I sat in a large swivel chair, Ed and Clare on smaller chairs against the wall. A close friend Clare, who had been through a terrifying cancer experience and had more than bounced back, agreed to come with me and Ed to the appointment. The job of finally breaking the bad news to me about my diagnosis was passed by the surgeon to a New York neuro-oncologist whom I’m going to call Dr Dre (my son likes his music). The surgeon was upbeat, explaining that he thought it had gone well and I seemed to be recovering quickly. The tumour was about 3mm in diameter and situated near the surface of the brain. That’s the area at the back of the head behind your left ear. The grape had been growing evilly in the left parietal section of my brain. “A grape” is how the surgeon described the cluster of killer cells he’d scooped out of my head. When the CT scan was finished I was told, somewhat matter-of-factly, that there was “something” there and I would need an MRI, the more powerful imaging using magnetic fields, the next day.
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 had to lie with my head in a case to immobilise it, then I was gradually moved, electronically, into a doughnut. My face was rigid, presenting an artificial default setting of a slight smile. I couldn’t begin to process this information. I was told I’d had a seizure while hiking. I knew I was still on planet Earth, but also that a tectonic plate had shifted. I was slowly becoming more conscious, more inquiring, more sanely scared. She had a cheery manner, and rested her hand on my shoulder as she chatted away. I was lying down, a smiling paramedic sitting by me. Somewhere we transferred to an ambulance. I knew I was still on planet Earth, but also that a tectonic plate had shifted Then I saw my husband, Ed, and I grabbed his hand and felt the fear come down a notch. Their faces were calm, serious, warm, trying to mask fear. When I regained consciousness, Eric and Josh and other friends were gathered around. “Just take your time, Jess, and try again.” I tried to breathe calmly, control slipping away. I could see Janet’s face, smiling, but concerned and confused. There was a disconnect between my desire to say something – anything – and my ability to do so.
But I was stuck, like a mouse on a glue board. Right now, I needed to at least say whether I wanted to walk on or turn around. There was something impeding my fluency of thought and speech. I opened my mouth to say something, while knowing that I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I could feel myself growing even more tired and somehow – intangibly – different from how I would normally feel on a walk like this. Why did I feel so burdened and tired? I answered myself silently, knowing my answer to the question was the usual self-denigrating one: it must be because I was overweight.
I was feeling a guilty urge to retreat to the inn, my book and the enticing fireplace. Alex wanted to go on, Gretchen and Janet were undecided. We were reaching a crossroads, and it was time to decide whether to go on or turn back.
Alex, who is proportioned like a gazelle, strode ahead. I felt good, safe and happy in the company of these friends whom I never see enough. We chatted while our bodies adapted to the cold and our eyes grew accustomed to the brightness of a patchy landscape of miserly snow framed by a dull white sky. I felt weighed down before we had even started. By contrast, my snow boots were too tight. I was a little uncomfortable because my snow jacket was too large, as were my gloves.