Six months.
It doesn't seem possible that its already been half a year since the surgeon opened up my head and clipped an aneurysm that was ready to rupture. But the calendar doesn't lie. Just look at all that's happened since May: the economy has collapsed, the once-promising Christian Slater sitcom has come and gone, and in a landmark, world-changing moment many skeptics believed wouldn't happen in our lifetime, the Phillies won the World Series. Oh, and we elected the country's first black president.
When you look at it like that, six months seems like plenty of time to recover from a little brain surgery. So now seems like as good a time as any to reflect on all that's happened.
First and foremost, it's awful nice to be alive. As Lauren and I look back on some of the things I was doing over those last few months prior to the diagnosis, it's a miracle the aneurysm didn't give out. From the 15,000 feet of climbing at the 24 Hours of Sunlight, to the climb and descent of Hayden Peak just 10 days prior to the discovery, to my run up the Arbonny Kittle trail the day BEFORE the diagnosis, the thing sure had ample opportunity to rupture, and if it had, there's a 70% chance I'd be gone.
So there's that. It's something I think about quite a bit because sadly, most aneurysm stories don't end so well. I was one of the lucky few that had advance warning, in my case in the form of a wicked migraine while out climbing with my dog one afternoon.
Then there was the surgery. We were given all the standard warnings and statistics regarding the potential for problems; including but not limited to disability and death. But my surgeon, as he's known to do, pulled through with a kick-ass job.
Two days after the procedure, as I lay in the hospital running though my own self-imposed, informal neurological testing, I realized that everything was still there. From my childhood phone number to the 1991 Final Four participants to Homer's alias while he's temporarily crashing at the retirement home (Cornelius Talmidge), it was all there, and for that I was grateful. My biggest fear going into the surgery was that I would come out and not recognize my wife, or even worse, recognize her but not be able to communicate. But fortunately -- very fortunately -- that wasn't the case.
Since the surgery, I have slowly progressed to my pre-operative state, but not in anything resembling a linear or predictable manner.
Three months after the operation, as Lauren and I returned to Aspen and the physical pain had finally diminished, I considered myself "healed." I was back at work full time, I was running every other day, I could even enjoy a cold beer or three if I so desired. By any clinical definition, I imagine I was indeed healed.
And that's precisely when the trouble started. Not in any tangible physical sense, but in a mental and emotional sense. In retrospect, I never really processed all that happened until the recovery was "complete," and when it hit me, it hit me hard.
I'd always fancied that if tragedy or adversity did find its way into my life, I'd handle it admirably. I was wrong. I let the fear of a recurrence take over my life for much of the fall, and the pain from the intense emotional overload -- both physically and psychologically -- was in many ways worse than the surgical pain.
But time heals all things. Well, time and a wife with infinite patience. Lauren, god bless her, has bore the brunt of all my weakness over the past few months, and she's carried me through this.
It's an interesting thing, love. On the one hand, if it weren't for Lauren, I probably would have spent the better part of the past few months curled up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber.
On the other hand, one could make the argument that it was the way I feel about Lauren that made the recovery so difficult. Before I met her, what did I have to lose? As I rejoined reality back in Aspen, the fear of a foreshortened future dominated my thoughts. And it had nothing to do with the fear of dying and death's effect on ME, but rather the effect it would have on Lauren and the sadness I would leave behind. There are few things in life as depressing as waking up in the middle of the night, looking over to the other side of the bed at the person you love with all your heart, and fearing that you won't be around to grow old with them.
But that's the price you pay, isn't it?
As the six month mark rolled around, Lauren and I reached the conclusion that the best way to put these fears to bed was to take some more diagnostic tests and prove to myself that this aneurysm was what the doctors said it was: a one-time, freak occurrence that while life threatening, had a permanent fix.
So last week, I walked into Aspen Valley Hospital, where this all began, and took an MRI and an MRA to test for any new aneurysms and make sure the healing was going according to plan. I was fully aware that the brain takes a long time to completely recover, and that as much as I felt "healed" in September, it will be a full year before I am truly back to my pre-operative state. Nonetheless, we thought a six-month check-up was warranted.
The results are in, and the news is happy. No new aneurysms, and my brain looks healthy and ripe with useless knowledge. The MRI did reveal two tiny areas of dead brain tissue, but I am expecting to hear from my doc that this is the inevitable by-product of the surgery. Plus, as the radiologist reading the MRI pointed out, I have no neurological deficit, so the dead tissue likely isn't impacting me in any way. Although come to think of it, I have been having some trouble with names lately. Oh, and I forgot to wear pants to work today. Boy was that embarrassing. But I'm sure it's a coincidence.
So while I don't consider this chapter of my life closed, we're definitely getting near the bottom of the page. I still get some pain on the surgery side, and it seems to be exacerbated by intense exercise. Not a great thing when the snow should start falling any day now and there's roughly 100 ski days in my immediate future.
Those are little things, however, and with these new test results the fear should soon start fading, and perhaps now I can fully appreciate the simple joy of being alive. That'll be nice.
