check up on your arachnoid cyst.” “I’m sorry, who’s what?”

Apparently, two years ago, when I had the last MRI of my spine and brain they found a cyst in the top of my spinal cord. I guess it wasn’t anything to worry about at the time and something that happens after the type of surgery I had or the meningitis that I had post-op. I’ve completely forgotten about it. My neurologist notes that the symptoms I’ve been having sound like what happens when the cyst grows or moves. So it’s time to check on that with another MRI. I don’t ask what the treatments are for it, she doesn’t offer them. 

She orders the MRI and then asks for me to climb up on the exam table so that she can do a neurological exam. Everything’s going fine and she says, “Your neurological exam is great! I’ll just check your reflexes and you’ll be good to go!” I’m getting excited for what is turning out to be a routine neuro appointment. I’m just being responsible and getting things checked out and listening to my body, taking it seriously, but now I’ve done that, I’ll do an MRI to be responsible, but like, I’m good.

And then she taps the reflex points in my legs. 

And nothing happens.

She taps them each a few times and my legs don’t respond.

Her brow furrows. She checks back over the image of the MRI left up on the screen and types a few more things into the computer. I say that I’m wearing thick wool pants because it’s cold, maybe she just can’t find the point, she says that’s not the problem. I say maybe I’m just tense and holding my leg steady, but I’ll try to relax. She looks at me over the top of her glasses and says the point of reflexes is that you can’t control them.

Right.

I knew that.

She says the exam is over, she’s ordered a nerve conduction study and the MRIs, and that we need to get them scheduled today.

I hate the nerve conduction study. They put pins in you and send electric shocks through them.

Great.

I put my coat back on, grab my purse, and follow the doctor down the hall to the main desk. She kindly passes me off to a receptionist who is going to help me get my tests and follow-up scheduled and wishes me a great rest of my day before turning away. I get everything settled and scheduled and walk back to the elevator, pulling on my hat and gloves and scarf for the 1700 block walk back to the metro to head into work.

Walking into work, I run into my best friend and coworker and Haley wastes no time asking how I am. I tell her the truth - that I’m fine. I feel okay. I didn’t feel the inclination to get a second hot chocolate that day to cope with the news of a cyst, I didn’t use it as an excuse for unnecessary retail therapy, and I know I can work and focus on work. She asks if I want to go to happy hour after work, but only if I feel up for it. I know that I’m okay, but if I spend the evening alone at home, I might ruminate too much, so I gladly accept.

I go about my week and I’m okay. I call my parents and tell them what is going on and I’m proud of how okay I sound. Because I am, I’m okay. My mom’s appropriately upset, as is my dad. They’re both concerned about me, but they take the news well. I note, with confidence, that I no longer feel like my emotions are dependent on them around this news. It feels good. 

I’m trying new things, I’m working hard at my job, and I’m taking care of my body. It feels good. I’m living my life even while I have this medical thing staring at me for the next couple of months, but it feels okay.

On Saturday morning I do what I do every Saturday morning and I call my mom to catch up on the week. We’ve missed a few Saturdays because she’s been traveling and working, so I settle in for a long call. My dad happens to be on the call for a bit and my health comes up. I haven’t done any research into the arachnoid cyst, and I’m pretty proud of myself. Not even one Google search to confirm I do not actually have any spiders in my spine, which I have, admittedly, worried about. My mom’s googled it though, and she proceeds to read out the symptoms because she really believes it explains a lot of what’s going on with me these last few months. She then affirms that if I have to have brain surgery again (the only remedies for this cyst) that she’ll be there, she’ll come to DC and I don’t have to worry.

I didn’t even think about the fact that I’m facing the potential of another brain surgery.

I change the subject and we move on, but now that thought is in my head. I do well not to dwell on it and we talk for another hour until I say goodbye and we go about our days.

But late that night, as I’m lying in bed, about to fall asleep, I feel the tears start to fall. I’m looking out the partially opened blinds and see the moon rising over the row houses as my vision blurs. My tears fall and I let them. I’m afraid. I’m a little afraid.

My hair isn’t long enough to have brain surgery again. I’m starting to date, should I stop that until I know it’s resolved? I’m looking for a new job. Should I put that to rest until I find a new job? Questions and thoughts swirl together into fuel for more tears and I let myself feel. I ask myself what I should do. Should I call my parents and cry? It’s kind of late and I think that will scare them. I don’t know that I’ll really feel better at the end of that. I could call Haley, but I don’t want to scare her either. Plus, I’m still waiting on her to reply to a previous text and don’t want to overwhelm her.

It’s my first time going through this process alone and I’m reaching beyond my default of calling someone mid-breakdown. God, what should I do?

How do I handle this alone?  

I know I can pull out my journal and pour out my feelings until I’m wrung dry from tears and words, but I don’t think I’m quite there yet. So I let myself cry silently in my bed, reach for the teddy bear I’m too old to sleep with but keep within arm’s reach, and I reassure myself. I tell myself that any surgery won’t happen for at least three months, so my hair will be able to grow at least an inch and a half by then and my hair studio started doing payment plans for hair extensions, so I can always do that if I need to. I tell myself that I can keep going on dates. If something starts getting more serious or I become exclusive with someone by that point I’ll be upfront about what’s going on and see what happens, but I don’t get to make the decision for someone else. If I truly don’t want to date, that’s one thing, but that’s not what I’m feeling. I still want to keep meeting people and I’ll see where I’m at when the time comes. I’ll keep applying for jobs and see where I’m at when the surgery is scheduled, if it is. I’ll look at what legal protections I have if I need them. I’ll stay where I’m at if I have to, and if I absolutely have to, I’ll go home to my parent’s house. I always have that option.

I slowly stop crying and by the time I’m finished I’m exhausted enough to fall asleep at that moment, and I do so.  

I exhibited healthy emotional regulation. And I’m pretty darn proud of myself.

I keep feeling it, that twinge of fear. Sometimes it’s more than a twinge. It’s a wave. But when I’m able to, I let it come. I feel it completely until it passes. If I’m in the middle of something or in a place, like work, where I can’t feel it at that moment, I redirect. I used to only redirect. Now I feel when I can and redirect when I need to. And I think I’m healthier because of it. I always thought that if I was healthier and had moved through the trauma that when I had another medical scare I wouldn’t be affected or wouldn’t be afraid. But that’s not realistic. I’m potentially having a second brain surgery in the span of five years, if I wasn’t emotionally affected by that, we’d have big problems. The healthy response is to feel the feelings when I can, let them pass by when I can’t, and be able to tell the difference.

I’m afraid. And at the same time, I’m okay.

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