It is morning.
This is painful.
What I will learn later today is that there is too much edema built up in my brain, causing the searing agony to twist through my brain.
But not now.
Now I kiss the kids, walk without looking to the medicine cabinet, and pour 3 extra-strength Excedrin from the bottle.
Uh oh.
Now I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I sip on the coffee Gable brought me up a half hour ago, and lay my head down on the table.
This is a new bad pain. This is worse. How is it worse?!
“I think I’m gonna be sick!” I jump up and gag as I run to the upstairs bathroom.
I drape my hand over the sink, unable to even will myself to the base of the toilet.
Everything goes black.
Moments later, I am on the floor.
Uh-Oh.
Okay.
This is new.
I take a few deep breaths and hold my head in my hands as I try to rise from the floor.
Cough out some bile and spit in the toilet.
My head is a full-on thunderstorm. The claps slap and slap and slap the base of my head.
Is this a stroke?
Fuck, this is probably a stroke.
Dammit.
There is a snake in my skull.
The voice in my gut churns low.
“Go now,” it says.
“Fuck you!” I retort. “I have to go to work! Jet has a field trip today! No!”
But I know, I know, and it knows that I know that I will go.
I rush downstairs.
“I’m sorry, babe, I gotta go to the ER. This isn’t good.”
He nods his head approvingly, “YES, PLEASE GO. YOU SOUND HORRIBLE.”
I run upstairs and gather clothes.
What to wear to the ER? Hmmmm?
Nothing metal- we might get scans. Sports bra? Leggings? Oversized shirt? Big socks.
I come downstairs and wrap Lennox up in my arms. Had I known in that moment that I would not have seen her for days later, I would’ve stayed there for 10 whole minutes buried in her sweet little cheeks and bangs swaying over my nose.
“I love you baby. I’ll see you this afternoon, my love.” I kiss her on the nose and turn around to do the same to Jet.
Fuck, I do not want to go to the ER right now.
I kiss Gable and tell him to text me when he gets to the zoo with Jet. He tells me to text him when I am seen by a doctor.
I throw myself in the car and start to bawl.
“PLEASE, GOD, DO NOT LET ME HAVE A STROKE ON THE DRIVE!” I scream to nobody.
“I want to live, I want to live, I want to live,” chant the whole drive down 94. It’s only 7:30. I could still totally make it to work today. And LIVE.”
I pull into the parking lot and collect my backpack and purse. The Atlantic Medical System has horrible WIFI, and after all of my medical escapades, I’ve learned well enough to always bring the Switch to endure the endless hours of waiting. I sling it over my shoulder and pick up my purse.
As I walk into the ER, the janitors are cleaning up the floor. There is nobody else here. Good?! Maybe this will be in and out?
I smile at the receptionist. Why am I smiling? I’m happy to see her and to have help, but I feel like I’m dying. I am fully deranged at this point.
“HI, I’m having a thunderclap headache,” I say matter-of-factly.
I know what I’ve just done.
I’ve given the clearance to scramble.
Thunderclap headaches equate to anneurysms, strokes, the big deal shit. I’m no doctor, but I’m also no idiot.
I want people moving.
“Oh goodness,” she replies. “Who is your primary?”
We go back and forth with the palm scan, the insurance cards, the polite banter, and I’m seated.
I text my coworkers that I’m here, still under the illusion that I may make it out in just a few hours.
It is not even five minutes later that I am called back.
It works. There are 4 RN’s and one doctor.
The doctor, Dr. Choudry, walks into my line of sight as they begin to take my vitals.
“Why did you tell them you had a thunderclap headache, Ms. Moore?” He asks.
Because I’m not a fucking dumbass and I want you to take me seriously, I want to say.
But I don’t say that.
“Because that is the only thing I can use to describe this pain,” I meagerly let out. “It is uncontrollable, and I’m scared.”
“And what is your pain level now, 1-10?” He asks.
I let out a sigh, “7,” I retort.
NEVER tell them a 10, and never tell them a 5. It needs to be just in the right place where they know you aren’t being overdramatic, but that it is truly agonizing.
Within 10 minutes, I am in an ER bed.
A pretty blonde RN walks into the room and informs me that I will be getting a CT scan, but not before she hooks me up to a line of liquid Benadryl.
Goddammit, I hate IV Bennys.
My brain is all there until it’s not. Until my body stops. Until I don’t want to sleep, but I’m drowning in my veins.
And I HATE veins. I hate this so goddamn much. Where is my Xanax?
An hour later, the CT scan is done. I droopily text Gable that they are finished with the imaging, and now we just wait. I throw my head back down and close my eyes. An hour. Two hours.
I open it again, and Dr. Choudry is at the edge of the bed.
“Ms. Moore,” he says, “we have found the problem.”
Is he smiling?Why is he so fucking smug?
I shoot up. “OKAY?” What is it?”
He clears his throat and slips his gaze around the room, as if he is expecting someone to jump out at him for what he is about to tell me.
“There is a mass on your brain.”
I furrow my eyebrows together. “What?”
“It’s just about 3 cm, on your cerebellum. It is a mass. They will have to take it out.”
“You’re gonna take it out?” I am not hearing this.
“No, you are going to Morristown Hospital and will have the surgery tonight. They will take out the tumor. We have been in touch with all of your doctors. Dr. May is your oncologist, yes? She has been speaking with Dr. Moshel.”
“Who?!”
“Dr. Moshel is the neurosurgeon.”
I am failing miserably to conceal my shock.
“Will they biopsy it first? Is it cancer?”
He… smiles?! That’s a grin. Very smug, are we? Dammit, he is good.
“We are operating under the assumption that it is cancerous, but I do not know what Dr. Moshel will do next. Your care is no longer ours, it’s Morristown’s now.”
I want to tell him that he is technically not operating under anything because he’s just repeating the imaging.
This is not happening.
Fuck.
Gable is at the Zoo with Jet.
There is like no services in here at all.
How am I going to tell Gable? Sari? My boss?
“Wait, Dr. Choudry, when am I leaving?” I ask.
“Transport is coming,” he answers. “Maybe 2 hours?”
“Okay, so in two hours I will be at Morristown? FUCK.”
He smiles at me and exits the room.
THAT’S IT?
CONGRATS, YOU HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR. BYE.
How the fuck am I going to tell Gable?
I text him, knowing full well that he will not read this in any way that I hope he will.
“Please call me when you have a free moment. It can wait until you get home if need be. I just need you to be in a position to talk.”
Yep, that went over as calmly as I foresaw. Thirty seconds later, he called, and I told him.
With my spotty phone service, I let the ones who needed to know know. Work, Sari, my brother, and let the world fade out. I walked up and down my room trying to collect fragments of cell service and choke down my tears.
“Yep, apparently I’m getting emergency neurosurgery tonight.”
“No food, no water. Have to be ready for anesthesia.”
Then, finally, I collapsed.
I wept like I never wept before.
When would I see the kids?
A fucking brain tumor?
SERIOUSLY?
The blonde RN makes eye contact with my heaving red cheeks and comes into my room with a box of tissues.
“That’s some pretty crazy news, isn’t it?”
“It’s a good thing you caught it when you did. It’s so good that you came in here today.”
……
I smile and thank her and shoo her away just as politely as I can because honestly, there isn’t a goddamn thing anyone can say to me right now.
My shock is locked. There is no unlocking that right now.
FUCK.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 