A Million Dreams
Looking back.
I haven't written for a few months. I've thought about it a few times, but never sat down and put my hands to the keyboard. Whenever that happens, I regret it later because then I've missed the moments in time where I was thinking or feeling a particular thing.
About a month ago, I had my 6-month post-op MRI. It has actually been more than six months since my brain surgery, but a "new baseline" was taken in October to capture images of the remaining piece of tumor. This new MRI is a comparison to that one.
I was told that my follow-up appointment would be with the neurosurgery physician's assistant unless the neurosurgeon needs to get involved. Like my other appointments, this was at the hospital campus in downtown Chicago. I set aside the entire day, because between more than an hour's drive in each direction and more than an hour on the campus, it doesn't make sense to do anything else.
My appointment was at noon, so Ger and I went in early and went to the Museum of Science and Industry. The museum has a Paul Tazewell exhibit right now, who designed the costumes for the musical Hamilton and the movies West Side Story (2021 version) and Wicked. We weren't at the museum long, and then headed over to the hospital campus to eat before my appointment.
The PA told me that my tumor had grown 1mm since October's scan. They have a threshold of 5mm of growth before they do anything. If it gets to 5mm, it'll be treated with a radiation procedure called Gamma Knife. No actual knife involved – it's an incredibly targeted dose of radiation. No side effects, day procedure. It wasn't an option before, due to the size of the tumor. But now that a much smaller piece is left, it is an option.
There's a very clear treatment plan and the Gamma Knife sounds like "not a big deal" (other than the stress of a full day at the hospital). But it sounds like I'll be in medical limbo for a long time, especially if the tumor only grows 1mm every 6 months. It also sounds like I'll be making regular visits to the neurosurgeon's office for many years.
Still, I'm in good shape otherwise. The prism glasses I got in January correct my double vision. My face is back to about 90% of it's function. I can still feel the stiffness, but probably most people looking at me wouldn't notice, or would only notice a slightly crooked smile and droop in my left eyelid.
The PA reminded me: "You're still healing." It doesn't feel that way, since I haven't noticed any improvement for months. I've accepted that I'll always wear glasses and my face muscles may never go back to the way they were. Maybe that's not true, but even if it is, I'm ok with that.
Earlier this week, my middle child had his last choir concert of middle school. He'll be off to high school in the fall. All three middle school groups – 6th through 8th grades – sang "A Million Dreams" from The Greatest Showman as their finale song.
As I listened, tears started rolling down my cheeks. I spent weeks last year not knowing what the outcome of this surgery would be or its impact on my life. I also had that night in the ER thinking, for a few hours, that the mass on my brain might be brain cancer.
But none of the worst-case scenario outcomes happened. I'm here, living life almost the same way I was around this time last year, before I knew that I had a brain tumor.
I'm lucky by every measure.
Anna Burgess Yang