Tuesday 2 October 2012

Remember who you are, what you are, and who you represent

I have a plan. For the first time in my life, I have a plan.

My plan is to get better.

I'm going to be better at everything that I do. I'm going to be a better brother and a better son. I'm going to be a better friend. I'm going to be a better partner to Helen.

I feel good. And I'm going to feel better.

It's all in the mind. 

Peace x

Scar Wars: A New Hope

I'm writing this on the evening of 2 October 2012, the day after I announced to my friends that I'd been writing a blog. 

Since writing this blog, and specifically the bits above this, I think that I've started to recover, physically and mentally.

Having had brain surgery to remove a tumour from my right temporal lobe seven weeks ago, I've had feelings that have been described by my GP as clinical depression.

She gave me a script for Citalopram, a generic anti-depressant. I haven't cashed it in yet. I don't think that I ever will.

I've had suicidal thoughts since getting home. (I also have a, short-lived, history of self harm, but this hasn't reared its head yet - although the thoughts are there.) 

But I think I'd prefer to describe myself as being clinically fed up rather than depressed. That's not knocking people that are depressed - I just don't think that I am.


I went to see a psychotherapist at Queen Square two weeks ago. I've got two more sessions booked in with her, the first of which is tomorrow. The first one made me feel very down. But perhaps you've got to go there to come back. 

I'm going to give it a chance. She's a nice enough lady and maybe she'll come across something outside of my own little sphere of worries that I hadn't realised was getting me down.


I hope that, in the same way that I felt better after hearing Dr Rees say that the surgery had gone well and I got to see the scans, having someone 'in authority' tell me at I'm not being weird might alleviate some of the pressure that I feel. 

Besides...

Two weeks ago I realised I was finally able to do press ups without feeling as though my brain was going to explode inside my skull. So far I've got myself back up to being able to do 61 in a row. Yesterday I did 180 press ups.

Last night Helen and I went on a run, my first run without feeling like my brain wasn't crashing about inside my head. I felt good afterwards, despite the feeling of literally wobbling in places that shouldn't wobble as we jogged up and down the Harringey Ladder.

Tomorrow afternoon I'm going in to the office to discuss coming back on a phased return. I'm quite nervous about it. I'm not looking forward to going back to work, my job reminds me of how useless I'd be in a post-apocalyptic world, but I am looking forward to having structure again. A feeling of accomplishment, at least on some days.

I'm going to treat it like it's a new job. Plus, the amount I've forgotten combined with the amount that appears to have changed there, it essentially will be a new job.

All of these things involve me breaking the cycle. They mean I'll be using my body as well as my head. I'll need to function, so I will function, of that I'm positive.

I'm categorically not saying that leaving the house will cure depression or its symptoms, but I feel a marked response in my head by using my body. I've exercised to exorcise, and to some extent it's worked.

In that vein, I've made it my aim to play my first match for Peckham's own Rogers Rovers FC before the end of October. And I can't wait.

Monday 1 October 2012

It's not a poem, it doesn't rhyme

The day after I got the good news from the doctor, I found a few lines that I must have jotted down at some point before my operation. In the interest of science, here they are. I realise there's no actual science involved, but I couldn't quite bring myself to write in the interest of 'poetry'. 

Plus there's no such saying.

Please imagine this scrawled across the page of an eight-year-old notepad (that, interestingly enough, travelled half the globe with me). Blue ink, nib of the pen not quite straight enough to perforate the page, but the pressure I put on it has indented the next few pages. As if to save it for future generations of shopping lists to be compared to.

The dread absorbs me. Envelopes
me. Into its frozen warmth I glide
with the ease of a child into
traffic. I enjoy the feeling. I let
myself wallow in it. Allow it to fill
the holes that have gaped
so emphatically for what seems like
forever. I sit alone and ponder just
how lucky I am. I am. And I will be.
I will be lucky and happy. Impending
happiness.

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.