BRAIN TUMOR REDUX

"Day's End"   copyright Judy Westergard

 “How can you be so calm?” asked more than one person after I answered their questions about my recent visit to my ophthalmologist where, along with my annual vision check-up, I casually mentioned that all the symptoms I’d experienced before my Great Brain Zap (aka gamma knife surgery) had returned. 

I’ve been thinking about that. Am I calm? Or am I just in denial? Frankly, I simply don’t get my undies in a bunch until something that makes undie-bunching worthwhile shows up.

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR: Purging My Way to Peace

Untitled digital watercolor
by
Judy Westergard
all rights reserved
Visit my website by clicking on image

My husband and I recently attended a party to celebrate his sister and brother-in-law's 45th anniversary, and, as usually happens after the general congratulatory toasts are made, the food is eaten, and things settle down to quieter conversations, folks catch up with one another. My catch-up consisted mostly of updating relatives who asked with great concern how I was holding up with the brain tumor. I was surprised because, quite frankly, I don't give it much thought. (Refer to my 9/30/2010 blog, "This Story's Done!") True, "The Little Bastard" is still there, but equally true is my conviction that my next MRI will confirm the January MRI -- that TLB (see above) is still dying. The process could take a few more years, but I've been assured that things are moving in the right direction. Still, answering questions about TLB had me pondering a question I addressed here not too long ago -- specifically, whether this experience has changed me. I've already talked here about no longer tolerating thoughtless people. (The latest boorish comment was about my eye glasses: "Kind of freaky looking, doncha think?" Suffice it to say that my response did not put him at ease.)
Added to my new-found ability to deal with confrontation is my new-found need to purge. (Not that kind of purging; I'm talking about stuff here.) I'm surprised at this because I've never been a hoarder to begin with. Not many clothes in my closet, not much in the way of knickknacks on my shelves. Nevertheless, ever since September’s radiation, I find myself urging my husband to help me rid ourselves of things we don't need, don't use, don't want.

The obvious up-side to this is a cleaner, neater house. The surprise, though, is my cleaner, neater thought process. This new lack of visual clutter has led to a mental calm that has allowed me (finally!) to finish projects before taking on new ones. My life-long pattern has been to bounce from one thing to another -- not an ADD issue but rather a joy in multi-tasking. Generally not a problem, but often I'd prematurely abandon a good idea while I moved on to something else. But my brain tumor experience has left me with a much greater appreciation for the sanctity of the here and now. "Live for the moment." "Appreciate the present." I used to hate cliches; now I see them as truisms. It's unfortunate that I had to experience the fear of a brain tumor in order to understand, but I'm so very glad that I still have a good 20 to 30 years of a life to live with that understanding.

CONTEMPLATING STUFF THAT MATTERS

"Artichoke"
graphite on paper
$75
available via PayPal
(click on image)

I continue to think about a question that was tossed out at me not too long ago. "Has your experience with your brain tumor changed your life in any way?" she asked. I answered (and wrote on this blog) that except for no longer abiding the vapid and/or the inane, I'd not noticed much difference. But it's been a few weeks since that conversation; I'm rethinking what I told her, and I think it's due to the botanical drawing classes I'm taking, the focus of which is...well...focus! Instructor Marilyn Garber has us looking very closely at the minutiae that make up our subject matter, subjects that have included a seed pod, a persimmon, mushrooms, an avocado, and now a dieffenbachia. This kind of calm, slow, exacting work is a zen-like experience, and I find myself in awe of the beauty of of what I'm drawing. I know, I know...centuries of artists have written about this, painted it, and created some of the world's greatest music as the result of having been inspired by the natural world. Like them, I've always appreciated nature...but now I see it as a metaphor for something much bigger. I haven't figured all this out yet but I know that somehow it's connected with my brush with my eventual demise. And if I ever do figure it all out, you'll be the first to know! Thanks for reading.

ON LIVING A POST-BRAIN TUMOR LIFE

An acquaintance asked me a question a few days ago. "Was your experience with your brain tumor a life changing event?" I've been thinking about that question a lot. Short answer: No. After all, there was never a question of malignancy, and the "surgery" was by gamma knife...no real knives involved, so I can’t say that the past six months have been the cause of in any major changes in my life. However, I am aware of some changes in perspective, one of which involves time. I've spent many hours thinking about how I've had the rare (to me) opportunity to look through the looking glass. What I saw was the reality of how relatively little time I have left on this planet. Don't get me wrong--"relatively" is the key word here. I'm not being maudlin, merely realistic. But I'm in my mid-60's. It’s a good guess that two-thirds of my life are behind me. So...just what did my Great Brain Zap teach me about time? Nothing that all philosophers, novelists, and poets haven't already said: We don't live forever. Use time wisely. But it took the Great Brain Zap to get me beyond a superficial awareness of that philosophy and into living it. Here’s an example: I no longer feel guilty about putting a wanna-do before a gotta-do. Six months ago I never would have read a novel at 10:00 in the morning. Start a painting at 4:00 in the afternoon? Certainly not! That's supper-cookin' time. I learned my mother’s lessons were well...but they no longer fit my life. Supper doesn't always have to be ready by 5:00, nor do I have to be the person in charge of its preparation. Another example: I'm no longer willing to suffer fools gladly. No longer am I willing to spend time with the casual acquaintance whose main topic of conversation is him/herself. You know the kind of person I'm speaking of: "Enough about me; let's talk about you. What do you think of me?" This last one really surprises me: Six months ago I never would have excused myself from tedious conversations with people I hardly know. In fact, I never would have had the gumption to be so honest as to write those lines. No...no earth-shattering changes. But I now know in ways I didn't know before the truth of a favorite quote by Anna Quindlan: "The time we are afforded to find happiness and satisfaction cannot be spared or wasted...whenever possible, dreams must be pursued, not deferred."

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR Day 118: This Story's Done!

(Warning: The photo below is not for the squeamish. Consider yourself warned.)
I'm slowly emerging from the wanging headache, the vague nausea, and emotional fog through which I've been drifting over the past 24 hours, so this entry is a short one...just enough to say that Tuesday's gamma-knife surgery was successful. After a couple of hours debating whether the procedure was safe, the four medical gurus in charge of my case decided that yes, they would proceed. (Thank goodness! The alternative would have been daily zaps of radiation for about a month. Groan....) Anyway, it's been quite a trip, and knowing that folks have been reading these posts has gone a long way in helping me to get through it. I'm processing the experience and if I can come up with anything profound, insightful, or even funny, I'll post it here. Right now, suffice it to say that I'm one happy trekker! Tired, but happy.

We're considering using PhotoShop
to paste Santa Lucia candles
on the head cage.
On second thought...maybe not.

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR Day 84: Seeing Double

"The Impermanence of Summer"
by Judy Westergard
watercolor
Considering a print? Click on the image.

Two of my favorite quotes have dominated my thoughts over the past four days because events over the past four days have found me living those two quotes. At first glance they seem to have nothing to do with each other. But that's an outward appearance. First the quotes, then the explanation: Quote #1: "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." (Anonymous) Quote #2: "...the time we are afforded to find happiness and satisfaction cannot be spared or wasted.... Whenever possible, dreams must be pursued, not deferred." (Anna Quindlen) Here's the back story: Six months ago, episodes of double vision led to a referral to a neuro-ophthalmologist who recommended an MRI. The MRI revealed a benign brain tumor. The next step was a referral to a neurosurgeon who told me that while some of my symptoms were related to the tumor, it was the cause of none of my vision problems. “Great!” I said when he offered the well-reasoned option of “watching waiting” as opposed to radiation. In the interim, in order to eliminate the double vision, I was given a prescription for prisms to be inserted in my eyeglass lenses.. They worked great...for a few days. So I headed back to my neuro-ophthalmologist. "Dr. Neurosurgeon told me that my brain tumor is unrelated to the increasing and now-constant double vision, so I'm back here on the assumption that the prisms aren't as strong as they need to be." "I'm not so sure about that!" Dr. Neuro-ophthalmologist said. He loaded the images of my MRI onto his computer screen and explained why he believes the tumor is the cause of my vision issues. "I'm meeting with my radiologist," he said. "I'll bring your case to the meeting and give you a call on Monday.” Jump ahead to today's phone call. "The radiologist concurs. We both believe that the tumor is the cause of your double vision." Now here's where the quotes come in to play. The "other plans" my husband and I have been making before life getting in the way are for a trip abroad. We started planning for this trip before the vision problems became an issue. But because I'm a big believer in pursuing not deferring this trip. I'll be darned if I'll cancel it just because I’m seeing double! Current plans: Get new prisms installed, take trip, see how things work out. No more double vision? Great; back to "watchful waiting." Continued problems? It scares me to say this out loud, even more so to write it out because committing my thoughts to paper places them in the category of reality. So if need be, I’ll submit to having four holes drilled in my head in order to anchor the cage that will zap The Little B*#*tard. I can handle the four holes. The scary part is the very slight but very real possibility of some crummy side effects, one of which is my benign tumor will transform into a malignant one. So it's back to the occasional panic attack, which I deal with by writing, and it's back to being aware of my life as a WWABT (pronounced "wabbit." It stands for Woman With A Brain Tumor.) With any luck--and maybe a strong gin and tonic--my sense of humor about all of this will return. Until then, thanks to seeing double I intend to look forward to seeing twice as much of Bruges, Copenhagen, and Amsterdam.

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR Day 59: Abandoning Control

"Fortress"
Mixed Media Collage
by Judy Westergard
Giclee reprints available through
FineArtAmerica.com
(click on image)

Surprisingly, I’ve not been second-guessing my decision to go with the “watchful waiting” option that my neurosurgeon had given me. After all, I can change my mind and opt for radiation, should I decide that that’s the better choice. But radiation, which comes with its own set of alarming, potential side effects, can’t be reversed. So yes, I’m content to watch and wait. Nonetheless, this watching and waiting stuff does have its downside which for me is not having closed the door, the result of which is the occasional anxiety attack. Never before have I been so aware of my control freak tendencies. So I’m trying something new: total abandon at my easel. I’ve been playing with the messiest stuff I could think of: mixed media collage. And I have to admit, I finally feel quite relaxed! I can’t control this form of painting any more than I can control my future, and yet I like this form of art as much as I like the total exactitude of replicating a leaf. I think I’ve finally learned something: Life doesn’t have to be predictable in order to find its joys.

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR Day 41: Wishing for Certainty

Waiting Rooms
by Judy Westergard
Oil on canvas
All rights reserved
Giclee prints available (click on picture)

I've always loved kits. I still have fond memories of walking eight blocks to the local craft store with Karen, Mary Lee and Joanie. There was more than enough there forboys: model cars, planes and boats in shiny boxes. Grown-ups looked at brushes and paints. Kids younger than I begged parents for boxes of pristine Crayolas and untouched coloring books. My girlfriends and I spent a good portion of our weekly allowances on embroidery floss, cotton dishtowels, and iron-on designs of chickens. But what I really lusted after were kits, especially the paint-by-number kits. Boxed sets of these promises of artistic perfection sang a siren's song so strong that my birthday money didn't stay long in my pocket. Armed with cash, I purchased a kit. The picture on the box was one I'd been lusting after for several months: a tropical ocean bay surrounded by palm trees, sand, and seabirds. A strange choice for an 11-year-old who'd lived her life in mid-America, nonetheless I knew that I was meant to paint this picture. It held so much more promise than cross-stitched chickens. Finally at home and in my favorite work space (the kitchen of the unused second floor of my parents' duplex), I peeled off the cellophane packaging and opened the box. Rows of tiny plastic containers held oil paints, each assigned a number that corresponded to the canvas' black-and-white outlines. The hairs on the two small brushes reflected the overhead light. All those colors! All that potential! I dipped my brush into the azure blue of Color #3 and went at it. And that, of course, is when reality hit. After 45 minutes of concentration (15 of which were spent trying to thin overly dried oil paints), I was invariably disappointed with my creation. Why, I'd seen better work in the coloring books of my neighbor's first-grader! And yet...and yet...every time I managed to acquire the proper sum of money, I'd buy another kit armed with the conviction that this time my painting would match the one on the box. The allure of those kits is probably no mystery to anyone reading this, but it took me a long, long while to figure it out: I want certainty. Even when I know it's not possible, I want, if not a guarantee of success, at least its likelihood. I feel that way with my art, and I feel that way with this brain tumor. I want certainty. I want guarantees. I want to know that what I start will have a successful ending. But just like with my paintings (which often don't come close to what I'd envisioned when I dip my brush into the colors), my brain tumor isn't predictable, either. And while uncertainty -- both in my painting and with my tumor -- is sometimes uncomfortable, it's taking me down some interesting paths.

ON LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR: Day 14, The Crash

"Namaste"
by Judy Westergard
pastel on paper
all rights reserved
giclee reprints available through
FineArtAmerica.com

I experienced my first major emotional crash yesterday. Even though I expected it, it came as a surprise. A sense of overwhelming sadness. Inertia. I spent most of the day doing nothing other than stare into space and play endless games of Solitaire, all the while thinking that I should/could be painting, gardening, knitting, hiking...any number of things that seven years of retirement have let me do whenever I wanted. But no, there I sat, alternately staring at the cards and into space.
But then yesterday was the first day I’ve experienced symptoms beyond a few minutes. I've alluded in previous entries to my ability to disavow all that this lump in my head might imply. Cheerful denial is easy for me when there's nothing going on to remind one of reality. What was so puzzling about all of this is that I was fully aware that I was acquiescing to this mood (which, by the way, happily broke with my husband’s magic words, "Let's eat out"). So today I went back to one of the three books I'm reading. From Seeking Peace by Mary Pipher: "All of our lives, we must keep appointments we did not make.... (Yet) we can choose the way we deal with our fate." Perhaps I should write those words down on multiple Post-It Notes and place them around the house. I sure could have used them yesterday.

LIVING WITH A BRAIN TUMOR, Day 10: Trying to Get to Reality

On the Rocks
by Judy Westergard
Pastel on paper
All rights reserved

"I think you're very brave," a friend said to me as we panted through this morning's hour of deep water aerobics at the YWCA. "Brave, schmave," I thought to myself. I've got nothing to be brave about because none of this is really happening to me! At least, that's how I've felt for the past day or so. No symptoms equal no problems in my WWABT world (Woman With A Brain Tumor; pronounced "wabbit"). I can't say the same is true on those days when my vision goes wonky and my head hurts, but right now I get to continue in my self-elected position as Governor of the Great State of Denial. It's this disconnect that got me to thinking about the oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico, the seemingly never-ending wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and any number of other challenges we face. If you've read this far, you're probably asking yourself what the oil spill could possibly have in common with a brain tumor. Bear with me as I try to make this clearer. As long as I'm symptom free, my tumor doesn't affect me. If it doesn't affect me, I have no emotional reaction to it. And without an emotional reaction it's not real. Oh sure, I know it's there, but that's an intellectual and therefore easy-to-deal-with awareness. That seems much like Afghanistan, Iraq, and even the oil gushing off our southern coast. None of my friends or family is in the service. None of them live anywhere close to the Gulf of Mexico. And consequently, like my tumor, these tragic challenges seem remote. If there's a lesson to be learned here, maybe it has to do with the realization that one needn't be emotionally involved in order to deal with a problem. I can write to my political reps regarding the wars. I can send letters to the editor of my newspaper. I can donate money to the relief organizations that are assisting with the oil spill. As for my tumor, I'm ready to deal with that, too. Soon. Maybe right after my next doctor appointment.