Monday 1 October 2012

A weight off my mind

On Friday 7 September, I visited my neuro-oncologist for the first time since my operation. He welcomed me into his office with the biggest - if not first - smile he's ever given me, and I took a seat.

I didn't feel nervous as such, as I had been told by the surgeon's registrar the day that I left hospital that the surgery had gone well and that they thought they'd got at least 99% of the tumour out, and on first analysis, it appeared as though it was a DNET.

I recanted this explanation to Dr Rees and he confirmed that was the case. 

'Apart from...' 

My heart skipped a beat.

For no need. It wasn't as bad as I feared.

The classification of my tumour wasn't quite as cut and dry as the registrar had let on, as whilst they still believe that it is a DNET, some of the surrounding and attached cells were characteristic of a low-grade glioma.

Dr Rees went on to assure me that even if this was the case, the grade of the tumour would still only be a two on the scale of one to four.

For the first time in months, I got to see the actual scans that they had taken before, during and after the operation. It was incredibly exciting, not to mention frightening.

I'd never given much thought to how big the tumour actually was. All I had to go on was that it had once been described as 'a bit like a large chipolata'. 

It was at least the size of my eyeball, and that space is now just sitting empty inside my brain. When I think about that, I can almost feel that space within my cranium. (I'm not sure that's actually possible.)

He told me that he is confident that all is well, and that a scan in eight to ten weeks should give us even more information. 

On top of that, he said that there would be no need to schedule regular scans, as he was almost certain that it would not be coming back.

Looking at the the final scan they took during the surgery, a cross-section of my head, I could see the shape of the tumour - or rather where the tumour had been - quite clearly. It resembled a speech bubble as drawn in cartoons. 

It was the little tail that would point to whomever was 'speaking' that was the small amount still there, but Dr Rees doesn't believe it should cause any significant problems.

He liked my scar too, which was healing up nicely. As you can see here, look, with your eyes.


He moved on. My epilepsy. Had I had any fits?

Well, no. None at all. I hadn't put myself in the position to, but equally it had been a stressful time, and stress appears to be one of my main triggers for complex seizures.

This was excellent news, he said. And, if I was willing, he suggested that after around six months I should start to lower my dosage of anti-convulsants.

I might not have epilepsy anymore.

It's only now, nearly a week after that meeting, that I realise how much better it made me feel. 

I had been deliberately, or perhaps subconsciously, not thinking about the outcome of the surgery - even before I'd had it.

To think about having the surgery and it not getting rid of the tumour, or the epilepsy, or if something was to go wrong, was obviously something that my brain wouldn't allow me to do.

Now, to hear it was a success from the man that had suggested that I should definitely have the surgery in the first place, was a relief.

It took me time to work it out. But I feel buoyant.

I'm getting better. Officially.

He asked me to remind him what I did for a living and I did. He asked me if I knew who the Secret Footballer was. I told him I didn't have a clue.


I wish this was true. I'd take a brain tumour, fact.

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