Welcome to the Middle of the Story

Disclaimers and housekeeping:

• Before anyone thinks I've gone all doom and gloom right out of the gate with my blog title, I've had this blog before nearly 16 years. You're stepping into the middle of my story, not the beginning (and sure as shootin', not the end). I am a writer at heart, and the name "Exiting Gracefully" and this blog were ordained long before cancer ever appeared on the radar. You can read the backstory on the name here. So, don't get your undies in a bunch just yet over the name. I'm not waving the white flag here.

• If you would like to receive email notifications of when I post updates, please sign up here for my email distribution list. If you want to skip that, though, and just passively check the site at your leisure, then I suggest bookmarking the direct link. I have set specific restrictions on the site that do not allow search engines to troll it, so you won't be able to find it if you were to generically search for it via Google or something similar. I personally am not on social media, so you won't find my presence on Facebook, Insta, or X either, but you're welcome to share links and updates on your own profiles as you see fit.

• If you find a lot of typos or jumbled words, blame it on the brain mass. 😂 It's going to be my excuse for everything moving forward. 

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Well, shoot. I turn 40 this October, and while I have been reflecting on the matter for some time, I certainly did not envision the spectacular crash landing that has occurred here on the front porch of such a milestone. Good gravy. I got my hair blown back in a metaphoric windstorm and somehow wound up with a line of ten staples down the center of my head as a result. I'm feeling very Frankenstein these days. 

Yep, definitely didn't see forty-years old looking quite like this. 

On February 3, 2024, I found myself at the gym, minding my own business, doing my usual Saturday morning workout. I was moving through the workout, feeling fine, and then I did a side lunge and suddenly felt light-headed. And then I felt dizzy. I stood still for a minute to get my bearings. And then I felt my left arm contract, sticking straight out to the side of my body, losing all motor control. And then I was on the ground having a seizure, something I had never experienced before in my life. I was conscious the entire time.

I remember the coach standing over me, yelling for help, and I remember the gym owner calling 911. (I will eventually dedicate an entire post to this specific gym because I LOVE this place and they have literally changed my life, and not just because of their care for me in this specific moment. If you live in the Columbus area and are looking for a gym, I can't say enough good things about them.)

The medics arrived, I was wheeled out on a gurney, and I found myself at the local hospital within a matter of minutes. Once in the ER, doctors did an immediate CT brain scan, and before I could even get ahold of my brother (my parents were vacationing in Florida and I knew there was nothing they could do, so I called one of my brothers as the next line of defense. Thankfully the owner of the gym had followed me to the hospital, so I was never alone), the doctor rolled in and delivered the news:

"The CT scan shows you have a mass on the right side of your brain."

Uh, let me put you on hold there, doc, and we come back to that one.

My brother arrived eventually and another seizure ensued shortly thereafter. Again, I lost all control on the left side of my body. He was holding my hand but I couldn't feel it. My left leg had fallen off the side of the gurney but I didn't know it. The tears were coming in hot. 

I was admitted to the hospital and I spent five days there. Within 48 hours of arriving, I had a brain biopsy. Within another 48 hours of that, the pathology report arrived:

Glioma. Grade 2. And given how slow this type of cancer grows and how large my mass is, doctors have reason to believe the cancer has been there for years. 

Years. 

Plural. 

It's only now that things finally started to break and the monster showed its true colors.

I was put on anti-seizure medication and a litany of other medications and released on Wednesday, February 7. For safety purposes, I came to my parents' house and will remain here indefinitely. 

For now, we are still somewhat in a holding pattern while we wait for part two of the pathology report, which will give us more nuanced insights into the specific DNA and biomarkers of this cancer. I will have my staples removed on February 20 and will then have a follow-up appointment with the neuro oncologist on February 29. No specific treatment conversations have been had yet but those will come in time. The doctors have talked in generalities that chemo, radiation, and further surgery are all on the table. I will seek second opinions and multiple lines of providers.

Physically, I am in no pain and am taking no painkillers. I'm unsteady and a little clumsy but I can walk, talk, eat, shower, and do a lot fairly independently, but still usually within reach of someone as a safety net. Mornings are best for me (they were even pre-brain mass) and I can tell when fatigue sets in, as my left side starts to contract more. Sleep feels nearly impossible at night, my brain deciding to keep office hours usually between 11 pm - 3 am.  

No more seizures have occurred since the last one I had immediately post-op, but the anti-seizure medication should stave off future occurrences. Because of the seizures, I'm on driving restrictions for a minimum of 3 months. (Don't worry, Subie Wan Kenobi, I'll come back to you eventually.)

I work for an INCREDIBLE organization with an INCREDIBLE boss and an INCREDIBLE TEAM. I plan to continue working as I'm able. I work for an organization focused on autism and disabilities as a conference and event planner, so by nature there is an incredibly compassionate and understanding culture baked in. I have their full support and feel no stress about managing my job. 

I also have an embarrassment of friends and family who care deeply for me. An embarrassment. My cup runneth over even though my brain hath goneth on strike. My parents are saints, and my brothers and their families, and my aunts and uncles are circling the wagons.  

I know people have a lot of questions. I do, too. Answers will come in time. 

But here's what I want people to know above all else:

This is a story first and foremost about Jesus. 

The lede* here is not cancer. 

It's not a brain mass, it's not chemo, it's not radiation, it's not death.

It's Jesus.

And only Jesus.

"Should I ever be abandoned, should I ever be acclaimed, should I ever be surrounded by the fire and the flame, there's a name I will remember, there's a name I will proclaim, let it be, let it be Jesus."

This is the fire and the flame. 

So, let it be Jesus.

*Yes, it's lede, not lead. I might have a brain mass but I haven't lost that part of my brain just yet so you're probably going to still get an occasional vocabulary lesson in these here literary parts. 😋