Changed

It's amazing how time flies. The dichotomy of a vivid memory: so crisp and so clear it could be yesterday, yet so far away that you hardly recognize the you that appears through the mist of the mind. I think less and less about my surgery these days and I'm grateful I wrote it all down when I realize its ability to leave me, the sands of time running through my fingers into a pile on the ground from which it came. So much has changed from those days, yet somehow I feel the same. Changed. No longer who I used to be, I'm complete. Whole. Erica 2.0.

I made a friend last night who's only beginning her journey. I recognized the fear, anticipation, excitment, anxiety, elation and terror that played across her face in concert, all at once. She's going to have my surgery, our surgery. Anyone who's followed this blog has gone through this surgery with me; I was never alone. Whether it was prayers, good vibes, healing energy or something else, all that you sent me forever altered my life in such an amazing way. Now I pray for her, I send her good mojo and healing energy. I had such an amazing experience and I can't wait for her to have the same, for her to find her new life.

Double Tap

Twenty minutes later my stomach is still churning. My hands are shakey and my face flushed. My mind races, always waiting for the second shoe to drop. I feel like I've been waiting for things to fall apart for a year and a half now.

My computer screen rushed through systems and sheets on its own while I waited. I checked my phone as I do when I can't do anything but wait. I tipped the thin, blue phone over to look it in the face and my stomach dropped: two missed calls from the doctor. Why on Earth would they call twice?! It must be something really bad. This is finally it.

I pressed the voicemail button and waited, holding my breath. "Hi, Erica, this is the MRI department. We found a pink water bottle that we think you may have left here last night. Give us a call!" beep. Okay, maybe it's alright. But I braced myself as I pushed play and the second message: "Hi, Erica. We got your labs back and your Lamictal level is right in the middle of the therapeutic zone." beep. I'm okay. I repeated it again, trying to force it to sink in. I'm okay this time.

Mississippi River Boulevard

Each morning I try to memorize the route we take to work, winding, following, twisting our way across the Mississippi. I watch for cars from the passenger seat and tell mom she can turn after this red car goes by. After thirty years of living in St. Paul and working in Minneapolis, she knows all of the back ways. I, on the other hand, started my job only three months ago. The only way I know is the straight shot highway, which clogs up every morning at 7:30 like clockwork, so if I leave the house later than 7:20, I'm S.O.L.

Most days I ride with mom, commenting as we walk to the garage that I like her suit, she responding that it's the same as mine. The air is no longer crisp and we leave our jackets in the hall closet. I carry a red nylon bag with my lunch and heels to switch into at my desk. She carries an old Jo Malone shopping bag that perfectly fits a Tupperware and half a toasted pita with hummus in a ziplock sandwich bag.

We talk or listen to MPR as we ride along the trees and big houses that line Mississippi River Boulevard. We've worked out the most effective verbiage to use when telling her if she can merge onto the highway for the last stretch of the trip. We have a nice routine and I'll be sad to lose it.

Thanks for letting me drive with you, mom.

Like Riding a Bike

Butterflies flitted around my stomach so strong I thought they might lift me off my feet and float me away. I held the shiny red and gold bike by the handlebars, trying to stay calm and hoping no one could see me shaking. Okay, I can do this. I swung my right leg over the bar and inched on my tiptoes to the seat. I didn't like hardly being able to touch the coarse black driveway when sitting on the plastic/rubber hybrid of the bike seat. I wanted to be closer to the ground so I could catch myself from falling, but I was told no.

I fiddled with my helmet, I checked and double checked the brakes and gear shifts to be sure I knew how to work them. I put one foot on a peddle and nudged it forward to get it in place, hopping along on my other foot to keep up. Finally, with no more adjustments to make, no more excuses to stall, I pushed off.

Heart in my throat, my left foot lifted from the pavement to its peddle, propelling me onward. I wobbled like a child on her first day without training wheels, a concerned, focused, terrified, determined look on my face. The end of the driveway came closer and closer: a dip to the road and a bump at the seam loomed ahead and I held on tight. I picked up speed - maybe five inches an hour - and held my breath and... I did it! Safely in the empty street, creeping elation broke free, washing over me, and I noticed the smile plastered to my face. My whole body was tense and my knuckles white, and I tried to relax but I was still shaking, though this time from excitement, not fear.

I peddled on down the block, not yet trusting myself to stop or turn. As John pulled up next to me, I called over, "They're right, it really is like riding a bike!"

Because You Can

I push my dark curls back with the same grey elastic headband I wore last night and the one before. Not yet long enough for a ponytail, my hair needs some other form of constraint to keep it free of the soapy suds that wash away the layers of the day. I look at myself in the mirror of the well-lit bathroom, towel-drying my face and wiping off mascara residue from under my eyes. Short feathery wisps of down float above my forehead, too short and delicate to be captured. I remember being young and my mom gently brushing them with her fingers, tracing the different directions they grew. Every time I find my reflection, I see how much we look alike: same olive skin, same dark eyes, same slightly crooked face, same love of our family.

Tonight we all gathered, my mom and her four sisters, me and my younger sister, my dad, my aunts' spouses, childhood friends whose own children have long since left childhood; new friends, old friends, work friends, family friends, life friends. We all gathered in the same dimly-lit back room of the restaurant where my aunt was married four years ago. Tonight was again in celebration: a birthday. Her sixty first birthday. No, it's not a multiple of ten, no particular anniversary or precious metal, but the most special birthday so far. Without a cane, she seemed to glide and float across the room with a smile that spread from ear to ear as she greeted and was greeted by every glowing guest.

In time we joined together in a joyful chorus of Happy Birthday and when she stood to give a short speech, I soaked up every word I could. Be grateful for every morning that you wake up. Choose to live. Choose to fight. Face life head on, don't watch it pass you by as you wait to die a little more each day. Thank God, thank the earth, thank the people who love you, thank yourself for the world around you! Move your body because you can. Live every single day because you can. Above all, never forget how lucky and blessed you are.

Seize The Tweetosphere!

Tweets: one hundred and forty characters to tell the world what you're thinking. It gives a numerical value to, "So much to say and so little time". Well, technically it's space, not time, but if I think hard enough, I could probably figure something out with a space-time continuum. I really don't actually know what that means, though, which could cause a problem...

Anyway, for Purple Day, we're Seizing The Internet!! Tonight we start seizing the tweetosphere. A hundred and forty character limit makes getting across a point tricky. To help, I've put together some tweet-sized sound bites for you here. Don't forget to use the hashtag #SeizeTheInternet and feel free to spread the love by tagging your other favorite epilepsy bloggers and tweeters :) Check out Living Well With Epilepsy's Directory for more of us!

(Stats courtesy of Talk About It.org)

50 MILLION people around the world live with #epilepsy. #SeizeTheInternet!

If someone is having a #seizure, DO NOT restrain them! #SeizeTheInternet!

Call 911 if it's someone's first #seizure or if it lasts more than 5 minutes - an ambulance is expensive #SeizeTheInternet!

#Epilepsy is NOT contagious! Who came up with that anyway? #SeizeTheInternet!

Nearly 3 million people in the US have #epilepsy. #SeizeTheInternet!

ONE-THIRD of people with #epilepsy live with uncontrollable seizures because no available treatment works for them. #SeizeTheInternet!

BETWEEN 4 AND 10 OUT OF 1,000 people on earth live with active seizures at any one time. #Epilepsy #SeizeTheInternet!

A #seizure is a jolt of electricity through the brain, kind of like a bolt of lightening. #epilepsy #SeizeTheInternet!

For 6 OUT OF 10 people living with #epilepsy, the cause of their #seizures is unknown. #SeizeTheInternet!

50,000 people die from #epilepsy-related causes in the United States every year. #SeizeTheInternet! @SUDEPAware

If someone is having a #seizure, DON'T put anything in their mouth! It's not possible to swallow your tongue. I promise. #SeizeTheInternet!

Seize The Internet for Purple Day!

It's rapidly approaching my new bedtime of 10:15pm, and I'm chastising myself for not writing earlier, but I've spent the last couple hours downloading apps onto my new iPhone! I've finally given into peer pressure and become one of the masses. I'm okay with that, though, especially since it's shaping up to be a great phone and is happily accommodating all of my requests for social media apps. Why must I have these, you ask? Because Purple Day is coming up! Purple Day is March 26th - Monday - and is a whole day set aside to raise awareness about epilepsy! Pretty neat, huh?

This year my goal is to Seize the Internet, but, like most endeavors, it's not only bigger with help, it's more fun. In admiration of what purple stands for, take pictures all week of anything purple you see and email to me here or tweet it to me, @lvngnbrainstorm, so I can post it on my Seize The Internet wall on Pinterest! When I say anything purple, I mean EVERYTHING! I want to see pictures of purple gum on the sidewalk, purple tongues from Now And Laters, whatever you can find!

Let's Seize the blogosphere, seize the tweetosphere, seize the ... Facebook-o-sphere?? Absolutely! Seize The Internet with me and show the world what we can do when we work together to spread epilepsy awareness!

ps- don't forget to use the hashtag #SeizeTheInternet!

Be sure to check out Living Well With Epilepsy, My Life As Mandy... With Epilepsy, Kat's Cafe and your local Epilepsy Foundation chapter for more ideas on how to celebrate Purple Day!

Tides

I reached for the alarm on the new purple cell phone that sat on my nightstand, knowing that I'd already used my allotted one snooze for the day. I slid my finger across the screen, silencing it as I sat up and slowly, ungracefully, swung my legs over the edge of the bed. It's been exactly fourteen months since my first surgery, but as my hand lifted to cover the throbbing on the left side of my skull, just above my ear, not so deeply buried under its scar, I remembered that fourteen months really isn't that long.

I became more aware of the extent of the pain with each step toward the bathroom, my left hand holding its head in place, my right rubbing at my tired eyes. The light in the hallway, brighter than I remembered, gave way to a pleasant darkness in the unlit bathroom, which I held onto as I brushed my teeth, my thickly shadowed reflection barely visible in the mirror. Shaving my legs in the dark seemed inadvisable, so I winced as I begrudgingly flipped the switch on the pale green wall before turning on the water.

The Advil I'd taken upon awakening finally started to kick in mid-shower, but even walking into work, I felt the pain with every footfall. I tried not to let it show in my face as I braced my body for each wave. A voice inside my head whispered that when I didn't have a job, I could have stayed in bed and tried to sleep through it. I only let myself long for that time for a second before issuing what I don't think will be the last pep talk: Erica, listen. You can do this. It really doesn't hurt that much. You already took Advil, so whatever you're feeling is not real. You're making it up. Stop making things up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You don't have time for that. Game face. I wasn't making up the pain, but telling myself it wasn't real somehow helped... I think... At least I was able to continue on productively with my day. Two more six hour rounds of Advil and I'm feeling pretty good. The headache lingers, but it comes and goes like the tide, calling my attention to my past, reminding me who I am and what I can do, before releasing me to the present.

Working Girl

I rub at my tired eyes, checking the corners for crusties or eye boogers. It's almost 10 and I can finally succumb to the yawns that have followed me all afternoon. I'm beginning to understand that I'm not on a holiday from my largely solitary days, but rather have started a new chapter, one that promises to be long and fulfilling. I can't believe that it was only three days ago that I walked into Target Plaza South to pick up my temporary badge and file through security to the Business Analyst training room. I have a job. A real job. A good job. A job I already like. The months and months I spent writing and healing were amazing, but eventually I began to feel better and my calm turned into restlessness into guilt over not being productive in the way I wanted. Now I am, every day forward from this past Monday. I keep thinking to myself, oh, I'll do that tomorrow at home, but I don't have full days at home anymore. At least not during the week. I'm understanding that I need to remember how to be productive with my nights, fitting in a workout, dinner, some tv, Skyping with John, dishes and life maintenance before bedtime at ten pm. I'm learning. I'm tired, I feel a little behind with life, but I'm happy.

Never Thought The Day Would Come

A glass of water sat on a ceramic coaster on the nightstand in my old room. I reached for the dark yellow bottle on the dresser next to it, turning the white cap emblazoned with the Walgreen's logo and tipping one oval pill into my palm. One pill. Not two, but one. A smile played on my lips as I thought to myself, it's really happening.

That was two nights ago. Earlier in the day, I sat in one of the two chairs opposite a large desk from my neurologist. We talked about me and John moving back to Minneapolis a few days before, my new job as a Business Analyst at Target that I start on Monday, the headaches I still get, though they're becoming less frequent, how much my hair has grown back over the past year, the fact that I'm still seizure-free. I held my breath and crossed my fingers as I asked the question I'd come for: "Dr. So said that if I made it a year without having a seizure, I could wean off of my Vimpat. Do you think I can start that?"

She paused a moment, a thoughtful look on her face as it searched my medical records on her computer screen for any reason I shouldn't. "Okay."

Relief, joy, disbelief flooded me all at once and I couldn't help the smile on my face as I said, "I honestly never in my life thought this day would come."

I won't be completely off of the drug for a month, but every day I get closer, I have more and more energy, the way I did seven months ago when I got off of my Lyrica, but this time it's even more noticeable. I'm still on Lamictal XR every night and probably will be for the rest of my life, but I'm fine with that. I always figured that liver failure was what would eventually take me one day, but now I really feel I can let that go. I'm gonna be okay.

Guest Post: Annie Evans

Tips for Traveling with Epilepsy

Although epilepsy is a serious medical condition, it shouldn’t prevent you from seeing the world! With some extra precaution and planning,

1. Don’t Travel Alone – It’s not wise to travel alone when you have epilepsy, especially if you have frequent seizures or could experience confusion or a loss of consciousness after a seizure. If you were alone in an unfamiliar place when these symptoms occur, you could put yourself into a dangerous situation. The person traveling with you should know exactly what to do if a seizure occurs and should be comfortable with explaining it to others.

2. Consider Different Modes of Transportation – When making travel plans, carefully consider the modes of transportation available to you. Depending on the type and frequency of your seizures, some kinds of transportation may be safer than others. Most people with epilepsy can safely travel by air, but you should still bring a doctor’s letter with you that states that you can fly safely. You’ll also need to inform the flight crew before taking off and give them some instructions on what they should do if you have a seizure.

3. Bring Extra Medication – You should always carry a day’s supply of medication with you, wherever you go. You should also plan ahead for any time changes so that you continue to take your medication at the right times. If you are flying, bring two sets of medication on your trip – one for your carry-on and another for your checked luggage. This way you will be prepared if your bags get lost. Make sure that all of your medications in in their original packaging with labels so that you aren’t questioned by airport security.

4. Take Precautions for a VNS – If you have a vagus nerve stimulator (VNS) implanted in your chest to prevent seizures, you will need to take some extra precautions to avoid trouble with airport security. Make sure you carry your VNS registration card with you and have your doctor write a note explaining the purpose of the device.

5. Wear a Medical ID Bracelet – If you have epilepsy, you should already wear your medical ID bracelet at all times. While your friends and family at home already know about your basic information and condition, the best way that medical personnel can get this information is with your medical ID. It should have your full name, medical condition (epilepsy), medications and allergies, emergency contact number, and doctor's phone number engraved on it.

Annie Evans is a certified radiologist who enjoys writing health articles in her spare time. She also owns a site called Become an X-Ray Technician for students interested in training to be a radiologic technician.

The Depths Of Human Kindness

My friend Mandy wrote a great post on her blog My Life As Mandy... With Epilepsy today. Her question was, is epilepsy really a blessing in disguise? She said yes. A lot of people told her she was wrong and that epilepsy is a curse, a black spot on the face of life, but I agree with her with every fiber of my soul.

Diagnosed at age seven, I don't remember a time without seizures, tests, doctor visits and handfuls of pills. Sometimes it felt like my life was an exercise in silver linings, but I can honestly say that if I could rewrite it, I wouldn't change a thing. For me, epilepsy has been a blessing; it's taught me more about what it means to be human than anything else I've ever experienced. Epilepsy is part of who I am, it's shaped me into the person I am today.

Having a disorder like epilepsy makes me see the world differently; I'm more aware of and sensitive to the difficulties others face, I'm more attuned to the heartbeat of the earth and I can tell you it's strong. The world is full of people who each have burdens, weights on their shoulders that at times feel unbearable. Some are loud, some are silent. Some are mad, some are scared, some are hopeful. Some endure the bad as a shadow over their life, some spend every day seeking the good in their lot. Some feel cheated, some feel grateful.

I've always had a roof over my head; I've never been hungry; I've never feared for my life; I've never smelled death in the streets. I can't imagine how life must be for so many in our world, the pain and hardships they've experienced. But when I hear of the people who never lose faith, who strive for more, strive for happiness, I am awestruck, I am inspired.

The cross I bear is a pocket charm compared to many, but it is the depths of human kindness that never ceases to amaze me. No matter the size of your burden, no matter the cause or kind, there are people watching and waiting to give you their hand. We are never truly alone. None of us. We are connected by life, energy, spirit; we come from the same beginnings and we go to the same ends. It might not always feel like it, there are times we all feel lonely, misunderstood, even abandoned, but reach out your hand and it will meet the same flesh that covers you, the same blood that runs through your veins. This is what epilepsy has taught me.

Each time I reach inward, I am amazed at the strength I find within myself. Each time I look up, I am amazed by the strength of those around me; their love and support feeds me, sustains me. Maybe I would have figured that out a different way, but in this life, it is my journey with epilepsy that has given me no choice but to search myself and search the world and what I find, every day, every minute, every second, touches my soul. For this, I am eternally grateful.

I once wrote here that my surgery was a perfect storm of Grace. I was wrong. It is my life that continues to be the perfect storm of Grace.

Never Have I Ever

I always hated that game when I was younger. While all of the other teenagers or college kids put down fingers or took drinks with a sly I'm-busted-for-something-cool-and-notorious-making, I sat on the edge and tried not to call attention to my full cup and the five fingers that all still stood at attention. I was never part of the popular elite like my sister and I was never the bad girl or wild child but I'm okay with that. I never snuck out of the house, I was always home by curfew and called if I was going to be late, I've never even smoked a cigarette and didn't drink until college. I've never punched someone and never gotten detention, let alone been arrested. I did slap someone once, but he asked for it and we're good now. At 26, there are plenty of things I've never done, and while it was embarrassing from time to time when I was younger, I have no regrets. I'm a goody-two-shoes and that's fine. There's just one thing I haven't done that from time to time makes me sheepish: I've never seen someone have a tonic-clonic seizure.

Last week, I was on a Google Plus Hangout video chatting session with some other epilepsy bloggers. "Meeting" them and swapping stories was great - they're all talented, dedicated people who are doing their part to make the world a more seizure-friendly place. We talked about what kinds of seizures we and ours have and I was amazed, as always, at how many different kinds exist. "You know what I'm talking about," was usually true, but a few times I hung back, hesitant, feeling like I should know more than I do. How haven't I ever seen someone have a grand mal seizure? I mean, I'm an epilepsy blogger! What kind of fraud must I be? I glanced at my untouched ginger ale and flashed back to an outstretched palm.

Why is it that we all want to be included so badly that we find ourselves wishing for terrible things? Staring into my computer on the tall kitchen table in my shoebox apartment, I realized what I was thinking and felt a little ridiculous. Would it be easier to relate if I'd seen one? Probably, but I should be glad, grateful, that my friends and family have never had them and none of the kids at the Epilepsy Foundation of Colorado's summer camp had one at lunch, walking through the Estes Park YMCA or, God forbid, on the ropes course. I remind myself of that whenever I'm feeling insecure, unsure if I'm really qualified to write about epilepsy.

On that note, here is a video of a generalized tonic-clonic seizure from the point of view of the man having it. It's a very powerful video and I recommend following the instructions: wait for it to load completely before starting it, turn off all the lights and wear headphones. It's very illuminating if you've, like me, never seen one or, like me, had one many years ago in the middle of the night and don't remember anything.

Kudos and thanks to Nathan Jones for doing such a great job with this and letting me post it here for you.

Guest Post: Seven Myths About Epilepsy

Here's a guest post from Casey Roberts, a student who writes for Radiology Assistant, which helps students find the right radiology degree.

Seven Myths About Epilepsy

As many of you know, epilepsy is a common topic of this blog.  We thought now would be a good time to discuss more information about it.  To that end, we have gathered seven myths commonly associated with epilepsy.

1: Flashing lights – Contrary to what “The Simpsons” and other shows will tell you, epileptic seizures are rarely brought on by flashing lights such as those found in Japanese cartoons.  This type of epilepsy is called photosensitive epilepsy and only five percent of those who are epileptic have it.

2: Hold me down – One of the common myths when someone is suffering from a seizure is to hold them down.  However, this can cause more problems than it solves.  If the person is in a relatively safe place, such as in an area where they can't fall, they should generally not be held down.  Instead, move objects that can be collided with away from the person having a seizure.

3: Tongue swallowing – We've all heard the old wives' tale of someone swallowing their tongue during a seizure, but how many times have you actually heard of that happening?  It is because this is almost unheard of.  In fact, placing an object in the mouth during a seizure can cause more damage than it prevents.

4: It's not rabies – Another myth surrounding seizures is that people can foam at the mouth like a rabid dog.  While some saliva may leak during a seizure, there is no foaming of the mouth during them as in someone who could be rabid.

5: On cue – In 2009, a British dancer attempted to bring on an epileptic seizure as a form of art. However, most people with epilepsy cannot bring on seizures at will.  In fact, their unpredictability makes the seizures one of the worst parts of epilepsy.

6: You have to be born with it – Unlike other disorders, such as autism, epilepsy is not something someone is born with.  It is often a side effect of traumatic brain injury, but anyone can develop it over the course of their life.  It is more often to first appear in children.

7: People with epilepsy can't do anything – Because epilepsy is such a wide ranging disease, so too are the people who have it.  They can do everything from hold down a normal job to drive a car.  It is those with severe seizures who have to rearrange their lives.

Casey Roberts is a student and also writes for http://radiologyassistant.org Radiology Assistant, which helps students find the right radiology degree.

The Longest Day

I was watching a show the other day about the training of special forces for various branches of the military. One episode featured a final exam called The Longest Day. It began with paddling a rubber raft through crashing waves, carrying it through the trees, completing a mission and walking the miles back through tear gas without masks. Somehow that sounds worse to me than brain surgery, but maybe it's because I know I can make it through it.

This day last year was my Longest Day. It was the scariest, most painful day of my life and I know I'll never forget it as long as I live. Right about now, I was finishing up my "stim test", where each electrode on my brain was reverse stimulated in turn to see what would happen. The doctors would press a button and my hand would jerk, or my eyes would move or my tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth and I couldn't breathe. Each time I heard one call a set of numbers to the other, I would wait for the shock and pray to God that nothing would happen. They were looking for my motor strip and I wanted so badly for it not to be under my seizure origin point, what they had come to call "the birthmark". I sat in my hospital bed, clutching the small, stuffed dog that my parents had gotten me in the Mayo Clinic gift shop. I was so scared. I focused on the sign my sister had made me that hung in my hospital room: We Love Our Erica. I traced the patterns with my eyes, drank in the colors and tried to stay calm.

In an hour and a half, my surgeon would come in and tell me that the birthmark was not on my motor strip, but right up against it. I was a candidate. I exhaled with my whole body, my whole spirit. I was a candidate. He told me that I could have the surgery, but there was a chance I would lose a good amount of sensation in my hand - I would have a hard time knowing how much pressure was needed to hold a fork, being able to recognize the shape of my wallet in my purse by touch. There was a chance I would lose some speech, some short term memory, though it wasn't very likely. "Do you still want to do it?" I paused for only a moment, because what stood firmly in my mind was that nothing had gone wrong yet, so there was no way it would start now. I lifted my right hand, covered in white tape to hold the IV in place, to the plastic table over my lap and signed the consent form.

Not until about 4pm was I finally brought down to the operating room. I remember a cleaning woman in the elevator as I was rolled in by a nurse. I said, "Hi, how are you?" as cheerily as I could. She looked startled but then smiled. I tried to be brave in the pre-op room among dozens of other patients in blue and white polkadotted smocks, lying in rough, white sheets on a plastic bed. It was easier the first time, when I didn't know what would happen, when I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Somehow, this time it was terrifying. A couple nice doctors, nurses and techs stopped by to explain a few last details, but I didn't care about the information, I just wanted their smiles and calming voices. A few layed hands on my shoulder or foot, and just a simple touch like that brought a sliver of peace.

The OR was brighter, more sterile, more ominous and more lonely than I'd remembered. Cindy wasn't there this time; she'd placed electrodes on my scalp for my monitoring the day after Thanksgiving and the grid on my brain during my first surgery, but since they were removing it, a much less delicate process, she was somewhere else. I didn't know anyone there. It was like the first day of kindergarten: terrifying and, as yet, the biggest day of my life. One man in blue scrubs came closer and smiled through his mask; he said Cindy had told him to take good care of me. I relaxed a little as he held my left hand and someone else took my right while a clear mask was lowered over my face.

I try to forget what happened when I woke up in post-op recovery. I try to block out the pain that was so terrible I screamed; the way I writhed on the bed, the bright light that stared me down when the doctors made me open my eyes, their hushed voices when I sobbed that my pain was a twelve and begged them to help me. That scene is burned into me. It felt like an eternity as the hysterical crying I realized was my own melted to a pleading whimper. This hadn't happened after my first surgery. Couldn't anyone help me? What went wrong?

Last night it came to me like it sometimes does. A wave of remembered trauma, pain, relief and gratitude smashed over me, its full force against my mind. Wet tears slid down my face and as my rock held me in his arms, they turned to sobs that wracked my body and tore sounds from my throat despite my efforts to stifle them. I could see the wet collecting on the collar of John's blue shirt, turning it dark and shiny. I began to calm down at the insistence of my nose that it needed a tissue. I went through three before I could breathe steadily again. I clutched John's back and laid my head on his chest. "It's okay, baby, it's gonna be okay. You've been through a lot." I have.

Thank you to everyone; all of you who have been here for me, with me. Thank you, God, for the blessings you've given me. Thank you, John, for listening, understanding and supporting me every day. Thank you, mom and dad, for holding my hands; sitting quietly when every little noise hurt; making up stories when I was scared; spoon-feeding me; forcing me to sit up, stand and walk despite my dirty looks and petulance; fixing oatmeal and fruit every morning; re-teaching me how to knit so I could regain the function of my hand; making me take naps even when I didn't want to; taking me on slow walks around the block in freezing cold January weather; but most of all, teaching me how to live the kind of life that makes me happy and fulfilled.

John asked me what I want to do tonight to commemorate my anniversary. I haven't decided yet whether I want to go out and celebrate or stay in and remember. Either way, I'll remain, as always, eternally grateful.

A Warm Day in January

The park is quiet yet active at 1pm on a Thursday. Who is here but the unemployed, the retired and the stay at home parents with small children in strollers, on the jungle gym or waddling around like small penguins carrying juice boxes? Two college-aged boys tire of their game of hackey sack and stroll away, laughing in long shorts and brightly colored t-shirts. A woman stretches after a run; a man does push-ups, an ipod strapped to one of his spread out arms; two people play frisbee on the other end of the park, a small dog running between them, hoping one will drop it so he can come to the rescue. The breeze picks up as a patch of clouds pass between me and the sun, chilling my bare arms, and I move to the next bench down, unobstructed by the winding, leafless trees - the only reminder that it is, in fact, January.

I'm taking the day off of job hunting, spending it instead on writing, a long walk and coffee with a friend. The high today is 61 degrees and, as usual, it's sunny and gorgeous. The purple sweater I'd worn has been relegated to my backpack and the cuffs of my jeans are rolled up, showing off my white calves and the black and hot pink running shoes I got from my sister; they don't match my grey tank top with the lace down the front, but they're comfortable on my feet when I roam the streets and sidewalks of Denver.

As March comes closer, I've started to become nostalgic. I think of the friends I'll miss, the groups I'll need to recreate, the restaurants I realize I've already visited for the last time. Will I go back to the mountains before we leave? I don't know. Will I ever make it to Grand Lake or the Hanging Lakes? Probably not. Will I bother to come back for my five year college reunion in October? I'm not sure. I'm beginning to see that there are many more things I'll miss than I'd thought: happy hour on the outdoor stairway of my apartment building, carrying my blue folding chair with the built-in backpack full of crackers, dips, cherries, a book and a water bottle of white wine to Cheesman Park, where I read and unwound until the sun went down and mosquitoes bit my feet. They have parks in Minnesota, but it's not the same. I did a lot of healing here. When I moved to Colorado on July seventh, 2009, I was an empty shell, conditioned to be unamused and perpetually skeptical. I came knowing one thing: I needed emotional healing. I needed to reconnect with the happiness, strength and confidence I'd lost. Colorado has been witness to my transformation and because of that, it will always be in my heart.

But now, the universe has a new plan for me.

Comparing Chairs

The chairs in the radiology waiting room at Rose Medical Center in Denver are brown. Stripes alternate: dark brown curly designs that harken back to a more Victorian era and thin lines stringing together light brown circles - round baubles hanging like decorations on the Christmas trees taken down only a couple weeks ago.

The waiting room is half-filled with other patients - an older couple murmuring quietly in the corner, a Hispanic woman with three toddlers that play with a new baby as she speaks to the receptionist, a woman a couple years older than me reading a magazine, her tan purse on her lap. The brown chairs snake their way along the walls behind them all, dipping in the middle to create a make-shift division in between. I think of Mayo, with its mauve floral prints that will forever be etched in my mind.

At my one-year follow up with my neurologist at Mayo, we talked about the headaches I still get - a couple a week, most responsive to Advil, but about one a month that leaves me incapacitated, teathered to my couch or bed, trying for hours to sleep off the pain, even when it wakes me between dreams of headaches. He looked at me with concern, though his concerned face reminds me of a disappointed face that makes me think that I've done something wrong. Twenty six years of being a people-pleaser, I suppose. He told me that's not normal; I shouldn't be having them still. A few months ago, I made a similar complaint and was ordered an MRI. Apparently, it had shown a build up of fluid in my brain hole, but the doctors figured it would drain itself. Maybe it hasn't. He ordered a CT scan to see what's going on.

"Hi, my name is Erica Egge. I'm calling to schedule a CT," pause, "E-G-G-E".

"Hi, my name is Erica Egge. I'm calling to check on an order for a CT scan," pause, "Yes, I have my patient number," I read it off again, almost by memory. "Has the order been sent to Rose Medical in Denver yet? Does it have a note to call my insurance?" No, of course not. I give the number for MedSolutions and my insurance member ID. "It has to be noted on the order for the hospital to call them," I request, trying to hide the exasperation from my voice."

"Hi, I'm Erica Egge. I called yesterday. Has the order for my CT scan come in yet? No?"

It progressed thusly day after day. It took over a week for pre-authorization, but finally this morning I left my little third floor apartment for the hospital.

"Erica?" a middle-aged woman in scrubs called from a door to my right.

"I'm Erica," I stood upand walked to her, putting the purple cell phone that doubles as my safty-blanket back into my purse. She may have said her name as she led me down a linolium-floored hallway, but I don't remember it.

"Is it a subdermal hemotoma we're scanning today?"

I don't know what that means. "I had brain surgery about a year ago." Her eyes widened in the surprise I've come to recognize, even expect. "I'm doing fine, still seizure-free, but having headaches."

She opened the blond-stained wooden door to a testing room and walked in behind me. A slab of plastic covered in a white sheet with a small pillow for my head formed a make-shift bed sticking out of a large, white doughnut. I took out my earrings and held them in my hand as the bed began to move, jerking to a stop when the doughnut was positioned over my head. It was much quieter than an MRI, which somehow made it feel more ominous. A red light flashed through my closed eyelids. I began to pray. God, please watch over me. Please let me be okay. Please, I begged. The bed jerked back and forth as the machine emitted shots of radiation over my face to the brain behind it.

The ten minutes felt short and long at the same time when I heard a small motor propel my bed back out into the world, freeing me from my racing mind.

"That wasn't bad at all," I said to the tech, cheery with my brave face. Now it's just a matter of waiting. What happens if they find more fluid in my head? It depends. My favorite answer.