My mom has called me hard headed as long as I can remember… but she never knew that statement would turn literal when part of my skull was replaced with a titanium plate and twelve screws. Two years ago, her and my brother found that I was having seizures on the couch. Two years ago, my dad was the only one allowed in the hospital with me due to Covid until my first scan was done to find a very big mass on the left side of my head. Two years ago, once my whole family was in the room, they were told by my doctors that after studying my second scan they discovered that that big mass was, indeed, a brain tumor. Two years ago, I learned that I, as a 25 year old, had brain cancer.
As I’m sitting here writing these words, I’m filled with emotion. Mainly sadness. I am extremely thankful for how far I’ve come, for how I feel after what I’ve been through, for how I am still able to sit here and write this. But I’m sad. Sad to think about how far I’ve come, about what I’ve been through, about my still-existent limitations.
I’m sad that I’ve had two brain surgeries, even more sad that I had to be in the hospital alone both times. I’m sad that I had seven weeks of radiation and chemo pills followed by having maintenance chemo twelve times, every fourth week. I’m sad because of the ups and downs in recovery. I’m sad that I have nerve pain in my face. I’m sad that there are days where I feel exhausted when I get out of bed, and even some where I feel pretty much useless. I’m sad that I still have side effects. Still. I’m sad that brain cancer is a big part of my story.
While going through this sadness, I’m trying to rest in it. As weird as that sounds, I’m trying to teach myself that sadness is, indeed, okay. While going through treatment, I had so many people help me and rally around me to keep my mind positive through it all, which was so so important. Without that positivity, I truly believe both the process and recovery would be a lot worse. But I also am finding that because of that, sadness has built up throughout the last two years… and that is okay.
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As I’ve been sitting in this sadness, I have actually heard from a few different speakers/pastors/writers, one being Katherine Wolf, something that is profound: joy and sadness can exist in the same story.
Praise the Lord for His timeliness… and praise the Lord for the truth in that statement. While I am sad, it is still possible to be joyful. I am joyful for the neurosurgeons involved in my two brain surgeries, as well as the nurses who made me feel at home and technology capable of conversations with my people. I am joyful for my incredible oncologist who treats me like one of her kids, for nurses who made laying on a glass table with beams shooting through my head seem bearable. I’m joyful for how many more ups I’ve had than downs. I’m joyful for medicines and products found to ease constant, sharp nerve pain in my face. I’m joyful that those around me understand my limitations, even when I try to tell myself they don’t. I’m joyful that I can say in full confidence that while brain cancer is a big part of my story, I have beaten brain cancer.
So yeah, I’m sad. But that doesn’t mean my joy is gone. Especially lately, I’m remembering the worst parts of the last two years. But that doesn’t mean that the amazing parts have left my mind. I’m typing this emotionally sad, and that’s okay. I’ll be sad in the moment, because thinking through the last two years is sad for most anyone… and then add brain cancer on top of that. But… sadness is an emotion; joy is a lifestyle.
I’ve been told a lot lately, especially when I’ve seen people that I hadn’t seen since before having brain surgery, that I look great. I’m not sure why if I’m honest, but I feel like when you hear I had two brain surgeries you’d think I’d look a lot worse. That’s fair. But at the end of the day, there is only one reason that “I look great.” And His name is Jesus.
A joyful lifestyle after my last two years wouldn’t be possible without Him. My doctors are great; He gave them the ability to take a baseball-sized tumor out of my brain. My people are great; He created spaces for me to surround myself with them. I went through brain cancer; He lifted me up, covered me with peace (very literally from the moment I found out), gave me strength, and carried me through the process. He embraces my sadness and tells me “keep moving, you’re right where I want you. I love you.”
It’s been a crazy couple years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long… and it’s hard to believe it hasn’t been longer. While I sit in sadness for a little while, I won’t lose sight of my joy.
rain came and wind blew, but my house is built on You.
