Over the holidays I had several seizures, which led to me being diagnosed with a brain tumor. It’s a low-grade glioma, which is the good news. It’s smack-dab in the middle of the language center of my brain, which is the bad news.
I tell you this in part to let you know why I might not be around for the next few months. I’ll be having brain surgery in February, and I expect at least six weeks of recovery, time in which I’ll be exhausted and may not be up for blogging. I hope to bring in some fabulous guest bloggers for those weeks.
The other reason I’m sharing this, though, is because having a brain tumor in the language center of my brain has raised a lot of hard questions for me, questions that relate to the theme of this column. I’m an academic, a scholar who writes books and teaches classes. I’m the mother of a young child who is doing great but who needs more help, intervention, and encouragement than a typical child. My Ph.D. is in English. I have been a ravenous reader and passionate writer since I was a little, little kid. Potential damage to the language center of my brain feels like something that threatens the heart of who I am. Who will I be if I don’t have the fluency or facility with language that I have right now? I’ve been poking around in the academic world of disability studies for the last several months, but this diagnosis brings disability even more intimately into my life. It’s not only someone I love who’s experiencing life with a disability (my daughter); it may well be me.
Indeed, no matter what the long-term effects are (and the prognosis actually looks quite good), I certainly will be living with disabilities for the weeks and months immediately following the surgery, as I’ll have brain swelling that will lead to some language difficulties and motor function challenges. I’ll have a kind of insider’s perspective on disability.
Who will I be? It’s an academic question as well as a deeply personal one. I can go around and around in my mind, wondering–imagining what it would be like not to be able to talk off the cuff about feminism with the same ease that I do now, or to hear a sentence and not to be able to understand it immediately. These aren’t effects that the neurosurgeons have promised; in fact, one of the frustrations has been that they can’t tell me much. We’re very much in a wait and see mode. One friend pointed out that this may be a great opportunity for me to learn that who I am is not the same as what I do, but she was quick to add that this life lesson is no justification for a brain tumor.
It’s really weird for me to think about so many characteristics of my life—characteristics which in some way feel transcendent or inherent—as being tied to a physical organ. It gives body language a whole different meaning.
Comments
Shira — January 19, 2010
Sending lots of love and support.
gwp_admin — January 19, 2010
Alison, please know that ALL of us here will be thinking of you.
Siren — January 19, 2010
Alison, love, support and warm wishes for your speedy recovery.
Therese Shechter — January 19, 2010
Very glad to hear you feel the prognosis is good. Sending all good thoughts to you!
Daphne — January 20, 2010
Alison,
What a beautiful and terrifying entry, especially for all of us who write for a living, or, as you indicate, for an identity. Writers don't have to worry about retiring because none of us can imagine an age at which we'd be relieved to finally stop writing and, say, have more time for gardening and golfing. John Updike was writing poetry on his deathbed.
I wish you the best of luck and look forward to seeing equally insightful, skillfully written entries from you this time next year, after your full and complete recovery. This is scant comfort, but certainly your writing will be all the richer for this experience (I'd probably sock someone if they said that to me, but I suspect it's true.)
Warmly,
Daphne (friend of Deborah's and a handful of other GWP editors)
Adina — January 20, 2010
Alison, I admire your courage and deeply respect your decision to write about your diagnosis. I wish you strength in the coming months and hope you'll continue to write about your experiences -- whether just for yourself or to share with others.
Allison Kimmich — January 20, 2010
Alison,
You know that many of us in NWSA will be holding you in our thoughts over the coming weeks & months.
My best wishes--Allison
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Melissa — February 25, 2010
Oh, my God. Just seeing this now, and am obviously very sorry to hear this news, and wishing you all the best. This post is so poignant on so many levels. I was just thinking the other day what it would be like to lose the ability to write, and it was terrifying to contemplate.
You will be in my thoughts and prayers.
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