After a few more vision and balance tests, Dr. Greene got out the MRI scans. It was the first time my wife and I had a chance to see the tumor. It was a white round mass in the center of my brain. Dr. Greene explained that that was good -- a round tumor was easier to kill than one that had tendrils that wrapped around the folds of the brain.
When you've got a brain tumor you take your good news when you can get it.
The bad news was that this was in the very center of my brain, making it very risky for them to try to go after it surgically. One wrong move and I could be blind, lose motor functions or even die. Dr. Greene, though a highly-skilled neurosurgeon, was not in favor of surgery.
However.
There was a type of treatment that went after tumors of this type; ones that were hard to reach. It essentially shot highly-focused beams of radiation from multiple angles that converged on the spot to kill the tumor. Instead of carving your brain up like Swiss cheese, the beams were only effective/dangerous (depending on if you're a glass half-full/half-empty kinda person) when they met. If this was the path they were going to go down, I'd only get one treatment, one shot of radiation.
A ray of hope!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Howling at the Moon
Finally, the day came to meet Dr. Greene. It ended up that he, like many specialists, was in great demand. So much so that he'd spend a day in one office, then the next day in another. I later found out that this sort of rotation isn't all that uncommon.
Of course this meant that we drove to the wrong office for our first meeting. After a harried rerouting, we found ourselves in Dr. Greene's office. Despite the complaints of the anonymous Internet poster, the office looked fine. Really.
He turned out to be a nice guy. He was an average, doctor-ish, nondescript looking guy. Quiet, but don’t you want someone calm doing your brain surgery? I don't want Rip Taylor digging around in my skull.
He had me do a few “look this way” type of exercises, then asked me to take off my shoes. My wife and I exchanged glances for a second. Hers was one of terror.
A word about my feet. They are flat. Really flat. I’ve worn arch supports (actually the same ones) since 1984. I have calluses on my toes that are so thick you can strike a match on them. My toenails, depending on when you catch me, often look more like talons. As they did when Dr. Greene asked to see my feet.
“Oh God,” my wife said.
“What?”
“Your feet,” she laughed, then shook her head. “They’re so nasty.”
“But they’re my only form of defense against predators,” I said.
An ever-so-slight smile flashed across Dr. Greene’s face. He asked me to perform a few more movements to determine what type of damage the tumor had done. Since it was in the center of my brain where all sorts of functions converged, anything could happen. Turns out I was okay for the most part. My balance and motor skills were okay.
Only thing is that he wanted to get a second opinion. He referred me to Dr. Thompson, the radiation oncologist who would be part of the team that would treat me. Dr. Greene and Dr. Thompson were going to compare notes and discuss the various methods of treatment to figure out what was best.
Of course this meant that we drove to the wrong office for our first meeting. After a harried rerouting, we found ourselves in Dr. Greene's office. Despite the complaints of the anonymous Internet poster, the office looked fine. Really.
He turned out to be a nice guy. He was an average, doctor-ish, nondescript looking guy. Quiet, but don’t you want someone calm doing your brain surgery? I don't want Rip Taylor digging around in my skull.
He had me do a few “look this way” type of exercises, then asked me to take off my shoes. My wife and I exchanged glances for a second. Hers was one of terror.
A word about my feet. They are flat. Really flat. I’ve worn arch supports (actually the same ones) since 1984. I have calluses on my toes that are so thick you can strike a match on them. My toenails, depending on when you catch me, often look more like talons. As they did when Dr. Greene asked to see my feet.
“Oh God,” my wife said.
“What?”
“Your feet,” she laughed, then shook her head. “They’re so nasty.”
“But they’re my only form of defense against predators,” I said.
An ever-so-slight smile flashed across Dr. Greene’s face. He asked me to perform a few more movements to determine what type of damage the tumor had done. Since it was in the center of my brain where all sorts of functions converged, anything could happen. Turns out I was okay for the most part. My balance and motor skills were okay.
Only thing is that he wanted to get a second opinion. He referred me to Dr. Thompson, the radiation oncologist who would be part of the team that would treat me. Dr. Greene and Dr. Thompson were going to compare notes and discuss the various methods of treatment to figure out what was best.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Waiting is the Hardest Part
Problem was, Dr. Greene couldn’t see me for at least two weeks. Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but in this instance, two weeks was a long fucking time. My wife and I called around to other doctors in an effort to speak with someone sooner and got similar responses. We begged Dr. Greene’s receptionist for an earlier appointment. Sorry, this was the best they could do. So we waited. In the meantime, I got started on steroids.
I had something growing in my head I wanted the damn thing out. Mine wasn't as big in the rarified world of brain tumors, but it was still strange knowing you have something growing inside your head that shouldn’t be there.
The days crawled as we waited for Dr. Greene. Each day seemed to take on greater importance. My eyesight was deteriorating and I had to work harder and harder to keep my left eye open. My eyelid was starting to droop and I looked like a drunken, lazy pirate. If I didn’t focus on keeping my eye open it would sag – almost as if I was falling asleep. I tried to drive as little as possible and just waited.
I tried to find patient reviews of Dr. Greene on the web. There are sites where you can comment on various physicians in your area with all the same insight and vitriol normally reserved for bad pizza joints. Predictably, the only comments I found were half-assed. Most were just one or two sentences; the most cohesive one was a lengthy rant on Dr. Greene’s alleged cold demeanor and choice of decor. Apparently it was sparsely decorated, and that didn’t measure up to the anonymous poster’s idea of what a neurosurgeon’s office should look like.
At this point he could’ve had floor-to-ceiling Tom of Finland prints, rugs made of baby seal pelts, drank blood and dressed like Cher. I didn’t really care – I just wanted the goddamn tumor gone.
I had something growing in my head I wanted the damn thing out. Mine wasn't as big in the rarified world of brain tumors, but it was still strange knowing you have something growing inside your head that shouldn’t be there.
The days crawled as we waited for Dr. Greene. Each day seemed to take on greater importance. My eyesight was deteriorating and I had to work harder and harder to keep my left eye open. My eyelid was starting to droop and I looked like a drunken, lazy pirate. If I didn’t focus on keeping my eye open it would sag – almost as if I was falling asleep. I tried to drive as little as possible and just waited.
I tried to find patient reviews of Dr. Greene on the web. There are sites where you can comment on various physicians in your area with all the same insight and vitriol normally reserved for bad pizza joints. Predictably, the only comments I found were half-assed. Most were just one or two sentences; the most cohesive one was a lengthy rant on Dr. Greene’s alleged cold demeanor and choice of decor. Apparently it was sparsely decorated, and that didn’t measure up to the anonymous poster’s idea of what a neurosurgeon’s office should look like.
At this point he could’ve had floor-to-ceiling Tom of Finland prints, rugs made of baby seal pelts, drank blood and dressed like Cher. I didn’t really care – I just wanted the goddamn tumor gone.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The Plot Thickens
About a half hour after I got back to work, Dr. Andersen called. They had some questions on the MRI and wanted to get another scan, this time with color. The dye would give them a better picture of what was going on in my head. Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t take any more time than the last one did. I went back.
Same drill. I put my stuff in the locker, went into the room and got on the table. This time I asked for a rock station. The attendant took my hand and found a vein.
“Some people say they get a weird taste in their mouth when they get the dye injected,” she said. “But other than that you shouldn’t have any symptoms or a reaction,” she said as she injected me.
Sure enough, about sixty seconds later a strange, metallic taste bloomed in my mouth. It slowly subsided and we started the scan as John Mellencamp sang about pink houses for you and me.
There was an awkward silence as she unhooked me from the machine and we walked to the locker area, so I turned and asked her: “do you ever mess with people and tell them that everything’s going to taste like pepperoni for two days afterwards?” Either she didn’t see the humor in it or she was taken aback. She didn’t laugh. She just gave me this confused “what the hell was that about?” look and said “Uh, no.” I thanked her, got my stuff and left.
This time the drive back to work was a little more stressful; a brain tumor was starting to sound like a strong possibility. I didn’t really know much about them other than the fact that they were bad, really bad, and that you could die from them. Whenever someone got a brain tumor on TV, that was it. They were dead within minutes. If I had one, was it the size of a grape? An orange?
I wasn’t really having too bad of a time, all things considered. I wasn’t having headaches or seizures, the two symptoms I most associated with brain tumors. I wasn't dizzy. Other than the eyesight issues I felt fine. Deep down I thought it’d wind up being something goofy, like I ended up with the wrong eyeglasses prescription or something equally minor.
I’d been back at my desk all of forty minutes when the phone rang. It was Dr. Andersen again. “Kyle, we looked at the second set of MRI scans,” he began in a measured, serious tone, “and it looks like you have a small tumor in the center of your brain. It’s in the pineal region.” He calmly explained that it was still relatively small – about the size of a gumball – but that its location explained why I was having vision problems. Essentially, it was taking up space normally reserved for optical functions and it was putting pressure on the optic nerve so things weren’t functioning the way they should.
Predictably, my next set of questions were along the lines of “how the hell are we going to get this thing out?”
“I’m going to refer to you to Dr. George Greene,” he said. “He’s one of the best neurologists in town. If I had to see a neurologist, he’s the one I’d see,” he said.
Same drill. I put my stuff in the locker, went into the room and got on the table. This time I asked for a rock station. The attendant took my hand and found a vein.
“Some people say they get a weird taste in their mouth when they get the dye injected,” she said. “But other than that you shouldn’t have any symptoms or a reaction,” she said as she injected me.
Sure enough, about sixty seconds later a strange, metallic taste bloomed in my mouth. It slowly subsided and we started the scan as John Mellencamp sang about pink houses for you and me.
There was an awkward silence as she unhooked me from the machine and we walked to the locker area, so I turned and asked her: “do you ever mess with people and tell them that everything’s going to taste like pepperoni for two days afterwards?” Either she didn’t see the humor in it or she was taken aback. She didn’t laugh. She just gave me this confused “what the hell was that about?” look and said “Uh, no.” I thanked her, got my stuff and left.
This time the drive back to work was a little more stressful; a brain tumor was starting to sound like a strong possibility. I didn’t really know much about them other than the fact that they were bad, really bad, and that you could die from them. Whenever someone got a brain tumor on TV, that was it. They were dead within minutes. If I had one, was it the size of a grape? An orange?
I wasn’t really having too bad of a time, all things considered. I wasn’t having headaches or seizures, the two symptoms I most associated with brain tumors. I wasn't dizzy. Other than the eyesight issues I felt fine. Deep down I thought it’d wind up being something goofy, like I ended up with the wrong eyeglasses prescription or something equally minor.
I’d been back at my desk all of forty minutes when the phone rang. It was Dr. Andersen again. “Kyle, we looked at the second set of MRI scans,” he began in a measured, serious tone, “and it looks like you have a small tumor in the center of your brain. It’s in the pineal region.” He calmly explained that it was still relatively small – about the size of a gumball – but that its location explained why I was having vision problems. Essentially, it was taking up space normally reserved for optical functions and it was putting pressure on the optic nerve so things weren’t functioning the way they should.
Predictably, my next set of questions were along the lines of “how the hell are we going to get this thing out?”
“I’m going to refer to you to Dr. George Greene,” he said. “He’s one of the best neurologists in town. If I had to see a neurologist, he’s the one I’d see,” he said.
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