90 Days At A Time...

My brain tumor was first discovered almost 10 years ago -- in December 1999. It was a complete stroke of luck, if you believe in such things (I don't, but that's another post). While playing basketball with a city league in St. Louis, I dove for a loose ball and collided with another player, losing consciousness for about 15 seconds. When I regained consciousness, I couldn't move my right arm. An ambulance ride and a CT scan later, I learned that I had sustained significant damage to my C5 cervical nerve, weakening my right arm to the point where I couldn't lift a 16-oz can of soda. I was a Captain in the Air Force at the time, and Air Force policies dictated that I also have an MRI of the brain to rule out any hemorrhaging or potential complications from the concussion. What followed can only be described as surreal.

An MRI of the brain can be an intimidating experience for the uninitiated (of course, I sleep through them now). Your head is immobilized by a plastic helmet, and you are slowly moved into a tube about 24" in diameter. You must be completely motionless -- for about 55 minutes. In my case, there was a small mirror just above my eyes, which allowed me to see out the tube, between my feet, into the MRI room where the technician was sitting. I tried to count the minutes as they crawled by...15...30...40...and about 45 minutes into the scan, a Colonel arrived. Five minutes later, another Colonel. And then another. And another. An hour into the scan, it was finished -- but I was still in the tube, watching with growing desperation as four Colonels pored over the screen where I can only assume my brain was on display. Born in and raised under the care of military hospitals, I knew Colonels were the Chiefs of their various divisions within the hospital -- neurology, neurosurgery, radiology, internal medicine, family practice...who were they? What did they see? After an eternity, the table started to move and I slowly slid out of the tube. The Colonels were gone.

The next day I received a call from a doctor in neurology, who wanted to test my right arm to determine the extent of the nerve damage. He also provided me with a referral to Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis to see a neurosurgeon. After repeated questions, he divulged that they had "seen something" on the scan, but didn't know what it was. The subsequent neurosurgery appointment confirmed the rumor, but diagnosis remained elusive -- an arachnoid cyst, a birth defect, a hamartoma. A year and a half later, along with second and third opinions at Deaconness and Sacred Heart Medical Center, and still no real confidence in what the thing was. But it was there. And it was growing. And it had to be removed.

Thanks to an article I ran across in Time Magazine and the sheer brilliance of Dr. Keith Black and his team at the Maxine Dunitz Neurosurgical Institute at Cedars-Sinai, we finally got a diagnosis, and scheduled surgery -- going under the knife in April 2001.

That first surgery was followed by serial brain scans (basically MRIs) every 90 days, and for the last eight years, I have been undergoing a similar routine. Life really only exists until the next scan. Is it clear? 90 days of remission. Is there a recurrence? Then the process begins again. Surgery? Chemotherapy? Radiation? You literally learn to live 90 days at a time. Each clear scan is 90 more days of living. 90 more days of running. 90 more days of fighting.

Which brings me to the point of the historic tale. I had another brain scan just a week or two ago, and recently got the results. We're all clear! The infection is gone, and there is no sign of any recurring cancer. No more tumors. The surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and antibiotics have all done their job. 90 more days, baby! 90 more days...