This is meant to be the blog about Sylvia, that dastardly evil brain tumor I have banished to the history books. And this post will be about it. But just a QUICK update on the family...
We're doing good. Moved down to Yorktown - actually, living in Williamsburg. Got a great little home - emphasis on the word "little." Though, really not that small, just smaller than from whence we came, which means we have some downsizing to do. You quickly realize just how much STUFF you have - and how little you need some of it - after going through a move like this. It wasn't the smoothest of moves, but we're getting there, and we're settling in, and things are going well.
I've checked in to my job. Working with a really great group of folks, we get along well together and I enjoy going to work. It's been very interesting learning the ropes of being a coxswain instructor - I'm working hard towards getting fully qualified so I can start teaching instead of just being a passenger.
But anyway, about Sylvia...
I had an MRI last night.
That took a while to sink in for me. The English language (or, hell, any language) needs to come up with a word that means "realizing something you already knew." You know, that moment, that instant where something "becomes real" to you, or "sinks in." But those phrases don't really capture it. The true realization, the acceptance and forceful jolt to the core, that comes with truly REALIZING something you've already known.
That happened to me last night. See, I've had all my previous MRIs at one location, in the same tube - up at Walter Reed in Bethesda. A lot of people talk (and ask me about) going into an MRI, and the claustrophobia, etc. That's never been a problem for me. When I go in, I just zone out - release my mind and go somewhere else, reliving my time in Australia, or a day at the ballpark with Laura, or a ski trip while I was in Colorado - something like that.
And while they're all in different locations, an actual MRI tube is always pretty much the same. Climb on a bed, get lifted up, cage goes over your head, go into a tube, zone out for 30 minutes, get an IV of gadolinium contrast, 15 more minutes, done.
But last night, it hit me. I realized what I already knew, but it came in force. This is part of my life, now. This is going to be with me, in the shadows, in the background, but ever-present for the rest of my life.
The frequency of scans will decrease, and it'll go down to once every 6 months, to once a year, and then maybe even longer. But it will always be there.
We will be in Yorktown/Williamsburg for 4 years. And then transfer somewhere else. And I will go into a new hospital, in a new location...and I will climb into the same tube.
I don't know how I feel about that. I feel lucky and fortunate to know that it will be monitored for the rest of my life. I know that, so far, it's all been stable and the likelihood of regrowth is minuscule. But even so, it's still there. This little miniature Sword of Damocles hovering there.
Don't get me wrong, it's a good thing, too. I try to keep a positive attitude and I can find the silver linings. It's a reminder of how lucky I am. How precious life is, and how your whole world can be turned completely upside down in an instant. How incredible and invaluable friends are, and just how powerful it is to see family in action, dropping everything instantly to help.
I get to meet my new follow-up neuro team at the end of this month. And we will see where it goes from there. And in 4 months, I'll climb into a tube again. This is my new life, as we know it.
Thank God it's so full of all these wonderful people.
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