This is it, unedited. I wrote the below in a coffee shop in Crouch End shortly before my op, surrounded by screaming babies and caffeine-toothed mothers. Good carrot cake. Recommended.
Sitting in this cafe, looking back over the various carbon copies of documents and correspondence between the assorted doctors and specialists that have whipped their input into my treatment, I start to remember distinct periods of different emotions that I have felt over the last eighteen months or so.
Writing that sentence has just made me feel rather pathetic. My epilepsy, my current position, it barely scratches the surface of what could be called 'unfortunate', let alone anything that borders on something of importance.
All it has meant to me personally is a lack of alcohol-induced memory loss. Now I just forget things in sobriety. Which is a different type of worry entirely.
Having a brain tumour does not make you special. Having brain surgery is not scary, going through with it is not brave. It's simply a case of risk versus reward.
In fact, it isn't until now, a week into September, that I've looked at what I wrote, or feel as though I have the energy to put finger to keyboard. I still don't really like anything that I've written.
This entire experience is very strange. I feel compelled to continue it though. I see it as part of my recovery. Hopefully it will form some sort of cathartic drip to allow me to get some of the (obvious) anger that has built up in me since, well, erm, I don't know when.
I hope this isn't too dull. It'll pick up. I promise. (By promise I mean there'll be a picture of my gash soon.)
Sitting in this cafe, looking back over the various carbon copies of documents and correspondence between the assorted doctors and specialists that have whipped their input into my treatment, I start to remember distinct periods of different emotions that I have felt over the last eighteen months or so.
Writing that sentence has just made me feel rather pathetic. My epilepsy, my current position, it barely scratches the surface of what could be called 'unfortunate', let alone anything that borders on something of importance.
All it has meant to me personally is a lack of alcohol-induced memory loss. Now I just forget things in sobriety. Which is a different type of worry entirely.
Having a brain tumour does not make you special. Having brain surgery is not scary, going through with it is not brave. It's simply a case of risk versus reward.
I just want to get it across that I don't feel special, unlucky or deserving of any sympathy, whatsoever. I'm going to go home now and start writing again when I feel like less of a cunt.
Addendum
It appears I must have felt like 'a cunt' for quite a while, as I didn't write anything more until after the surgery, when I was sitting in my hospital bed for a few days, trying to stave off the feelings of madness and wish to commit homicide. (More to come on this.)
Saying that, I still agree with my sentiment above that I wasn't being 'brave'.
The risk of not having the surgery was that my tumour could turn into a brain-eating motherfucker, the reward was not having a brain tumour.
The reward of having the tumour removed carried the risk of death, paralysis, blindness and a whole list of other risks the length of my third leg.
This entire experience is very strange. I feel compelled to continue it though. I see it as part of my recovery. Hopefully it will form some sort of cathartic drip to allow me to get some of the (obvious) anger that has built up in me since, well, erm, I don't know when.
I hope this isn't too dull. It'll pick up. I promise. (By promise I mean there'll be a picture of my gash soon.)
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