Looking in My Own Head and Not Liking What I Found: A Twisted Tumor Tale

     The moment felt ominously scripted. I was conscious that I was nearly posing for some imagined life chronicler as I stood in front of a massive floor to ceiling window of the TaylorMED MRI office. Leaning in right against the window, I still had to crane my neck to glimpse the peak of Mt. Timpanogos at 11,753 ft.

  The window location was obviously selected there to frame the iconic summit and offer serenity to those anxious and worried few who paced passed these windows in the waiting area.  To me, however, the mountain created a palpable sensation of being at one of life’s junctions as I waited in scrubs for an open MRI bay. The Interstellar score playing in my Airpods, sealed the dramatic “time-is-short” movie scene vibe for me.  Something about that moment and scene was oddly disquieting.  The view, the music, and the moment were just too perfect.  It lent a Viking funeral aura to the occasion, minus the immolation.  That worried me. 

The shadow of Timpanogos made me feel small. And feeling small mere moments before having your brain scanned has one contemplating their own mortality. “What if this is it?  If it was,” I thought “I could not have written a more beautiful beginning to my final act.”  Still, other than standing in a cinematographer’s dream of a final scene for a much belove character, I was not terribly worried.  Fighting against the foreboding of that mountain and the moment, the penny-pinching engineer half of me was annoyed for not cancelling this wild-goose-chase of an MRI which was scheduled by a neurologist I only met once briefly. I had already passed an EEG earlier in the month with flying colors. I kept thinking that “I was totally wasting my HSA funds.” Having already swiped the credit card and dawned the scrubs, I was going through with this pointless MRI. 

AAAAAND ACTION - this extra-long wait cemented the movie scene in my memory.  Finally, a woman called my name, breaking me from my pose for my imagined cinematographer. The MRI technician was all made up like she was ready to be in a movie, other that the scrubs. She asked me why I was there. My answer made me feel like I was a hypochondriac justifying my imagined need for this visit. I explained that for the past 8 months every couple of weeks the world would take a rather Picasso-Esque appearance of skewed aspect ratios for 30 seconds or so, accompanied by Spider-sense tingly fingers, but it passed quickly. With those ambiguous symptoms, I chose the course of action preferred by most middle-aged men…I ignored it.  In my defense, I did mention it to my doctor during my annual check-up, but in true guy fashion he too said it was nothing to worry about and that maybe I needed glasses.  After about 8 months of these flashes, I noticed that if I tried speaking through one of these episodes, my speech would slur. Connecting these dots for the commonality of these symptoms, the brain seemed the logical place to start, despite feeling fine and unconvinced that it was not just age or eyes.  With helpful nudging by my daughters, I finally pushed myself into a Neurologist’s office in early March 2022.

These events are what lead to me to now being laid out on a cadaver slab ready to be slid into the gopher-hole-sized opening an MRI machine.  Being enough claustrophobic to dread what was ahead of me, I slowed my breath to stay calm, the image of Spock’s casket being loaded in the missile bay at the end of Wrath of Khan popped into my mind. All we needed were some bag pipes.  The disquieting impressions kept rolling in.  My shoulders just cleared the sides of the tube as we begun.  After 20 minutes of buzzing, pulsing, and slow controlled breathing, I knew what it would be like to live inside a fax machine.  My tech rolled me out and gratefully it was over.  She told me I could get dressed and go. Nothing was said about the results, so I assumed it was all fine.  It was all rather anti climatic. “That’s $399 pre-tax down the drain” I thought, glad I had cancelled the $2,000 MRI that was originally scheduled.

With my neurologist appointment the next morning already on the calendar, I had completed the advised MRI at the last moment possible.  With the relief of a student who had completed an assignment the night before the due date, I pushed the bad omens of the waiting room to the back of my mind. And for good reason, we were heading out as a family on a Spring Break Vacation to Cancun the next day.  To pull off a Mexico trip with 8 of our 10 blended-family members, you must be creative.  Finding $179 round trip tickets out of Denver we planned to drive the seven hours there that night and then fly to Cancun first thing in the morning.

Doing pre trip chores, I was home cooking dinner with nothing but Mexico on my mind when my phone rang.  Seeing it was my neurologist, I uncharacteristically answered a phone call; assuming it to be an appointment reminder.  I was surprised to hear the actual neurologist re-introduce himself and asked if I had a minute.  Still no warning flags went up, after all I had guacamole poolside in my future.

“I just received a call from TayloMed about your MRI.  How are you feeling?” he started off casually.

“Just fine” I responded matter-of-factly, pleased with myself that I had completed my assignment before tomorrow’s appointment. 

“Do you feel like you need to go to the emergency room?”  What!?!   That escalated rather fast.  From “Hello” to ER in under 10 seconds.   I had told him mere seconds ago that I felt fine.  Clearly not a promising sign.

“Uh nooooo,” I drawled out uncertainly, “really I feel great.”  I deescalated.  Harnessing my inner-Sicilian, I followed up, “Out of curiosity why do you ask?”  

“I received a call from TaylorMED and the MRI found a small mass in your frontal lobe.” Have you ever had someone try to jump scare you, but it was so unexpected that your body had no clue how to react?  So you just stood there like a statue, looking rather tough, but in fact you just couldn’t process the emotions fast enough. It was so out of the blue for me that I took it like news that my dry cleaning was ready for pickup early.  

My mind clung to the words “small mass.”  First, “small” was at least better than “ginormous” and a mass was not as specific as a tumor or cancer.  Having got the hint that strange things were afoot at the Circle K.  I began to ask probing questions.  My doctor gave few details that he was ready to share over the phone, claiming he had not seen the MRI yet and had only had a preliminary call from the radiologist, but would give me the full details at my appointment tomorrow.  There’s a cliff hanger for your evening.   On the one hand, I felt good that we found the source of the weird tingling sensation, on the other hand, a mass in your brain, small or not, causes a bit of consternation.  But not having any more information and not able to do anything about it, I went on with the dishes and packing for tomorrow’s vacation.

My wife, who flies puppies from their breeders to their new homes, arrived home from a California drop off a few hours later.  I had debated telling her, not wanting to cause worry until I had the full details, but she made the decision for me, by asking how the MRI went as small how’s-your-day-talk.  In fairness, I was so convinced that I was imagining these symptoms that I think I mentioned the MRI only once in passing; not wanting to be called out for wasting money.  I was caught off guard when she asked, as we hadn’t discussed the MRI much at all and neither of us seemed worried. 

With a house full of kids preparing for Mexico the next day, I pulled her in to the bedroom.  Closing the door, I told her that the doctor called saying they had found a small mass in there.  My wife and I had been married for less than five years and had not gone through a real crisis together yet… other than the crisis of her marrying an engineer/lawyer.  She was great.  We both share optimism, but with enough practicality to keep us from being Pollyanna.  This was good as there was not much time to process all of this since she was scheduled to take a puppy to Connecticut on a red eye in just a few hours.  She offered to cancel the flight and go with me to the doctor the next day, but I figured having to eat $800 worth of plane tickets would just make me feel even worse than this small mass news. 

Waking up to an empty bed, I got to the doctor’s office solo and a bit early.  Being alone was almost a blessing as the long wait gave me time to process.  I noticed the neurologist back in the office looked at me as he walked from room to room with other patients.  It reminded me of the look girlfriends would give me just before they would say “we need to talk,”, i.e., right before being friend-zoned (the ‘I’m-sorry-for-breaking-your-heart-look’ as I thought of it).  Finally calling me back into a room filled with brain diagrams, he began “How did you sleep last night?”  Again, not a reassuring start to a conversation. Anyone who knows me, especially those who go to church with me knows that I can go to sleep instantly and with little notice or often with little apparent control.   I admitted that I awoke a little earlier than normal, contemplating this visit.  Knowing he had found the source of the vision problems but not knowing the full extent of this “small mass,” it all had a bit of a Schrödinger's cat vibe.  Since no one had fully opened that box (or my head) to tell me what was inside.  I was simultaneously hopeful and convinced that I was dead both at the same time.

“The MRI found a brain tumor roughly the size of a golf ball in your frontal lobe.”  He just tore that BAND-AID right off, didn’t he?  No beating around the bush.  Golf ball?   What happened to “small mass.” Having anything you could putt with inside your grey matter, by my definition, is not “small”.

I had imagined that if I had ever faced such a situation that I would do so stoically and with emotional toughness; as good engineers and Vulcans should. Perhaps, I had watched Spock’s death in Star Trek 2 too many times.  And for the most part I did so until I began to ask questions about survivability and began thinking of my kids. Knowing his answers would deeply affect the rest of my life and most importantly its potential duration, made each question increasingly more difficult to ask and I teared up a bit.  Particularly, as I dug for details of what reassuring news, I could give my children.   Though highly non-committal, I gauged from my doctor’s answers that this was not an immediate death sentence; neither was it, “take two of these and call me in the morning”. The tumor was in a “good place,” if there could be a good place pertaining to a tumor in one’s brain.  In truth, all I wanted was a fighting chance.  

Always needing a plan in life, I asked about next steps.  A neurosurgeon would be calling for surgery details and a more specific prognosis.  He did advise against going to Mexico, but he understood why I would want to proceed with the trip.  I took that as, “my malpractice insurance wants me to advise you to stay home close to a hospital and covered in bubble wrap.” As a lawyer, I am fluent in translating this kind of risk avoidance language and I never heard “don’t go” exit his lips.   If I was going to bite the dust any time soon, we were going to go out in style.

The neurologist handed me a packet with my diagnosis on it.  Having a piece of paper with the words Brain Tumor emblazoned on it made this suddenly feel all the more real.  This was accentuated by the fact that the words “brain tumor” were written in bold in the middle of a paragraph, as if those two words needed any more emphasis than their ordinary meaning carried.  I shored up my emotions for the walk back out through the waiting room, not wanting to distress the already anxious looking crew sitting there.

It was then the line “It’s not a tooomoah!” came to mind.  For a movie (Kindergarten Cop) that I have actually never seen; I oft found myself quoting that one dumb line, with the characteristic Schwarzenegger consternation or constipation (both seem to be applicable descriptors).  I even said it several times when discussing my little vision issues.  Guess I was wrong.  Little did I know that this bit of campy dialog would ironically rear up to bite me in the… well rear, because in fact it WAS a Tooomah, despite Arnold’s protestations.  I totally needed a T-shirt. 

Needing a game plan to manage and process this little life plot twist I pulled my truck out of the busy parking lot outside the doctor’s office and stopped in front of a random house across the street to decide what to do next.  Step 1: Process emotions: I broke down crying for a few minutes by myself. Step 2:  Shore up emotions and tell wife.  Julie by then had dropped off her puppy and was waiting for her flight to Denver when I FaceTimed her. I chose my doctors route and cut straight to the chase. Telling her I had a “brain tumor” was not the easiest conversation to have over FaceTime. We both shared a few tears.  There was a kindly elderly couple offering to comfort her after the call ended. Still, we both agreed to make a try at taking the family to Mexico.  I love that she is a non-quitter.  Step 3: Tell Parents. I called my father first whom I had briefly talked to about the dizzy spells once.  Not knowing how to start I was equally as tactless there. So much so that when I asked if I should call mom, he said that he would do it. He didn't need me to lead with, “mom, remember how you have four sons, not so fast...”   Harkening back to how her father told her mother that her aunt had passed away:” Mickie remember how you had a sister named Theora, she’s dead.”   Yep, tact runs in the family.

My mom called me about 30 minutes later crying and I was glad I hadn’t been the one to break that news.  Embellishing on what little positive details my neurologist told me, I reassured mom.  Julie and I had agreed that we did not want to ruin this, what could literally be, a once-in -a-lifetime trip to Mexico for the family. We were not going to tell anyone, beyond mom and dad and my doctor brother, until the trip was over.  Mom agreed to keep it to herself, which was essential as she was the main conduit for information dissemination in the family.  This bit of unhappy news was going to stay on ice for a week, like my virgin Pina Coladas.  It would be one disappointment to cancel the trip to Mexico and a whole other level of suck to cancel it because dad could be dead on an operating room in a week or two.  My thought was this is supposed to be a happy occasion, let’s not bicker and argue about what’s killing dad.   

While finalizing the packing for Mexico, in a bit of an understandable haze, my neurosurgeon personally called me to fill in what details he could on the next steps.  He likewise advised against Mexico but said he would go if in my shoes.   I liked this guy. He said from the details he had received that he wanted to have me in for brain surgery as soon as he could, once I got back.  He called in a couple of prescriptions to stop the seizures which were causing the vision issues and Peter-tingle fingers.  With a rather lot on my mind, it was Mexico or bust.  Julie was flying directly from her puppy delivery to Denver; dance and school schedule dictated that two kids catch a cheap flight to Denver and stay the night in the airport.  So, I loaded 4 remaining kids in the truck and hit the road around 9 PM. 

I stopped quickly at Walmart to surreptitiously pick up my prescriptions just as we were driving out of town. The doctor had prescribed a steroid and anti-seizure medicine, both of which could make a person drowsy.  An evening where I would be driving through the night seemed like a poor time to start experimenting with new drugs, so I stashed my meds and stuck with Mtn. Dew.

The drive through Utah was uneventful. As we entered the mountain pass of Colorado on I-70 however, we encountered large snow squalls and tire chain warnings up to the Vail Pass.  After several hours of driving, the copious amounts of caffeine required to keep me awake necessitated a pit stop.  About 3:00 AM we exited I-70 at a snowy rest area and followed the signs for the restrooms.  Over the median of trees in the truck area, we could see the flames of a semi-truck on fire.  I felt bad for the driver, picturing him out in the snow as emergency services put out the flames.  Not wanting to be a rubbernecker, we went on with our own business, following the signs to the restrooms.  This brought us up behind the trailer of the burning truck; and a couple of us ran in for a quick rest stop. 

As I was washing my hands, I went over the scene from outside in my head. I didn’t see anyone near the burning truck.  There should have been significant commotion on account of a semi-fire as the parking lot had quite a few cars in it, but I didn’t see anything.  As we loaded up in my pickup, I drove slowly past the semi.  All was quiet.  Finally, I saw someone up the parking lot with a phone to his ear.  We asked each other if we had seen anyone exit the truck yet, he said he had only just called 911, but hadn’t done anything else. Nuts! People may still be in there.  My Marine son and I jumped out of the truck.  There was a U-Haul parked 5 feet in front of the burning truck.  They had covered their window with towels to block the streetlight.  I knocked on that window loudly, hearing groaning complaints inside I realized that no one had any idea of what was going on outside.  I told my son to get them up and out of harm’s way.  I ran to the door of the burning semi, with the flames already flickering 5 feet above the top of the semi and only a few feet from the door I was standing by and the fuel tanks.  The thought going through my head was “I might be dead anyway, so if this sucker blows up, at least I go out in a blaze of glory.”

I tried the cab door, it was locked.  Banging loudly on the door, I yelled “fire, fire!”  After nearly a half minute, I finally heard stirring and cursing inside.  Someone was alive in there.  The door slowly creaked open as a confused and irritated looking fellow stuck his head out.  The flame illuminated parking lot quickly explained why some dude was frantically yelling and pointing to the rear of the truck at 3:00 AM.  To my surprise, rather than fleeing from the burning truck, he disappeared back into the sleeping area of the cab.  I was briefly puzzled until he rematerialized with a woman sporting just an oversized T-shirt.  He pushed her out barefoot into the ankle-deep snow.  As I pulled her away from the heat of the growing flames, he ducked back into the cab saying he was getting his bags.  Now at this point, the entire rear of the cab was an inferno and things were popping and bursting all around the truck.  I am willing to risk my life for my fellow man… but not for his luggage.  As we backed away, the woman yelled at him over and over to get out.  I kept waiting for an explosion.  Then finally after several minutes, three bags came flying out of the truck into the snow, this was followed by a movie scene walk away, as the man grabbed his bags and casually walked towards us silhouetted by the flaming orange back drop.  The U-Haul we had first alerted had since relocated and most of the parking lot was up and gawking. 

We sat the lady in our warm truck until the fire truck arrived, while the rest of us sat on the tail gate watching the 3-week-old truck burn as the driver lamented his loss. Conferring that emergency services had taken charge of the couple and the fire, we politely excused ourselves to catch a flight.  No one needed caffeine the remainder of the drive.   As the reality of the moment slowly set in.  We were excited to have been a part in helping someone, but I was shocked at how close I was to just driving off figuring it was someone else’s concern.  Though I could pardon myself, I had a lot on my mind or IN my mind as it were.

I couldn’t help but think that would have been a cool movie ending to my mountain scene at TaylorMED the day before; Man with newly discovered brain tumor blows up in a truck explosion at the top of the Vail pass while trying to save a couple from a semi-inferno. It had more pizazz than: Middle-aged man dies prematurely in bed of a brain tumor.

Thoughts from tumor-induced superpowers to dying on an operating room table swirled in my head the remaining few hours until we reached the airport a little after 6:00 AM.  I found my wife waiting in the departures unloading zone having arrived from Connecticut hours before.  We unloaded the eager kids and luggage and sent them off toward the airline counter as we parked the truck in longterm parking. 

This was our first time alone since getting the news.  We embraced but didn’t start a long conversation that we had no time to finish.  Having her by my side to start this battle was a relief and I was grateful I had made it to the airport safely. Yet, just as I found the entrance to long term parking on my second loop around the airport, I felt a familiar sensation as my fingers began to tingle and my spatial orientation went out of whack.  Nothing like a seizure to put a cherry on top of this day of days.  Still, I had to park the truck and catch a flight.  Focusing on the middle of my field of view, I made sure I didn’t hit anything that entered that view.  After 30 seconds it passed. 

We parked the truck safely.  As I popped my first does of anti-seizure meds, wondering frustratedly what life seemed to have against me.  I thought back to my feeling of inadequacy as I waited outside of a Salt Lake skyscraper for my father to give me a ride home after being laid off from my first job with a pregnant wife at home.   I remembered the emptiness as I walked into my closet the day that same wife left after 15 years of marriage to find half of it completely bare.  I recalled the fear I felt as I walked down the hallway to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Dartmouth Medical Center to see if my newborn son who had been Lifeflighted there hours before had survive the flight. Now I had this little crisis thrown on me.   It just felt like a few too many pot shots at one guy who was just trying to live a good life.

I stepped out of the truck into the chilled mile-high Denver air, as I thew on my backpack and took my wife by the hand, perspective returned.  Yes, life liked to kick me in the teeth from time to time.  Yet having just finished one of the most dramatic days of my life; I still had a pretty girl on my arm, a bevy of excited healthy kids waiting for me in the airport, a couple of lives saved on the trip over, and a pack on my back filled with sandals, swimsuits, and sunglasses. I was still a blessed man.  Life hadn’t gotten the best of me yet.  Regardless of the outcome, there were still days ahead of me that needed to be Carpe’d and each one now seemed more valuable. Life is too tenuous to give up and wallow in self-pity.  Borrowing a line from Emilio Estevez’s Billy the Kid, I committed to myself “I will finish the game”… and hopefully soon a bowl of guacamole.