Post by Jamie Buchanan for the Kind Kindred series.

 

Part 3: Diagnosis


Click HERE for Part 1
Click HERE for Part 2

January 2nd, 2007— Christmas had come and gone without me even realizing. This is usually my favorite holiday. I love the aromas of my mother’s cooking, the smell of pine in the air, the sounds of jingle bells and paper being ripped off gifts, and family gathered around the tree of course. This year the aromas just made me want to curl up in a ball and throw up. I had no interest in leaving my bed to gather around a tree. I did not want any gifts this year. All I wished for Christmas was to feel better, for this agony to come to an end. My family eventually convinced me to come downstairs. I must have walked downstairs in a dream-like state because I have no memory of unwrapping my gifts or even what my gifts were. I felt like I was taken out of my body and living in a corpse.

The memory of one particular cold, gray and weary January day will always be engraved in my mind. This happened to be the first day back to school after Christmas break. The break could not have been long enough. I was too ill to return to school. I exited my bedroom that day, unaware of who I was, where I was, where I lived, or even who my own mother was. I felt lost and confused. Everything was a blur to me. My vision became distorted and I started behaving abnormally, like singing crazy songs. Aware that something was not right, my mother drove me to the local hospital to ascertain the cause of my symptoms. After waiting hours to be seen, lab results confirmed that I was pregnant because the tumor affected FSH hormones that suggest pregnancy. My mother knew this could not be right – I was only fourteen. After more hours of waiting for further test results, a CT-scan confirmed my life changing diagnosis. I had a mass on my brain. I was rushed to Yale New Haven Hospital by ambulance. This diagnosis changed my life forever.

January 3rd, 2007— Once at Yale New Haven Hospital, I remained conscious but slept the days away. I’d never broken a bone as a child, so the idea of surgery was unfamiliar to me. The memories of this day, and the days and months following, fortunately remain a distortion to me due to the traumatic pressure in my head. What I do remember is my lack of appetite, so I got all my required nutrients through intravenous. Even though I did not want food, I was still thirsty because my sodium levels were out-of-whack. I begged anyone who entered my room to give me water, even strangers in the hallway. One night when my mom was in the hospital shower, I reached my arm out as far as I could and drank her water bottle to the very last drop. I remember the feeling of hard crushed plastic and the sound of crinkling plastic in my small, weak, pale hands. I even said to my family, “if you loved me, you would give me water.” I was talking like a maniac.

Water was dangerous for me at this time because my sodium levels had to remain stable, so I could only drink capfuls at a time. I had no short-term memory and questioned everyone what their name was every single time they entered my room, even though they just told me seconds earlier. After my initial brain surgery, my entire left side was impaired and doctors confirmed that they did not know the extent of my memory loss. I had to learn to walk, talk and eat again. I learned that all of these huge challenges required patience and perseverance. With the assistance of occupational therapists, physical therapists, and my family’s support, of course, I became stronger. I pushed myself to walk one lap further each day until my body was strong enough to be discharged from the ward. I believe an illness like mine provides room for opportunities and expansion for growth. My experience allowed me to learn the virtue of patience in ways I would not have been able to, and to really cherish the power of the present moment. Nobody expected me to be able to walk again overnight; thus it was during this time I learned to take it one-day-at-a-time as I built enough strength to finally walk a complete circle around the floor.

February – April, 2007— As time slowly dwindled by during months from February to April, I underwent invasive rounds of chemotherapy, but luckily got to spend Easter at home. My family shaved my head in anticipation for my hair to fall out and to avoid clumps falling out at a time. From this experience I learned that hair is not everything; it will grow back soon. I also learned to be comfortable in my own skin. Never before my diagnosis with cancer, did I think I would ever be so comfortable in my own skin. Some days I wore my favorite pink bandana and other days I wore nothing on my head because I felt free. This new transition required that I accepted the new circumstances, my new look. I was ready for stage two: radiation therapy.

My radiation therapy took place at Massachusetts General Hospital during the spring and summer of 2007. While I was extremely sad, scared and nervous to be moving to a new city for my treatment, I know now that new experiences, like moving away, allow one to expand and develop in ways that one would never contemplate.

Even though I was living in Boston solely for cancer treatment, I really appreciated its surroundings and everything Boston had to offer. Luckily for me, my treatment was conveniently right across the street. Proton beam radiation was scheduled every day for two months. Having my music playing during treatment really helped me cope and relax through the lengthy procedure. After that, I usually had one hour of tutoring to keep me caught up in school. I never gave up my schoolwork, or anything for that matter, while undergoing treatment. In spite of my academic success, I had to learn to stare fear in the face as I survived day-to-day, accepting the unknown – the unpredictably of my illness. I knew my counts would drop deadly low, but I did not know when. I learned to celebrate courage rather than fear unpredictably by cultivating patience and living life one-day-at-a-time. I did not let my tragedies rule my triumphs.

After finishing radiation, I came home and realized I wasn’t the girl I used to be. I began gaining weight, only to learn that I had a new ailment because of cancer: it was hypothalamic obesity. Although I was told that no matter how much I worked out and ate healthily, I would still gain weight; I still do these for the benefit of my body. In just a few months, I rapidly went from a size XS to XXL. As my body enlarged, my self-esteem decreased. I felt like I was fading away. My increasing weight gain was out of my control. I felt angry, frustrated and helpless. Nonetheless, I persevere.

I am a passionate optimist committed to helping others improve themselves.  I have been tested to my core and have overcome against all the odds.  I will be a beacon, an activist, and an advocate for those who feel they cannot do it for themselves.