We often wait for the lightning bolt. When we think of medical emergencies, we imagine chest-clutching pain, sudden unconsciousness, or a dramatic accident. We are conditioned to look for the loud signals that scream, “Something is wrong!”
But my body didn’t scream. It whispered. And if I hadn’t listened to that whisper—specifically, the way my pen moved across a piece of paper—I might not be here to tell this story today.
My journey into the world of neurosurgery didn’t begin in an ambulance; it began at my kitchen counter, staring at a grocery list. I had picked up a pen to write “milk” and “eggs,” simple tasks I had performed thousands of times. But as I looked down at the notepad, the ink didn’t form the familiar loops and curves of my handwriting. The letters were jagged, foreign, and childlike.
I stared at my hand. It looked like my hand. I told it to move smoothly. But the connection between my brain and my fingers felt like a fraying wire. The signal was getting lost in static.
The Subtle Betrayal of the Body
In the weeks leading up to that moment, there had been other signs, easily dismissed in the chaos of modern life. I had been clumsier than usual—dropping keys, struggling to button a shirt, fumbling with zippers. I blamed stress. I blamed fatigue. I blamed the fact that I was getting older and perhaps just needed more sleep.
We are masters of rationalization. We convince ourselves that we are fine because the alternative is too terrifying to contemplate.
But the handwriting was undeniable. Fine motor skills are a high-level function of the brain; when they start to fail without a clear external cause, it is a red flag waving furiously in the wind. That afternoon, looking at the scrawl on the notepad, the rationalization evaporated. A cold, hard realization settled in the pit of my stomach: This isn’t stress. Something is seriously wrong.
I didn’t wait for a scheduled appointment. I didn’t wait to see if it would get better after a nap. I drove to the Emergency Room.
The Diagnosis: A Ticking Clock
Walking into the ER for something as seemingly non-urgent as “clumsiness” feels incredibly vulnerable. You fear the eye rolls of the triage nurses. You fear being told you are overreacting. But deep down, I knew I had to advocate for myself.
The speed at which the atmosphere changed from “routine check” to “crisis” was dizzying. A neurological exam revealed subtle weaknesses I hadn’t even noticed on my left side. Then came the CT scan.
I will never forget the doctor’s face when he returned. The casual chatter was gone. He explained that they had found a mass. A tumor.
It was benign—a word that usually brings relief. But in the context of the brain, “benign” is a complicated term. It meant it wasn’t cancer, but it was growing. It was pressing against the delicate structures of my brain that controlled movement and coordination. It was an intruder in a space with no room for guests. If left unchecked, the pressure would increase, leading to paralysis or worse.
The solution was not a pill or radiation. It was neurosurgery. They had to go in and cut it out.
The Surrender to Surgery
The days leading up to the surgery were a blur of fear and preparation. There is a specific kind of terror in knowing that someone will be operating on the very essence of who you are—your brain. I worried about the risks. I worried about who I would be when I woke up. Would I still be me? Would I regain the use of my hand?
Surrendering control is the hardest thing a human being can do. Laying on the gurney, watching the ceiling tiles pass by as they wheeled me into the OR, I had to let go. I had to trust the surgeon’s hands to fix what my own hands could no longer do.
The Reality of Recovery
We love stories of immediate triumph. We want to hear that the surgery was a success (it was) and that I bounced back immediately. But the reality of neurosurgery is not a movie montage.
Waking up in the ICU was the beginning of a second, harder battle. My head was wrapped, my body was weak, and the pain was a living thing. The tumor was gone, effectively “decompressing” my brain, but the trauma of the surgery itself was significant.
Recovery was a lesson in humility. I had to relearn things I had taken for granted since toddlerhood. I worked with occupational therapists to retrain my brain-to-hand connection. We played with putty, stacked blocks, and practiced tracing lines.
There were days of immense frustration. I would look at my hand, willing it to move faster, to be precise, and it would tremble. I cried over spilled water. I raged at the slowness of my progress.
But slowly, the “neuroplasticity” I had read about became my reality. The brain is resilient; it wants to heal. It finds new pathways. Week by week, the tremors subsided. The grip strength returned. And finally, I picked up a pen.
The first sentence I wrote wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. It was legible. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
The Lesson: You Are the Expert on You
I am sharing my story not to scare you, but to empower you. If I had ignored my handwriting—if I had chalked it up to just having a “bad week”—the tumor would have continued to grow. The damage could have become permanent.
My journey taught me three critical lessons that I want to pass on to you:
Trust Your Baseline: You know your body better than anyone else. You know what your “normal” feels like. If you experience a sudden deviation from that baseline—whether it’s a change in vision, balance, speech, or motor skills—pay attention.
Subtlety Can Be Serious: Health crises don’t always look like heart attacks. Sometimes they look like bad handwriting, a persistent stumble, or a slur in your speech. Do not wait for the symptoms to become catastrophic before seeking help.
Advocate Without Apology: It is better to go to the ER and be told you are fine than to stay home and suffer a preventable tragedy. Do not let the fear of embarrassment stop you from saving your life.