I need this like a hole in my head.

An MRI from a car accident concussion revealed a brain tumor instead.

It has been two weeks since an MRI and CAT scan at my local ER revealed a brain tumor in my left cerebellum.

It has been one week since the surgery that removed said tumor.

And it has been one day since my follow-up, confirming I am currently tumor-free.

Let’s back up a bit.

Feducials (those Fruit Loop-lookin’ things) placed pre-surgery help guide my surgeon when they cut through my skull on surgery day

On Saturday, September 10, my sister and I were driving to Harry Potter World when a semi-truck jackknifed and its trailer slammed into the back of our car on the interstate somewhere near Tallahassee. We were miraculously unharmed, besides some neck and head pain from snapping back into the headrests on our seats. (PSA — do NOT remove those puppies!) We were close enough to an airport that the tow truck driver gave us a lift over, we rented a mini van, and continued our journey to the magical world. We felt a little battered and bruised, but otherwise enjoyed a Sunday at the theme park, sipping frozen butterbeers and immersing ourselves in the magical storybook land from our childhood.

Kendall and I living it up at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter

After our return, something didn’t feel quite right. Headaches I had been experiencing for the past several months suddenly grew sharper. My friend Adrienne drove me to the ER on Tuesday, September 12, where the doctor — instead of finding a concussion — found the tumor during a CT scan.

Side note, I don’t think anyone who has ever received unexpected bad medical news forgets the looks on the doctor’s face when they come in, close the door, and share — “Well, we found something.” This may haunt me for a while. How calm, how accepting I was when I heard it, also amazes me. At the time, we didn’t know if it was cancerous. If it was anywhere else in my body. What exactly it was. If I was going to die.

There’s nothing like being confronted with your mortality in the midst of a wave of uncertainty.

The hardest part for me was sharing that news with my family. Calling my husband (who was away for work at the time). Calling my mom, who was already crying, because Josh called her first. Instead of going with the typical “No, it’s okay, I’m fine!”when asked, I said a hearty yes please to both of them flying in. Immediately.

The madness began.

After one doctor’s opinion in Pensacola, we drove through the night to MD Anderson in Houston. My dad is a doctor. I will never again take this for granted, because it was his friends and network that landed me a last-minute appointment with a top neurosurgeon at the top brain and spine center. Luckily, we also have dear family friends in the area to put us up, saving thousands on a hotel stay. I loved the doctor and his team, and an opening in his schedule on Tuesday, September 20 meant surgery was a go.

After one night in the ICU post-op, I was released to the neuro unit where I spent another night. That first night was no joke. We were not on top of my pain management, and I don’t think I have ever hurt so much in my life. I drew upon everything I had learned over my past few months of daily meditation to zone the fkk out. I did not sleep.

God bless the physical therapists. Traci got me out of bed for my first walk the morning after surgery, and though I was connected by multiple IV lines to a pole, catheter and all, I wheeled it in a loop around the ward. The next day occupational therapists had me dress myself and walk by myself. There is nothing more humbling than your victory being a PR in lunges shift to walking by yourself and pulling a t-shirt over your head in the matter of three days.

After the doctors checked my vitals, they deemed me healthy enough to be discharged and heal at home! After just two nights! Home we went, “home” meaning our friend’s place in Houston. My sister came in to help us out, as well. We spent the first night all gathered together around the dinner table with a Maggiano’s feast my workplace had sent us. Shoutout to my TinyWins fam!

Sitting upright in the ICU after my first walk

Walk #2, after dressing myself!

Dinner after I was discharged from the hospital

Recovery looks like me rotating between the couch and my bed

with Josh and my sister here, watching Love is Blind Season One The Office. Taking lots of naps. Short walks. Reading. Recovery longer-term means no leaning over or bending over or lowering or submerging my head for the next three months. No lifting more than 5 – 10 pounds, a tough rule for someone who prefers weight training over everything. Lots of rest and “seeing what I feel up to”.

It’s hard to feel really good one day and then recognize hey, I am still recovering, don’t overdo it! Or take a 30-minute walk and need to follow it with an hour nap. But hey, that’s just what we’re doing these days.

I feel like everything moved too quickly over these past two weeks for me to really be scared.

It was just what we had to deal with. What we had to do. There was exactly one week between the discovery of the tumor and surgery to remove it. For this, I am grateful. I had no choice but to move forward with each appointment, with the surgery, and now, with each day of recovery. I’m getting myself excited for partially-shaved hairstyles a la Natalie Dormer in Hunger Games and eventually a scalp tattoo? Sorry Dad. But I need something to help make my massive scar more palatable. I still cannot look at it in the photos Josh took, no matter how badass it appears.

(P.s. for those interested: The tumor was diagnosed as a hemangioblastoma. It was benign, fully removed, and not expected to return. I do not have the disease associated with the recurrent creation of these tumors. I’ll have annual MRIs from now until forever to monitor my healthy brain. As my doctor said, “It was a relatively boring tumor!” I’ll take that as good news.)

Looking back on the past few months (and really the year, even) I can see the signs the tumor was impacting my livelihood — from random dizziness and tinnitus to the worst migraines, light sensitivity, and a near-constant dull headache. I’m looking forward to these symptoms, and maybe more, to be but a distant memory.

This is the point when they say it can get harder.

When there is time to finally absorb everything that happened. When the constant support and check-ins and well-wishes stop flooding in. When schedules and appointments finally slow down enough for me to look ahead over the next three months, going from lifting PRs to lifting 10 pounds. To figuring out when and how my energy levels will allow me to get back to work or take walks longer than a mile and a half.

This is really when mindset really matters.

When the people who preach everything happens for a reason are looking to see what I make of this all.

I don’t necessarily believe in that platitude because of its reductionist tendency, but I do believe you can draw meaning from everything, and if that helps you feel better or heal or do something beautiful for the world, why the fkk not believe it?

Also, I am having a hard time making sense of how a car accident shined the light on this tumor that has been plaguing me for years — something we may not have caught until I got really sick.

Basically, I’ll end this rambling long post with this:

I’ll be processing through my recovery journey and more here, in this space.

Because what better way is there for a writer to heal than by writing? I still have a few drafts from pre-surgery, so it won’t all be brain-related. There are options to subscribe to my substack, both free and paid, so if you’re curious, feel free to jump on the bandwagon, but by all means there is no pressure to forego one Starbucks a month to do so for the paid version ;)

Cheers to recovery. Here we go.

P.s. for all of you who reached out, who donated money or Uber or Doordash credits, who sent flowers and care packages and checked in, THANK YOU. My family and I were — and still are — bolstered by the kindness and outpouring of love from our community.