{"id":397,"date":"2011-12-16T10:31:44","date_gmt":"2011-12-16T16:31:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/askmrsmom.com\/?p=397"},"modified":"2017-12-20T15:10:34","modified_gmt":"2017-12-20T21:10:34","slug":"fear-can-hold-you-prisoner-hope-can-set-you-free","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/askmrsmom.com\/?p=397","title":{"rendered":"Brain Scans"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Fourteen\u00a0years ago, at age 19, my son was diagnosed with a brain tumor. A year after diagnosis, he had his first brain surgery. \u00a0Five years later, his second. \u00a0In the world of brain tumors, both were considered successful. \u00a0After hours each time of tedious “resection” as the neurosurgeons call it, we got our son back, fully in tact.<\/p>\n

A miracle to me really.<\/p>\n

In the midst of his surgeries, radiation, chemo and recoveries, \u00a0he has attended and graduated from college,\u00a0completed\u00a0grad school and is now coaching high school basketball, his first love. \u00a0He is positive, hopeful and daily provides the true north our family has needed to face and accept his battle.<\/p>\n

We are told, but are reluctant to accept, that most brain tumors are not considered curable. \u00a0But so far, with careful monitoring, he is beating the odds.<\/p>\n

Part of that “careful monitoring” is a brain MRI every three months to look for change in his brain, a recurrence of the tumor. Every\u00a0ninety\u00a0days we go, my son and me, to the cancer center. After fifty some times, we have our routine. He goes earlier for his MRI. \u00a0I follow an hour or so later and we meet\u00a0with\u00a0the doctor.<\/p>\n

We sit in a sterile hospital office space, blinds often drawn, a computer reflecting the images of a brain\u00a0scan. Two screens sit side by side, each holding nine different egg-shaped pictures stacked three to a row like a tic tac toe board. Last time’s scan on the left and the latest on the right.<\/p>\n

He sits in a chair and I sit across from him, as we always do. \u00a0He yawns, cracks his knuckles. \u00a0I attempt small talk. Idle chatter. Anything\u00a0to\u00a0distract\u00a0us from the screen. \u00a0I have done this so many times, I have begun to plan ahead of time. Often on the\u00a0way\u00a0in the the car, flipping\u00a0through\u00a0the radio stations, I am rarely listening.<\/p>\n

I am thinking, what should we talk about as we wait?<\/p>\n

Today it was the list of items I had noticed he needed in his apartment. \u00a0Silly things. \u00a0A mop. Kleenex, Windex, a shower curtain liner. This shopping list would be today’s neutral time filler.<\/p>\n

I have told my friends these visits are a bit like anticipating the jury’s decision, this month’s verdict.\u00a0I can never decide what is worse–the waiting or the knowing.<\/p>\n

I have become accustomed to the sounds of waiting. The nurses chatter in the hallway. Doors opening and closing. Water running. His chart slipping into the metal holder by the doorway. Cars passing outside. The horns. An occasional siren. The flag slapping against the metal pole that stands at the entrance of the hospital.<\/p>\n

It’s all so familiar but never a comfort.<\/p>\n

He takes his baseball cap off and scratches his head, back to front and then ear to ear as he often does. The top is bald. They said it\u00a0would\u00a0grow back in four to six months after radiation. But it has been over a year now and it has not. \u00a0I don’t notice any more. \u00a0But I know he does.<\/p>\n

I listen for footsteps. \u00a0Again, familiar but unwelcome. \u00a0We wait for them to stop. \u00a0The shadow under the door. \u00a0The sound as the doctor lifts the chart from the box. \u00a0So many pages. \u00a0So many visits.<\/p>\n

Always the question of time.<\/p>\n

I stare at the screen and wonder if the images are my son’s or the\u00a0patient\u00a0before him. \u00a0The door opens. \u00a0My heart beats faster. \u00a0A nurse pokes her head in and says the doctor will be right in. \u00a0I look at my son’s face, a mixture of expectancy and relief.<\/p>\n

“What about a toilet brush?” I ask. \u00a0“Do you have a toilet brush?”<\/p>\n

Before he can answer, there is a rustle outside the door. \u00a0The knob turns.<\/p>\n

“It’s stable,” the doctor says as she enters. \u00a0 “I just went over it twice with the radiologist.”<\/p>\n

I jump up and hug her like a long lost friend, forgetting her white coat, HIPPA laws and hospital decorum.<\/p>\n

I know she is happy for us and has come to love my boy. \u00a0We are all happy.<\/p>\n

We will have a Merry Christmas this year and hope that the New Year brings more moments like this.<\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Fourteen\u00a0years ago, at age 19, my son was diagnosed with a brain tumor. A year after diagnosis, he had his first brain surgery. \u00a0Five years later, his second. \u00a0In the world of brain tumors, both were considered successful. \u00a0After hours each time of tedious “resection” as the neurosurgeons call it, we got our son back, …<\/p>\n

>>Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-397","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nBrain Scans - askmsmom.com<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/askmrsmom.com\/?p=397\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Brain Scans - askmsmom.com\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Fourteen\u00a0years ago, at age 19, my son was diagnosed with a brain tumor. 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