Parental e-mail

I received an e-mail from my dad the other day:

---

From: Fred Atkins

To: Ben Atkins

Sent: Tue 1/28/2014 16:48

Subj: tnagled tongues

Today, Mom was talking to a friend, telling her about how your seminal fluid had backed up!!  Caught herself and corrected to spinal fluid.

I had a friend ask me how you were doing, and I said, “pretty good, we’re just in limbo now, waiting for the autopsy results.”  I realized my error immediately and fixed it, but not before her jaw dropped and she said “Oh no..”

---

Maybe it wouldn't hurt for them to get checked for brain tumors, too...

Best news possible. And best doc ever. Trust me, it's worth the read.

Uh, okay, wow.

This is going to be a long one. There's really no way to break it up. In the live version, you've probably likely seen it already on the ol' Book of Faces. Let me start with the bottom line: Sylvia is easily beatable, came in as being the absolute best diagnosis possible.

The story.

After an anxiety-filled night Wednesday, and all those questions swimming in my head, we woke up Thursday to a new day. Laura took the Tedster into daycare, and I got up and got ready for the day. I prepped some boxes for UPS, had breakfast, and got dressed. In retrospect, I kinda wish I'd taken a picture of that alone. It might sound trite, or overly dramatic to some, but I put on my uniform.

If I'm going to Walter Reed, I'm wearing my damn Coast Guard uniform. I am one of "those people" who's actually really into it. I love my job. I love my branch. They do a damned fine job of taking care of me, and I have pride in being a Coastie. So even though I could have just worn jeans and a hoodie, no. I chose to put on my full ODUs. So that anyone walking around Walter Reed doesn't see just another of thousands of anonymous patients - they see a Coast Guardsman.

Anyway, wore the uniform.

We went in super early. There're other things to be done. Walter Reed also just happens to be where Laura is having her OB care, and she was due for her gestational diabetes test. Which takes about an hour. She has to drink a bottle of this stupid syrupy sweet stuff, and an hour later they do a blood draw to see how her body is reacting to it. So she got the "lemonade flavor," which, according to her, tasted like flat Sprite syrup. And then she sat for an hour.

I made use of the time to actually go and FIND the neurosurgery clinic. Oh, and since SHE got to eat something nice and sweet, I hit Dunkin' Donuts so I could get something nice and sweet. Apparently, it's not the same thing to her.

Boy that's an unflattering photo.

Blood draw complete, we went and had lunch, and then back over to the neuro clinic.

We were led back to an exam room, sat down, and waited. And you know how you find the stupidest things while you're waiting in the doctor's office? The clock was off.

Little $4 analog clock hanging on the wall, showed a time of 9:30. After 2 minutes it drove us both so nuts Laura fixed it, and reset it to 11:58. And then we waited. And waited.

And waited.

All the time the nerves are building. "It's probably his lunch time." "Why's it so urgent we had to come in on his lunch?" Etc.

Around 12:20 the computer in the office blinked on, and said the doc had logged in. I knew what that meant. It meant he was on the way. He just remoted in to that desktop. 2 minutes later, there he was.

So, a wound check! Asked a couple of questions, looked at the sutures. Snipped one of them. And we're done, right?

Nope. Time to talk Sylvia. And this is the one and only time where he kinda screwed up the "how to talk to patients" part, because he led off with this: "So we're waiting on the final pathology to come back, but we're fairly certain we know what it is. Our fellowship-trained neuropathologist has signed off on the report, but your tumor is of a type so exceedingly rare that we wanted to send it off to the Joint Pathology Center just to get them to concur."

"So exceedingly rare" scares the shit out of patients. Because "so exceedingly rare" means very few people have very little experience treating it. It means there may not be established protocols for how to deal with it. It means that everything you're doing is a total crapshoot and I just became a guinea pig. It means...God, it just means everything...

And then, he gives me the name. Sylvia is: A central neurocytoma.

And this is good.

Rare, yes. But this is the one time you roll the dice and rare is a good thing. She's basically the most benign, boring, basic, lump my brain could possibly produce. I guess, typically, when something does go wrong and you get the diagnosis "brain tumor" it's usually something more aggressive and malignant and dangerous. She is so rare because she is so stupid.

Let's take a moment to reflect on how rare she is. Of all diagnosed brain tumors, a central neurocytoma occurs in 0.5% of them. Now, OF THOSE, only approximately 3% occur entirely in the 3rd ventricular space, where Sylvia is. I'm a stats guy, so let's look at this for a second. According to the American Brain Tumor Association, 69,720 people will get diagnosed with a brain tumor this year. So, 0.5% means that ~350 people will have a central neurocytoma. Of us 350 people, 10 of us will have it in our 3rd ventricular space.

So we continued to talk. Doc asked us if we'd seen the images yet, which was a "no." He was a little surprised, and quickly pulled up the MRI. I wanted to ask him the size - the "layman's terms" size. What are we dealing with?

Well, she's about the size of a grape. 2.5cm x 1cm. As noted before, she's blocking the drainage to the basal cisterns, so that's how we found her. There's no real rhyme or reason from whence she came - she's likely been there for years, growing slowly, until finally becoming symptomatic. Could be genetic, could be cell phones. It is *NOT* the head of the little Lego man that got jammed up my nose when I was 5.

So we're sitting there, talking about Sylvia (I told him the name) and the treatment. Basically, we go in and cut her out. But this is the moment...I mean, swear to God, I hope you all read this far, because this is THE moment - where I *KNEW* I had the right doctor working on me.

Because as we're discussing brain surgery, I glanced back at the monitor, and couldn't help but laugh. I mean, seriously, I laughed out loud. I lol'd. And I interrupted the doctor. And I said, "Sorry, just looking at the screen, and I realized my brain looks like a big goofy smiley face right now."

And what happens next is epic. Doc looks at it, laughs, and says, "Yeah, I see it. It's even got dimples. Okay, so Sylvia is that booger on the right side of the nose, and I've got to pick that booger."

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. MY DOCTOR CALLED MY BRAIN TUMOR A BOOGER, AND SAID HE'S GOING TO PICK IT. BEST. NEUROSURGEON. EVER!!!!!!!!

He even encouraged me to take a picture of it. I should have taken multiple since the one I got is a little blurry. But here, meet Sylvia. (If you see the smiley face, she is the darkish mass on the right of the "nose.")

Goofy-assed looking brain. Guess we know it's mine.

Neurosurgeons

I've never really had doctors. I mean, yeah, I have, but I've almost always been healthy. I had the same pediatrician for like 17 years. No joke, it got to the point of ridiculous. There was one time when I drove to the doctor's office (for routine shots, I think) and I'm sitting there around 3 month-old kids, and I finally told my mom I was done. If I can legally drive to the doctor, I do not need a pediatrician.

There were a few years in the late teens where I had a dermatologist. And that's sort of where I'm going - people talk about their doctors like they're possessions, sort of. With women it's much more pronounced, since you all "have" an OB/GYN.

So throughout my life I've "had" a doctor of some sort. I've "had" a dermatologist. I've "had" an orthopedist after breaking my wrist. I've "had" an ophthalmologist. And here's the really funny thing - this is not the first time in my life I've "had" a neurosurgeon.

When I was in the first grade, I was over at a friend's house and we were running through the woods. I reached out and grabbed a stick, and yanked, with the intent of breaking it off. Instead, it sliced through my pinky finger, down to the bone. And it severed the nerves. I didn't even feel it until my hand felt wet, and I looked down to see my arm covered in blood. I mean, the whole thing is a long story, went to the hospital, and yes, nerve surgery in a digit is WAY different from brain surgery, but still, the point remains: for the second time in my life, I've "got" a neurosurgeon.

You can sort of see the scar tissue from the accident 30 years ago. Full restoration of all sensory and motor nerves

Except this time, I've got a TEAM. I've actually lost track of them. Laura is better at it than I am. But I have a team of neurosurgeons, and they've already worked on me once. Kind of makes me feel like a badass.

As an aside, you want to know something I still think is hysterical? I still have no clue who my "primary care manager" is.

Brain Surgery the First

Something I keep forgetting is that I've already had brain surgery. So much right now is focused on moving forward - finding out what the hell Sylvia is, how to kill her, am I allowed to keep her on the mantle... What is the treatment plan going forward? So many things were discussed, and right now it's all a total crapshoot - surgery, chemo, radiation, or combo? Who knows? As mentioned before, no way am I Googling that.

But in all the looking forward, I occasionally take a second to look back. Because, I have HAD brain surgery. And not just simple Simon "we're going to put a hole in your skull and look at your meninges" surgery. I had an ETV (which has already been discussed, but look at the Wiki page if you haven't already.

To GET to my "3rd ventricular space," they went DEEP in my brain. It's seriously about the smack dab ass middle of my noggin. And they went in there. And drilled a HOLE. A HOLE, PEOPLE! And then they left a drain! I mean, my God. That's just WEIRD.

Yeah, it was using endoscopes and tools and whatnot, but still...someone drilled a hole in my skull, found the middle of my brain, and dug a trench. With no side effects. That's just purple monkey dishwater.

One thing I was surprised about was the lack of repair to my skull. The hole, I'm told, is just slightly smaller than a US dime. So, not huge, but not tiny. Not microscopic. But they didn't use a hole saw. And they don't do a bone graft from the acres of extra hip bone I've got. Nope, just leave a hole in my head. The theory, I'm told, is that it fills in with super-extra-dense scar tissue that's almost as tough as bone.

I'm a little disconcerted by that "almost."

I used to play rugby. I'll be honest, it's not fair to call myself a "rugby player" these days, as I was last on a pitch in 2008. There may have been a concussion or two, and there was definitely one broken collar bone. But I always liked at least being able to pretend that I could return to the sport. I loved playing, and had a great time. Sure, I wasn't great, but rugby in the US isn't about being great. It's about having fun. And I think I may now be relegated to the sidelines. And that bugs me. Honestly, I doubt I ever would have played again. Just to be fair. But if I didn't it, it would have been my choice. It's nothing earth-shattering, but I'm sure you all understand - having the choice taken away from me is what sucks. That I no longer get a say.

Sylvia sucks.

Me, getting absolutely flattened.

Blogging

10 days after getting diagnosed with a brain tumor, you've got a lot of things you're willing to talk about. Especially when it took 9 days to come up with a name for the stupid idiot. And then you want to just brain dump (no pun intended). All these awesome, witty, insightful things I've thought of!I must share them with the world!

But somewhere in me there is a desire to maintain balance - to not write one ginormous stream-of-consciousness post that's stupidly rambling and no one will read. And hey, gotta keep the audience interested.

It's kind of fun to me, though, knowing what I'm about to do. Write and draft a small series of posts, just to catch up, break up my thoughts, organize it...and then release them from "draft" to "published" slowly but surely. It'll give me back-up content for days the creative juices aren't flowing.

So why a blog? I don't know, really. I mean, yeah, I already said so that I have an outlet, but still...you know what the weird thing is, is all the support for one. Everyone just assumes it's a foregone conclusion - "Oh wow, that sucks man. You've got a brain tumor. Bummer. But you could TOTALLY blog about that!" 

Somehow, a major, life-altering diagnosis has instantly become blog material. And part of the weirdness is that I get it. I'm part of it. I, too, had my own internal realization of "Wow, I should totally blog about this!" upon receiving the diagnosis. That's kind of messed up. I assure you, it was WAY after the tears, the calls, the visits. It certainly wasn't forefront on my mind. (Suddenly, every time I use the word brain, mind, thoughts, noggin, etc., I feel I need to say "no pun intended." Trust me; you'll know when a pun IS intended.)

So I'm going to type up a few things. And save them for later. Hell, I'll probably even save this one for a few hours, if nothing else. Because I can. 

Morning habits

Note: may not prevent brain tumors.

Interim

It's funny, because I wrote this add part of a something yo do. I've got 4 posts sitting in the queue waiting to go live later, and this one's ironically talking about "the interim" and suddenly the interim has changed.

---

So what does a guy do in the interim? We're in a weird limbo here right now - there's nothing to do. I don't even have a single med to take - Tylenol for pain, but even that's been minimal.

The story of diagnosis and discharge is already posted. To clarify, though, I don't really have a diagnosis. My diagnosis is "Brain Tumor." We know nothing about the type, size, location, aggressiveness...nothing. Well, I mean, I know a few tiny things. But really not much.

I DO know enough to NOT Google "Brain tumor." There is NO WAY that will end well. Like wearing a red shirt in Star Trek or running upstairs in a horror flick, it's just got stupid written all over it.

What I do know is that I've got a "mass," a tumor. It's in or near or somehow blocking the 3rd ventricular space - an open portion of the brain that naturally collects cerebral spinal fluid, CSF, and then drains it down to the basal cisterns. And because it was blocked, the CSF built up, caused some swelling (hence the secondary diagnosis, "hydrocephaly," which literally means "water brain").

So, they performed the endoscopic third ventriculostomy, or ETV. This is actually safe to Google, or Wiki (ETV on Wiki), since it's a one single action that's already happened. So now, hopefully, my brain is better draining the CSF to wherever it needs to go. Seems to be working, because the diplopia and headaches are greatly diminished.

But it's not perfect. Riding in cars is a BAD IDEA. I think it's the constant changing fields of view, from clouds miles away to that asshole that just cut us off, that there's just too much visual information for my brain to keep up with. Within a minute of getting in a car the double vision is back, and it just gets progressively worse.

So again, the interim. Well, riding in cars is no fun. Driving is obviously WAY out. So, sit at home. Shop on Amazon, do taxes, clean the kitchen. I'm not an invalid, so I try to stay as active as possible. But by afternoons and evenings, I think my brain just starts to give up. Diplopia returns, headaches return, and more time is spent horizontally on the couch. I still play with Teddy, even though I'm not supposed to pick him up. Supposed to. I'm smart and careful. I pick him up for short times, hold him close to me, and only when I'm feeling my best. We do a lot of sitting on the couch together, but sometimes a boy just wants his daddy. And I can't say no. Hell, he even got a cookie before dinner the other night.

You know what else can be done during the interim? Write a metric butt-load of blog posts.

We don't even know how long this interim will last. At discharge, I had a piece of paper saying I would have a follow-up with my Doc on Wednesday, 5 Feb. Call for time. Well, so we called for the time, and found out that was the recommended follow-up time. The scheduler instead got me an appointment for Monday, 3 Feb. That's great, right?! Earlier! Except she said it was for "wound care" only - to check up on my sutures. Funny, they like to look in on sites where they drilled a hole into my brain.

We explained that we're still awaiting biopsy results and treatment plan and dammit someone talk to us, and she was very nice. If we don't hear a definitive appointment plan by tomorrow, we call back.

But here we are, still. In the interim. The meanwhile, the holding pattern. The "let's do something to take your mind off it." And with that, I'm going to go play some Call of Duty. Because, why not?

Double Lives

Two weekends ago, my husband and I were meeting with realtors and discussing our growing comfort with transferring to very warm Coast Guard stations in San Juan, Miami, and Key West. Why not relax and have a place for our immediate and extended family to enjoy? Ben had put in for a few early transfers, and we feel fortunate that our house wasn't under contract. Because on that Sunday afternoon, my husband told me he was having double vision and wanted to go to Bethesda for evaluation.

You want to give as much control to your spouse as possible, after all after any averse diagnosis it’s like having control over a situation just walks out of the room. Everything becomes tumor first; patient second...  the conditions that hospitalized them are quite real to the hospital staff as the patient’s new normal… but not necessarily yours or your family. The week prior, he was just in strategic planning meetings, driving boats, throwing Teddy around, letting me rest as much as saintly possible, filing transfer picks, and doing training evaluations. Sudden seems to be an understatement. There were the headaches coming with more frequency by only recently, and only recently did they not respond to over the counter efforts. The double vision was quite new to the fold, otherwise it presented like an ocular headache. Why worry? He’s healthy.

Our lives may be different right now. Diplopia (def. double vision) continues to come and go with and without headaches. He looks and acts most of the time like he would without having received this diagnosis (helping me out around the house probably more than he should). There are a few times that his health lands him on the couch for a day (like yesterday), where you can tell that the double vision and his efforts to correct causes actual pain. So we learn our limits and adjust. We weigh the pros and the cons, trying to find that comfort in what we might anticipate and try not reading the internet too much but updating friends, talking with family, and finding safe resources. We are waiting for results. We continue to find a new normal that is until the next new normal finds us.

Sentiments of care and concern help you feel not alone (which is the opposite of what they teach in school- crazy). That reality of being all too human crashes into view…  I cannot take away that pain and fear affecting my husband, but I can be there as much as possible. I made a promise to swim along side of him and care for him and our family no matter what. It means celebrating in the little achievements like when Ben has a moment of conquering the double vision by making a toss into an incredibly small cylindrical object in the sink.

It’s why I refuse to let this eat our family whole. We've got a toddler who plays with oversized trucks on his cousin’s matchbox set, loves bath time like a playful sea serpent, and points out what objects don't belong together (as of today), and asks his playmates for space when they enthusiastically run up to him while he puts away his coat overwhelming him (parenting still needed)… all while using words like stuck in the proper context, trying words like "at" to say cat, or "oat" to say coat. We let you stay up just a little later to have more fun with together as a family.

Baby #2, who is remarkably shaping up to be a Nicholas, continues to grow in healthy ways despite these sudden emotional experiences from mom. He doesn’t seem to be responding to them like his brother did, but he continues to march to his own drummer. He’ll have to for a short time to redraw attention to his needs – it’s going to be pretty busy very soon. (Your dad already talks to you. Your brother has ensured that you have a whole host of clothes for a number of seasons.)

My husband was more than a diagnosis long before he came into my life. He is so much more to me than it. He lights up a room to me whenever he comes in it – especially in our son’s face. He holds my hand when I’m anxious (or makes the silliest of faces when someone’s giving me a shot and I am being a total baby). He sounds interesting when explaining the density of gasoline during cold winter months and warm summer months. He walks with me around the neighborhood when it’s warm, and he doesn't mind holding me when we’re sitting in front of a Christmas tree and a warm fire. He’s also the one who has gotten me to jump out of a teeny tiny airplane from high altitude, and of course, continues to beat me at slugbug and scrabble despite rumors.

San Juan will still be there. The Coast Guard will still be there. We hope we’ll one day be there too.

Anxiety attack in one easy step...

Just gimme a call.

From Walter Reed National Military Medical Center.

And it starts off simple enough, but then it just slowly builds. You can feel it getting larger. The questions. The why.

About 5:00 today I got a call from the scheduler for the neurosurgery clinic. Dr. Davidson has an opening and would like me to come in tomorrow for a wound check at noon. Was I available?

Simple question. And simple answer: yes. Trust me, I'll clear my schedule. And then just some bits about where to park and where the clinic is. And then we hang up.

But now...now the questions start to build...

Is this really just a wound check?

Do they have the pathology report?

Do they need me to come in immediately?

Seriously - is "wound check" just a ruse, something to sound menial and trivial and not get me too anxious? Why does a neurosurgeon need to check my stitches? A second year resident can do that.

What if I had said no, that I was busy? Would they then have made it more urgent?

What if I had asked for the path report? What would she have said? Why was she calling me at 5:00 while the doc was still in surgery?

And so it builds. And with each crashing wave more questions arise. "Should I bring a bag of clothes just in case?"

"Should we call to make sure our friends can pick up Teddy tomorrow, just in case?"

"When my parents call in an hour, should I ask them to drive up tomorrow, just in case?"

Just...in...case...

Diagnosis

So, how does one get diagnosed with a brain tumor? What started it all? Well, I already posted the whole story to Facebook, so I'll just paste it here. With a few edits to the tale, and then some musings added at the end.

---

Last Thursday Laura wasn't feeling well, so I helped take her to the OB clinic for testing. She was just a little dehydrated (thanks again go out to Jason and Amanda McKinney for watching Ted during that). But here's the significance: While we were there, I noticed then for the first time that I was seeing double. There was a painting on the wall with tulips on it, and I realized I was seeing two tulips where there should only have been one. But I could force the images to reconcile. I took two Tylenol and went to bed.

Friday morning was totally normal. I went to work, had an early day, and came home. Friday evening I dropped Ted off at the parent's night out (once a month his daycare stays open from 6-11pm for $20. You can't beat that. $20 babysitter, including food? We'd pre-paid, and no refunds), and I went to watch a movie  - Lone Survivor was awesome. Laura still wasn't feeling well, so she stayed home to rest. The movie was really discomforting for me, with the double vision (heretofore known as "diplopia") getting worse. I watched most of the movie with one eye shut.

Saturday was pretty much the exact same. And Sunday, too. Except the diplopia got more and more severe. Nothing was blurry, there weren't any severe headaches, I just couldn't get my left eye and right eye to line up. So around 4:00 I finally got up the courage to tell Laura, and told her we needed to make plans to get me to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Knowing that it could be a big long ordeal, and would almost certainly involve at least holding me for observation overnight, she dropped me off and went home.

We had a brief discussion about which hospital to go to. At that time we still thought it was nothing, just a headache. But because of Arnie (you'll read that part later) I decided we should probably start at the best. And really, thank God we did. I could easily see a community hospital giving me two Tylenol and saying "follow up with your PCM." And I mean, two - if you are allowed and have permission to use the exact same hospital that the President uses, wouldn't you? Like, if he were to keel over with an aneurysm today, the people that worked on me would work on him. I *like* that.

The ER staff did look at me skeptically at first, but I think me being an E-6 and an EMT and speaking lucidly convinced them to make an honest go of it. So after the basic tests, they put me in a CT scanner, and we waited. And about 45 minutes after the CT scan, the ER doc came to me with a bewildered look on her face: "The CT came back...abnormal. I'm not sure exactly what, but they put in for an emergent consult with neurosurgery. I had to double check that they wanted neuroSURGERY, and not just nueroLOGY."

The neurosurgeon came in and explained that I had hydrocephaly, a build up of fluid in and around my brain. It was suspected that it was due to a "mass" in my 3rd ventricle, but an MRI was needed. Which I went to immediately.

Laura arrived (Teddy now being ably guarded by Kathy Harris) at some ungodly hour, and at about 6am I got the diagnosis: a "mass" was in my 3rd ventricular space, blocking the flow of CSF (cerebral spinal fluid, the "goo" around your brain and spinal column), which lead to swelling and vision problems.

Monday was a "hold" day, just absorbing the info and making calls, plus some extraneous tests. I can't imagine the years I took off my mother's life calling her at 6:30 to say I had a brain tumor that required immediate surgery. They, being the incredible, amazing, wonderful parents they always have been, dropped everything and drove to DC the same day. Before they got in, my Aunt Linda came to pass the time.

Tuesday at around 7:30am I went in for surgery. They had three goals: get a tissue sample to biopsy the "mass," use a balloon-type device to reopen the normal flow of CSF, and put in a drain for the CSF until the swelling got under control. The surgery went really well, all missions accomplished, I was off the table in under 2 hours.

The drain stayed in until Thursday morning. The diplopia went away and came back and is now slowly fading. I'm up and about, headaches are minimal, but I left with discharge papers reading: "Diagnosis: BRAIN TUMOR."

---

So that's the new normal for us. That's how you get diagnosed with a brain tumor. But I did want to edit/add this:

There is one other thing that happened last Sunday, just before going to the hospital, that is oddly still very vivid in my memory. And it has to be addressed, because it will always and inevitably be brought up: Kindergarten Cop.

Funny thing is, I've never *actually* seen that movie. I know I haven't. But EVERYONE knows the line...I mean, *THE* line...from Arnie. And I can remember, on Sunday, around 3:00 or so. I was coming upstairs from the basement, Teddy was taking a nap,and I was having the double vision again. And I had the thought, "Maybe it's a tumor." And the obvious and immediate response - Arnold's voice saying "It's not a toomah." But then...I went there. I processed it. I had an internal dialogue of "Why not? Why is is not a tumor? How do YOU know? Stories are told of perfectly normal, happy, healthy individuals getting struck down with bizarre tumors. Yeah, you're 35 and healthy, non-smoker...but not all tumors are tobacco related. How do you KNOW this isn't a tumor? Because this double vision thing is WEIRD."

And I do think it was that internal monologue that gave me the courage to tell Laura a few hours later what was going on.

The other part of the diagnosis? They at least did rule out testicular cancer. Or, as my friend Kevin put it:

Introduction

Jeeze, you would think I would have started this earlier. And the longer I waited the more and more there was to write. But I'm going to try and break it down, put it into small bits to update piece-by-piece. This is the blog of me, Ben. And, as stated, I have a brain tumor. And dude, that is still REALLY weird to say. I mean, fantastically weird.

 Her name is Sylvia. Why Sylvia? I dunno, why not. Sounds like the name of a bitch. I've known one Sylvia in my life, and suffice it to say she and I did NOT get along.

Why the blog? Because, why not? I want to keep a record. I need a place to write and vent and yell and scream. And update and hope and say thanks. My wife needs it, too (I suspect). She's added as an author, I suppose we'll probably see posts from her, too. But I want something off of Facebook. Don't get me wrong, I love Facebook. I really do, I see the value and use of it as a tool that you have to manage. But when it comes to things like "brain tumor," I want to make sure it's not getting sandwiched between "Which Big Bang Theory Character are you?" and "Cute video cat stuck in a toilet!"

So, a blog. And I'm known for being awesomely cheap, so I use the free site from Google. In the 10 days since my diagnosis, I have become a *HUGE* fan of The Everywhereist. I was sent the site from a very close friend, who claims her as a "friend-of-a-friend," though I'm not sure quite how many degrees of separation are there. But she (The Everywhereist) is just a normal person, living her life with a travel blog, who went through this about a year and a half ago. I already know that we have two very different tumor types, and treatment could be vastly different, but her humor and insight was awesome to read. It uplifts the spirit to know that others have gone before, and are doing well. It sucks that she's funny as hell and I had a lot of the same/similar jokes, and now I can't use them for fear of being accused of stealing.

So, about me? Yeah, I'm Ben. I'm 35, and on Active Duty (well, sort of, these days...) in the US Coast Guard. I've got an amazing wife (Laura), the most incredible son (Teddy, 20 months), and we're expecting son #2 in early April. We live in the Washington DC area. And I've got a brain tumor.