Moments can change the course of your life.
One second, I was probably dreaming about landing an Axel, followed by a long blank space. The next moment, I was awoken by a bright light. Shining in my face. I heard a voice, “Oh, and think she’s coming back.”
On September 10, 1991, that’s what happened with my first seizure. Six days later, I was diagnosed with my first brain tumour.
I was 15 years old.
Actually, the surgery wasn’t too bad. I’ve had others since then, and the first surgery was probably one of my best experiences. Minus the food.
On October 17th, I checked into Winnipeg’s Children’s Hospital. My surgery was the next day, early in the morning. At that point, I wanted the tumour gone. I wanted to focus on recovering and preparing for the following skating season. The brain tumour sidelined me, but I was adjusting to anticonvulsants, which were revamped after surgery.
I was on a high dose of medication, and the doctors put me on one better suited for females. Plus, the first medication can speed up hair growth. Considering half my hair was gone, I didn’t mind that part. But, I also didn’t want to pour Veet on my face three times a week.
First, I’ll eliminate the low light of the Children’s Hospital. The day my neurosurgeon removed the bandages. When he was finished, he handed me a mirror. I almost cried. Between the med revamp, and the “we had to shave more hair than we thought, she has a low hairline,” it looked like the mirror cracked. I felt ugly.
My face was puffy. I had bruises along my jawline. If someone put a candle in my mouth, I’d pass as a pumpkin. Appropriate, because Halloween was near.
Let’s move onto the highlights.
A nurse set my lunch in front of me. Dry beef. Reconstructed potatoes and gravy, vegetable, milk. The next day everyone was having pizza, and she was taking my order. She said a doctor would be appearing on the internal television station.
“Did you want to ask him a question?”
“Yes,” I said. “Could you ask him what he thinks about the food?”
“I can do that.”
Sure enough, the next day, while I was eating ham and pineapple pizza, watching the television show, the doctor was asked my question.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a good one *laughs uncomfortably* I don’t eat a lot of the food here. I mainly bring my own meals from home. But … maybe we could improve.”
I’m sure he thought, “There’s a politician watching.”
Then! Hubert the Clown! He knocked on my door and waved, and I waved back and that was the end of the clown-connection. My parents entered my room after, and they said, “Did you see the clown?” I didn’t know how iconic he’d become.
The day before I was released, one of the nurses was changing my saline bag. She seemed young and we got along well. She said, “So, I heard you’re a figure skater?”
I told her, “Yeah, but not this year.”
“I used to skate.”
Hearing, “I used to skate” is like, “Meh, I can eat fire.”
“No way,” followed by the usual next question, “What was your highest jump?”
In her words, “A kamikaze double Axel.” She stopped skating when she started university. But she skated out of the Interlake region, my region. That moment perked me up.
It didn’t shorten my recovery time, but my nurse was a skater who could almost land a double Axel.
If I’d known earlier, I would’ve stayed up when she was working the night shift and slept during the day.
My mom said we’d ask for her name. Although I saw her name tag, because I was excited I forgot the name. But she wasn’t there on my last day
The next day, I was released with grandeur. For some reason, I was being treated as a miracle child because I could walk without help less than ten hours after brain surgery.
Two years later, I’d realize why that was a big deal when I went through my second brain surgery. Second – survivors don’t say last.
After the first surgery, we went shopping. Yes, shopping. We lived an hour and a bit out of the city, and my parents’ kid just went through brain surgery. As we left the hospital, I felt like yelling, “Let’s go to the mall!”
The second one. We left after my surgery. It was lightly snowing out. We entered the car, I stared out the window, and they said, “Tammy, do you want to go shopping?” I grunted. We went shopping. The only time my emotions went from basement to through the attic was when dad found a Mickey Mouse Marching Band. I’m not even a Mickey fan, but this was magical – and it played 100 Christmas songs – on brass bells. I have a thing for bells.
When I left the Children’s Hospital, I thought that’d be the end of my brain tumour journey. Life went on as norm, except I was on medication for a year, then I could start coming off. Protocol. During the surgery, they placed nodules onto my brain, and they didn’t detect seizure activity. For those who didn’t pass out, I though it was interesting.
The next brain tumour took two years to diagnose, and I didn’t have seizures until a year after my first surgery. On October 1, 1992, I had my second seizure during chemistry class. I was terrified, because I was awake. I thought when people have a seizure, they’re unconscious. No, not my type.
To this day, I consider myself lucky to be in chemistry class. The teacher has a child who had a brain tumour and lives with epilepsy. He took charge, and I’m forever grateful.
There’s more to the story of Tammy’s Seizure in Chemistry 200, and it’ll be in the book.
I considered these challenges in life. If you don’t face real challenges, you’ll never realize your strength. Not being able to fit into a dress isn’t a challenge. I mean a real challenge, and it doesn’t have to be surgery.
Facing challenges doesn’t always prepare you for the next time. Where do I start with that one.
Life is about moments. Make the most of them.
Tammy W. Karatchuk 