Saturday Extra: The Tale of the Dear Little Friend in My Brain

Or, Little Buddy

In a recent discussion on Notes, I casually mentioned a certain little medical problem I have, whereupon it occurred to me that I’ve never actually written about this on the ‘Stack. I probably should have, but in any event, now I am. As a heads-up, this was quite intense and I nearly died (spoiler though: I didn’t), so if reading about intense medical experiences is in any way traumatic for you, please click away now. I completely understand: the most intense I ever get with medical shows is M*A*S*H. E.R. is right out.

Momentary pause.

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All good to go? Okay.

I’m not sure where to begin precisely, except to mention that throughout my college and law school years, a few things happened that in retrospect were blinking red warning signs. I had the occasional bout of sudden drowsiness in the middle of the afternoon, even after I’d had a good night of sleep before. Once I almost fell asleep during a class on the Federal Income Tax (my notes trailed off into incomprehensible squiggles); I figured this was because I was in a class on the Federal Income Tax. During a fair part of my second year in law school I woke up in the morning with nausea, but I eventually chalked that up to acid reflux and started talking over-the-counter meds for that. I started feeling high anxiety whenever I was in a wide open building space, like a concert hall or a cathedral, but I chalked that up to general nervousness. Sometimes I just gritted my teeth and stuck it out (the one year John Williams came to perform in Louisville, you bet I went, anxiety or not).

Fast forward a bit. I get married to a truly extraordinary person, to whom I am still married (eight years this month!). We have a kiddo (regular readers may recall Winston, protector against bad dreams; she’s who he is protecting). Meanwhile, I begin to have more trouble. To be honest I don’t remember much about this period; there are gaps missing like so many little blips eaten by some shadowy Pac-Man. I slept quite a lot more than I should’ve done; in one memorable instance I’m told I slept for the better part of an entire day. I threw up while I was at the office of my then-employer. I would pass out while walking on the sidewalk (ironically, just after having left an urgent care).

Somewhere in this time I realized that something was going badly wrong and I needed help. I went to my then-primary care doctor; they said I needed B-12 shots (spoiler: that wasn’t it). Other places said dehydration. I go to the ER, urgent care, multiple times. I get admitted briefly for dehydration, check out, same symptoms resume.

Finally, after the sleeping an entire day episode, at the strong urging of my wife I went to the ER again. She stayed home to take care of our kiddo, who was just north of one year old at that time and had just undergone a surgery that day.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the misfortune to visit a suburban emergency room on a summer weekend; this one was packed (and this was pre-COVID, too). I waited, and waited, and four hours passed, and eventually I was bored and frustrated enough that I texted my wife to inquire whether I should just come on home and try again later. My vitals were okay, I’d been to urgent cares and all before, it’s probably just dehydration or more B-12 whatever, right?

She was on the point of saying yes. Under normal conditions she probably should’ve. And yet, whether through intuition or the voice of God or whatever reason you like, she felt strongly and said to me, no, I need to wait and get fully checked out, and also get a CT scan too. Take a note, fellas: listen to your wife. Trust me on this one.

So I stay. Finally I get checked out, only this time they do a CT scan of my head and hello, they find something. Next thing I know I am set for an ambulance ride across the river to a major hospital in Louisville for emergency surgery, and I’ve somehow got to communicate this by text to my wife in the middle of the night because they are getting me to the ambulance right then and there.

You do not want to be on either end of that conversation.

Once across the river, I soon learn a few things about what I now know is an intruder in my brain. First, I learn that the pituitary gland is not actually somewhere vaguely down in the direction of my intestinal system, where I had believed it was in the few times when I’d given any thought to the matter at all. It is actually situated on a little bit of bone right at the base of your brain. I also learn that the pituitary gland is about the size of a pea, and that I have a tumor on it, which is called a craniopharyngioma. To make matters worse, the tumor had a cyst on it which had swollen to such an extent that I was experiencing dangerous obstructive hydrocephalus. (Short version: it’s not good). Next thing I know I have to undergo emergency brain surgery to address the cyst and we are discussing what to do in case the surgery doesn’t go well in the worst way, if you know what I mean.

This is another one of those types of conversations on which you don’t want to be on either end of.

Blessedly, I do make it through the brain surgery. This begins a long period of recovery, follow-ups, MRIs, a new period where oh hey I have seizures now, more follow-ups, more MRIs, and so on and so forth to this day. The good news is that the small pharmacy of meds I’m on now have worked and I haven’t had any seizures since September 2019. Also the Dear Little Friend in my brain turned out to be benign and not malignant. The bad news is that the bit of radiation I went through to reduce the tumor didn’t give me superpowers. Also, y’know, it’s still there. But it isn’t growing, so there is that. I have lingering memory gaps, but not as bad as the immediate period right after the brain surgery, where for a minute I felt like Peeta in The Hunger Games: “This happened, real or not real?”

I remain constantly grateful for the watchfulness and care of the battery of doctors who found the thing, rooted out the cyst, and have kept an eye on me since to make sure the DLF doesn’t grow another cyst. (I did borrow the name from Lewis in Prince Caspian; I don’t think he’d mind). I am also madly grateful for my wife Nicole and my daughter E. As much as I cope with humor, and I do, believe me, there is nothing I value in this world more than being safe at home with my little family.

Love your people, guys. That is all.

Until next time,

Michael