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, think she’s coming around.”
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.
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 for the season while I adjusted to my anticonvulsants, which were revamped after surgery.
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. He said, “We had to shave more hair than we thought, she has a low hairline.”
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. I swear the mirror cracked as I looked at the stitches and squeaked out a, “It doesn’t look bad.”
I glanced up, and my dad left the room. As kids, when our bodies are against us, we put on a brave face. But parents hate to see their children go through pain and hurt. Seeing the bandages removed was the realization of what happened in the operating room to their child. I understand now, even without children.
A nurse later washed my hair, commenting on the thickness, despite the amount shaven. And she wiped a tear that ran down my face.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “That hair will be back in no time.”
While my hair was damp, and I was trying to remain upbeat, another nurse plunked down my lunch. Dry beef. Reconstructed potatoes and gravy, mixed vegetables, milk. The next day was Pizza Friday – a bonus of the Children’s Hospital. While the nurse was taking my order (ah, I miss those days) for my breakfast and dinner, 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. 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’s kid watching.”
Then! Hubert the Clown! He knocked on my door and waved, and I waved back and that was the end of the clown-encounter. My parents entered my room after, and my dad whispered, “Did you see the clown?” At the time, I didn’t know how iconic Hubert the Clown would become.
The day before I was released, a nurse was changing my saline bag. She seemed young and we got along. She said, “So, I heard you’re a figure skater?”
I told her, “Yeah, but not this year.”
“Well, there’s always never year,” she said. “You know, I was a figure skater too.”
“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 a club in the Interlake region, my region!
It didn’t shorten my recovery time, but my nurse was a skater who could almost land a double Axel. She chatted with my mom for awhile, and I was in awe. Someone who could almost land a double Axel from my skating region. It gave me a boost for the next competitive season.
Although I saw the nurse’s name tag, I was so excited, I forgot the name.
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. I made the error of turning down a wheelchair. Ever since, none of my surgeries have been a wheel to the door finish.
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.
When we left the hospital – all smiles – I felt like yelling, “Let’s go to the mall!” Yes, after an almost seven-hour craniotomy, my parents and I went shopping once we ate dinner. Pizza Hut – my request.
After my second 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 love bells.
When I left the Children’s Hospital after the first surgery, 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.
But, on October 1, 1992, I had my second seizure during chemistry class. A focal onset aware. I was terrified, because I was awake, I could hear, see, talk. At the time, I was only familiar with tonic-clonic – formerly grand mal – when a person loses consciousness.
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.
That was the beginning of the second brain tumour, which took two years to diagnose.
I considered these hiccups in life. If you don’t face challenges, you’ll never realize your strength. Facing challenges doesn’t always prepare you for the next time though, because you expect the same outcome.
And it was far what anyone expected.
