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Dear Self

YOU ARE A SURVIVOR

By Aleea WhitmirePublished 5 years ago 5 min read
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The day I was admitted for emergency brain surgery.

Dear self,

It's been three weeks since your emergency brain surgery and things have been hard. Really damn hard. Today as you were looking into the mirror, I noticed you run your hands over your scars and the air left your stomach. You felt it as I whispered "we are okay" but I don't think you believed me. I want you to understand, that I can't lie to you. Okay, that's not true. I can tell you that another piece of cake doesn't matter if no one sees you eat it, I can say that all of that bull you buy with inspirational quotes that you hang on the walls actually makes us feel better, and I can tell you that the people around us aren't scared to say the wrong thing with every breath but we both know deep down when I'm lying. And today, I'm not. WE ARE GOING TO BE OKAY.

Yesterday the neurologist said something that stuck with me; "we can't touch the brain without leaving a fingerprint." Things are different now. I don't know if they will ever be the same or if life will forever be categorized by 'before brain surgery' and 'after brain surgery' but I can tell you that you are a survivor and maybe one day you won't notice the shunt anymore. But for now we will focus on the survivor aspect.

Two weeks before brain surgery you had gone almost completely blind. Your brain was filling with fluid rapidly and you were in constant pain but you kept going. I mean, you didn't have much of a choice—your kids and your husband needed you to be strong but damn did you pull it off, even on the unbearable days. I saw you pull yourself from that bed every day and make things happen. You never let Intracranial Hypertension take your life from you. Please don't lie down now.

Now here we are, post brain surgery with a device that pulls fluid from your brain to your stomach. You can audibly hear it and let me tell ya that was a shock for all of us. It's been scary but I'm so amazed at how you've handled it. We have new challenges a head of us. Regrowing the hair they shaved seems to be on your mind a lot. I know it doesn't help, but it is 'just hair'. People stare. So what? People stared before when you dyed your hair crazy colors and you didn't care. People stared when you got your whole arm tattooed—you didn't care. Let them stare. You survived. They see a shaved head. Your family sees a warrior. Place your value in the people who matter.

I know you are tired. Chronic illness is so exhausting. The fight isn't over yet, though. It may never be over. It may be something you fight forever but that's life. You have to make the best of what you were given. I need you to get up, stop wallowing, and fight. We have come too far. I know you are scared.

They don't tell you the emotional side of an emergency brain surgery. They don't tell you that when you wake up all of that fear and sadness and anger you didn't have time to feel hits you during recovery when you have half a bald head and all the pain. It must have been in the fine print that after they drill a hole in your skull and insert tubes into your brain that you feel like a piece of you has died or is missing. There is a mourning period that happens that no one talks about. And during this period you will notice things that you didn't think you would. Like the way people say "I'm sorry" when they do not know what else to say. Or how small sympathy and pity can make you feel. How much you long for just one person to treat you like they did before the surgery that changed everything and then no one does because everything is different now. Be patient with them, they don't mean for it to be this way.

Then you experience the physical differences, the pain, the dexterity that comes back slowly. I got my vision back but no one has told my ears that we aren't blind anymore so everything is very loud now.

The mental parts; how confused I become. How my brain forgets things at super human speeds. How overwhelmed and out of control I feel when I'm out of my safe place.

The biggest question I get right now is, "how are you?" I'm not sure. I am so grateful to be here, I am so grateful to see the leaves on the trees and butterflies outside the window but I am also scared. Scared my body will reject the medical miracle that's been given to me, scared that my world will go blurry again, scared that my husband and my family will lose patience with this new reality for me.

You see, when they save your life, they give you a whole new one. The person you were before isn't there anymore. You still look like her but you don't feel like her anymore. It's very scary. I can only hope that you find her again one day and maybe introduce this new person that you've become to her. I think she'd understand more than anyone. Until then, head up, shoulders back, one breath at a time. You're a survivor. SURVIVE.

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About the Creator

Aleea Whitmire

Domestic violence survivor, recovered addict with 2 years clean, mom, wife, caregiver, dog mom, cat mom.

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