Unprepared

My last words uttered as they brought me into the OR were, “I’m not ready.”

Because we can’t ever prepare ourselves enough for doing what needs to be done. Had I not risked my life that day, I probably would not be here today to tell my story.

This is the opening of my memoir. I remember that moment vividly, it was just James and I for a last quiet moment, after I squeezed my children and parents tightly with a desperate final hug. We had not said goodbyes, but there was a “see you on the other side.”

No one wanted to think about the risky surgery I was undertaking. The one where I was given a 50/50 chance of surviving. Heck, the night before a few of us in my family played the game Cranium. Guess that says something about my family’s sense of humor.

The nearby waiting room was filled with family and friends who had come into town from all over the country. I was insanely calm leading up to that morning; however, I wasn’t allowed to take any anxiety medication due to the area of the brain being operated on. I was just about to capture a video diary on my phone to distract myself when the nurses came in to wheel me away. I was able to snap one final thumbs up photo. James held my hand as they moved me away down the long hall. I handed him my phone, my glasses, my wedding ring. He followed me, letting go of my fingertips just as the reality of the moment hit me. I uttered those final words, sobbing as my wheeled bed went further away from everything I knew.

“I’m not ready!”

I felt so alone. And that’s how it is for each of us when we face the end of life. No one can help us. No one can save us. And it becomes a spiritual, transcendent moment.

While I’ve toyed with the idea of writing my brain tumor story, I honestly didn’t think anyone would truly be interested in a chapter from my life. Because really, this brain tumor doesn’t define my entire life. It’s an emotional, dramatic chapter. And where exactly should I begin? The day I first noticed symptoms? The day I was diagnosed? The day I was told there weren’t any treatment options for my brain tumor?

Not only is this the opening paragraph of my memoir, it is also an opening into the window of my soul. A very vulnerable place to be. Tears have been shed. Emotions loudly expressed. Things have been broken. I’ve questioned so many aspects about myself. About the people surrounding me. About those who were silent and stayed away. And ultimately about my purpose.

Why did I get a brain tumor? Why am I still here? I’ve buried half of my family members the past few years, I left my full-time job of more than two and half decades, and moved 1800 miles away from a city in Louisiana to rural Maine.

Yet here I sit, opening myself up to the world, typing word after word, alone on acres of land with an ocean view. A coastal view that is as rocky and raw as my spirit feels sometimes. I’ve traded my sequins and heels for flannel shirts and LL Bean boots. And in the writing of this, I hope there is a healing.

I will be asking myself the difficult questions as I go through this process. I will have to be honest with myself, with the situations I’ve faced (or put myself in), the good and the bad of those around me. And of myself. This has truly been a journey, and when I look back at events, I can see how everything led me to where I am right here at this moment. And while I don’t know if my story will help even one person, if no one even reads it, that’s quite okay. I have to be honest and admit I am ultimately writing this for myself.