Crying in the Airplane Bathroom

Last week I spent a couple of days in Arizona where my parents live. 

My kids headed down on Monday, and I followed on Thursday to pick them up and bring them home. I haven't been to Arizona since before the pandemic, with the travel restrictions during Covid, plus it just got more difficult to travel with a family of five people. 

These plans were made before I was diagnosed with the brain tumor. 

During my consult, the neurosurgeon asked if I had any travel plans for the summer, and I told him about this trip. He said, “Take the trip.” 

My kids had a blast hanging out with my parents. I arrived much more melancholy. 

My uncles live two miles from my parents' house, so I stayed with them to have some additional downtime. Basically a whole week without being a caregiver for my kids. 

A break. 

I went on a walk with my uncle each morning. I spent some time in the pool, and I spent time by myself either napping or writing. 

Our flight leaving Arizona was delayed by an hour which put our arrival time back in Chicago at 10 pm. The time zone worked in our favor, and our bodies thought it was 8 pm Arizona time. Still, it made for a long day. 

I sat on the plane, between my kids, and my brain started spiraling to different bad outcomes of brain surgery. 

The pressure I feel at the back of my head, the pressure that set everything off, has become more noticeable. I don't know if it's a result of the brain tumor doing its thing, pushing on my nerves and brain stem. Or if I'm simply more aware of it.

I started thinking of the worst-case scenario— that I would die. 

I wondered if I should write letters to my kids. What could I say? What on earth could adequately convey to them how I feel? What I hope for them in the future, especially a future without me. 

I got up and went into the airplane bathroom. I stared in the mirror, and watched the tears roll down my face. 

That's a new one. 

After Nelle and Iris died, I cried all over the place. Parking lots. Doctors offices. Grocery stores. But I don't think I've ever cried in an airplane bathroom. 

I took some deep breaths and tried to pull myself together. The reality is that death is a very low risk of this surgery. Maybe one percent. 

The surgery itself, a craniotomy, is considered a safe procedure. It's more about the outcome, and the potential damage to the nerves, that might have lifelong impacts. 

But with that in mind, I'd let myself spiral to a place that it didn't need to go. 

I don't need to think about death. Even though the outcomes are scary. 

So I wiped my tears. I went back to my seat. And I sat through the rest of the plane ride.