On December 20, 2025, a stress headache sent me to the ER. I had had a stressful situation at work that gave me that headache. As I sat under the fluorescent light waiting to see the ER doctor, I saw him approach me softly, speaking in a low voice to me, telling me that I would need to be admitted to the hospital. He said that a team of doctors would be here in the morning to speak to me about what the next part of our game plan would be. My Christmas holiday was spent in a hospital room, filled with uncertainty that kept looming over me.
MRI showed a two-centimeter tumor located between my cerebellum and brain stem; the surgery was going to be complicated, dangerous, long, and hard. My third ventricle was completely blocked, and the CF could not flow freely. What was supposed to be the start of the new year began with many weeks spent in the hospital, having tests run, and trying to get answers about what we were going to do.
I did not return to work because I was hospitalized for weeks on end, and I felt guilt and sadness because my students would not see me again, and they would not know what was happening to me. I felt guilty because I did not want them to feel as though I had just abandoned them, but my reality had changed in a second. Now I needed to focus on what was going to happen next and set up the game plan for the unknown. It felt or still feels surreal, like I dreamt that part of my year. It feels like it all tumbled into one big snowball, one that I can’t separate into hours, days, or weeks. It is all one big event with a big finale that changed my life and who I was as an individual. I have been numb to the reality of my tumor; I have blocked out what can or could have happened because every day was a new day to live, heal, learn, and understand what I had just gone through.
The odds were against me; death was the one factor that could not be avoided. It was the reality that would be my companion each day, yet I tried to remain hopeful through all the series of tests, trying not to think about the truth. I occupied my mind with thoughts of getting through the day; it was the only thing I could do to try and stay sane. I felt the four walls closing in on me; the daily pokes for blood, the constant medications, and the buzz of the nurses and hospital machines were enough to make me feel crazy. I felt as if I would never leave. I did not know if I would walk out or if I would be pushed out in a body bag.
Patients around me who had surgery left; others did not make it out of the hospital. I felt the loss of them; we had become friends, support for each other. Even though we were there for different reasons, I felt reassured when I would see them, an affirmation that it could be a positive outcome for me.
March 2025 was the month I had my tumor removed; it was rough, to say the least. I still hear myself say that, and I am filled with wonder that I survived. I made it out alive. I went from being in a wheelchair to a walker to a cane to walking with intense physical therapy, but even though I lived, I am no longer the same person. So much has changed about me; who I was is no longer present. The person I was went away with the diagnoses; she left when I had to drop out of my graduate degree plan, and she left when I awoke from the eight-hour surgery. She left. I feel like an “empty shell version of myself.” I now need to rediscover who I will become. I have a purpose to tell others of what God did for me.
