y body’s suicide mission revealed itself on 23 January 2016, at around 4pm, at the top of a hill. In the Catskills in upstate New York, nestled in a valley, is a picture-perfect inn. Inside are cosy rooms with log fires. It oozes comfort and warmth. We go every year to this oasis, about 10 families in all, a tradition started by friends who got married there.
I have a tendency to talk too much. Right now, I needed to at least say whether I wanted to walk on or turn around. But I was stuck, like a mouse on a glue board. I opened my mouth. There was a disconnect between my desire to say something – anything – and my ability to do so. “Agh … ,” I managed, weakly.
I was told I’d had a seizure while hiking. I couldn’t begin to process this information. My face was rigid, presenting an artificial default setting of a slight smile. I was given a CT scan. I had to lie with my head in a case to immobilise it, then I was gradually moved, electronically, into a doughnut. It felt suspiciously like a coffin, I thought fleetingly, remembering a terrifying TV film of a young woman who’d been buried alive somewhere in America.
I was slightly irked that he was standing while I was sitting in this enormous chair; this was clearly going to be a pivotal conversation, and I wanted us to conduct it as equals. But he had a welcome clarity of expression, and soon came across as not only highly intelligent and competent but a really nice guy. When we talked about the side-effects of chemotherapy, he likened it to his wife’s experience of morning sickness, which I found very reassuring.
Before we left, I asked to go to the bathroom. I had to take a moment for myself. There was a mirror straight in front of me. I needed to stare into it. To stare at my face. To face it – the confirmation of my worst fears. The mirror was big and brand new, so new that it still had sealant around the glass. I noted that the sealant was already peeling. I wondered whether it would need to be fixed quite soon.
Of course I now see this was a form of therapy. I derived strength from being able to articulate what I was feeling, and that in itself felt empowering. The blogs helped give some structure to my thoughts. I found myself keeping the tone of the posts quite light. Obviously that was as much for me as for my friends and family. My great pal Julia and I conjured up a name for the dying mass inside. TEF – The Evil Fucker.
digitalhealth braincancer The risk of glioblastoma is increased by cortisol, glucocorticoids and environmental pollutants and reduced by serum butyrate from gut microbiota and nocturnal melatonin. Responsible healthcare monitors risk factors and protective factors. .
this is when you realise there are only 2 states of being ,,,being obviously and not being . i will no longer be . what then ? being is better in most cases , not being is freaky
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