When the Brain Tumour Screams
There are times, when viewed in the rear view mirror, when those moments of temporary crisis are upon us, when thought strings are tangled, when events spiral, that all we want is some small semblance of control. We plead to our innermost, when the insuperable scenario feels as though someone is sliding down Niagara Falls in the barrel of our skull, that we plead for a lifeline be thrown to us so that we can regain some sort of equilibrium.
I don’t want to put a dampener on your week, I hope it’s been a good one but this was mine. It got ugly, decidedly so and as usual, the one closest to me bore the brunt of it. I had spent a considerable part of this particular day, when my chickens came home to roost, on the phone, having conversations that, whilst not taxing, were, I was later to discover, with some effect, draining me of energy and perhaps more importantly, perspective.
I had shouted down the phone to an old friend “you’re not listening to me”. In thirty years of friendship, I had never uttered these words to him. He is one of the best friends a man could have and yet here I was, contradicting those years of friendship by yelling at him to just listen, over a subject completely anodyne in nature. I had manoeuvred myself into such a state that I was oblivious, not to reason or logic, but to acceptance, understanding, wisdom and insight. In simple terms, I was blind to my own flawed humanity and in that moment, devoid of compassion.
I then railed at my wife, I tried to make her understand when she already well and truly knew that I was at the tail end of a meltdown. It’s happened before but not this ferociously, when my own inner frustrations reach a crescendo, where reason is jettisoned for justification and where frustration masquerading as thinly veiled anger seeps out of every flank and gland and turns me into a decidedly uncomfortable person to be around.
One of my daily chores is the not too onerous task of emptying the dishwasher. It’s one I normally embrace because it’s an opportunity for me to put the left hand, still in a state of neuropathy, to work, of retraining it to pull it’s weight. I deliberately and with some purpose, reach into the contraption with my left hand and grasp the saucer, the cup, the plate, even two of them if feeling adventurous and walk them to the cupboard, with a sly grin completing the effort as I rejoice in not having to rage over broken ceramic on the floor. The problem with this fairly simple plan is that often I forget to even open the dishwasher door. Do I blame the brain tumour, is it at fault? I don’t know. My wife comes home to find evidence of a task unfulfilled. She reminds me. I react to this news, aghast that I’ve neglected this simplest of domestic chores with, not an apology, but a bang on the bench with my fist, in frustration that I’ve forgotten.
Why should this bother me in this manner? It’s because I am trying to be normal, trying to take deficits out of the equation and it makes me angry when I don’t live up to my own expectations. All thought of anything resembling even the most basic of Platonic Dialogues is thrown out the door as I perform my own unique ritual, a foot stamp, a grimace, a complete bodily rotation and a futile attempt to explain. I am not lazy, I am drained, I am in momentary emotional disengagement. I have entered cognitive meltdown and not realised it, or have realised it far too late.
I had pushed myself rather too hard, trying, in retrospect, to take too much on. The things I had set myself to do, some of it necessary, medical appointments and the like but most of it part of the new me, reached its ugly rapprochement later in the day with my old friend and then my wife, copping it unnecessarily. I went for a walk, although that is too genteel a description. I stormed out. I was fuming, I would not be placated, like a child denied his toys, I strode out into the rain, with a determination that had nothing to back me up. I got to the end of the street, with Katrina back inside, I presumed, trying to work out how she should handle things, this ceremonious charade of mine, this ugly man that she was witnessing. I came to my senses and realised that the most important person in this mise en scene at that moment was not me.
I have been pushing myself in this new normal, finding that I could indeed push myself, only to find that I was unnecessarily pushing others as well. My thinking, if you can call it that, seemed to revolve around the idea that if I could lean into fatigue then others too should be made to lean into it, which is not only muddled thinking but an arrogant disregard for what goes on in others lives, as if I’m the only show in town.
One can attempt to describe, in that moment in time, the word search, in trying to express the frustration within, it does not come readily. The message does not get through, the normal circuitry fails, like an old electrical board that short circuits and switches itself off, the inner whirling that stoops and writhes and screams, a fog that envelops like a pea-souped Sydney, when traffic and people snarl and strained reactions assume primacy, the same short circuitry that has, on occasion, forced me to abandon my shopping trolley and walk out of the supermarket, unable to sustain the level of concentration required to appease the gods of self service. It’s an intolerance for anything resembling polite discourse if it requires a response beyond what I am currently capable of supplying.
I can’t blame the brain tumour, at least I don’t want to. I need to hold myself accountable for my actions. I do not ask for favours because to re-enter the world of normal will mean I have not been afforded any. However, and I’m sure you could sense the crunch coming, this is an all too familiar refrain, my brain is still healing but I feel as though it has worn out it’s welcome, it’s had enough time, surely it’s had enough time. Two years I tell it, how much time do you need, to heal the numbness?
But it’s the case, as much as kindness, love, generosity, compassion and understanding has been lavished on me, I need to assign some to myself and even more to others. My wife bears this and for that I am eternally grateful, it’s something that I’ll never understand. How she does it I do not know. She has endured, as far as I am concerned, the greater burden and proves again and again that she is made of stern material indeed. I can only ask that she continue with me as I learn better to manage this thing, and forgive me my odd tantrum, in the hope that they reduce and eventually disappear.
The struggle with these inner demons is not a Sisyphean one. My brain is strong, I have moments of clarity never before imagined. There is a rainbow. One step, one day, at a time.