Theres nothing more daunting than having a date set for brain surgery, because there’s a good chance you can die or be permanently disabled. You wake up each morning counting the days to go, and enjoy each and every one like its your last.
Don’t get me wrong, I was extremely grateful to have survived the adrenal crisis the led to the diagnosis of the tumor. And was filled with optimism I could potentially get some normality back into my life, but its not like having an operation on your toe – brain surgery is inherently risky.
I was fortunate to be a suitable candidate for a technique called transsphenoidal endoscopic surgery, using the nose as a route to gain access to the base of the brain. I was thankful they weren’t considering the old fashioned method of removing a piece of skull and diving in that way.
At least my good looks were to remain intact!
The day had finally arrived faster than I really wanted it too, as I sat patiently waiting in the admissions department of large outer suburban Melbourne public hospital. The place was a throng of activity as immigrants, refugees and everyone or anyone sort medical attention. I’d spent the last few weeks diligently avoiding colds or infections in order not to jeopardise the pending surgery – but now I become paranoid of inhaling tuberculosis – so I shallow breathed to compensate.
I noticed he wasn’t using words
I was distracted by a family group that joined the waiting area, in particular an energetic youth in a wheel chair. He had a short cropped crew cut and firmly clutched a computer tablet, his mother gave the impression of being single and doing it hard, but stoically fussed over him endlessly. His sister, adorned in typical teenage fashions was similarly attentive to his needs.
It became clear firm boundaries had been established to control him, as he tried to wriggle out of the chair. I could just see the tablet contained pictures of family members as he scrolled through with soothing delight. He looked just like any teenage boy – until I noticed he wasn’t using words but uttering a series of ‘bop’ sounds – my heart sunk deep. He appeared to have a range of tones to give meaning to the bops. No doubt he was unfairly burdened with a language development impediment, and had some how found a way to communicate. He was a very likeable and endearing young man, and it appeared the whole family had worked hard to adapt and compensate for his disability.
When you’re waiting for surgery, time exacerbates fear – hours elapsed until we progressed to another holding area, until finally my time had come.
There were two surgeons necessary to conduct the procedure, one to drill into the base of my skull via the nasal cavity. The other to delicately remove the tumour without causing a stroke, or nicking the optic nerve, and preserving the already damaged pituitary gland and surrounding structures as much as possible.
I had previously met the neurosurgeon and was persuaded by his slow motion like movements and fixed stare – exactly the traits you’d want from a brain surgeon.
However this was the first time I was introduced to the ENT surgeon – I was nonetheless impressed, she reminded me of Sigourney Weaver. This could be handy if the thing inside my head turns out to be an alien bug, and escapes during surgery – she’d nuke it. Well, maybe not, but she was reassuringly confident.
I made some pathetic remark about being ready for the surgery, but my life lay in both their hands and out of my control. I convinced myself that dying during surgery would be an easy way to depart… as you would have no cognisance of the proceedings.
like the feeling of being led to the gallows
I bid a farewell to my partner believing I would never see her again… as I was wheeled away on a hospital bed. It’s weird how you experience a different perspective laying down as I was pushed through opening doors into a restricted access zone – this rarefied no-mans land was the connecting corridor to the operating theatres. The reality of the situation began to set in, as the clinical sterility of the pale blue walls and benign wall art, triggered the onset of a cold sweat and pure fear… like the feeling of being led to the gallows.
When, the icy air was broken with a soothing ‘bop’ tone that filled the space – It was that boy, he was in the same corridor going into another theatre for surgery. And then another bop sound, he was relaxed and handling the circumstances with ease. I smiled as he continued to make make various sounds. He gave me strength to take a grip… I’m going to survive this after all.
If took forever for the anaesthetist to find a suitable vein to insert the cannula into, when I commented ‘why’s it so cold in here’, he replied “yeah the surgeons like it to be freezing, as we could be here for hours upon hours, and they don’t want any one getting sleepy”. The room was full of people decked out in surgical garb, instruments covered in clear plastic, monitors everywhere, but the surgeons were yet to make their entrance. When I was asked to slide across onto the operating table – it was like lying on top of a long skate board whilst my head tilted back, tightly braced into a metal cradle – I felt very uncomfortable.
euphoria then a icky blackness like no other
Finally that moment whereby you phase out of consciousness – euphoria then a icky blackness like no other, you lose all sense of time and awareness
It’s amazing how when you are placed in a highly stressful situation you tend to become much more observant – the people around you, small details… perhaps its a way our senses have evolved to become heightened when threatened, giving you an advantage to survive.
Did the surgeon successfully remove the tumor? Was I left permanently disabled?
Well that’s another story.
