My Fifth Anniversary

Today is My Rebirthday

Today is the fifth anniversary of a very important day to me. This has become one of my most favorite days of the year. It means more to me than my birthday. In fact, I refer to this as my rebirthday. It was exactly five years ago I underwent several hours of surgery in the Johns Hopkins Hospital neurosurgical unit. I was one of four who had brain surgery that day.

It really started about six years ago. At some point, I realized I had not been paying complete attention to my surroundings. I would be startled when a car would overtake me on the highway. I wouldn’t notice it until it was off my left front fender. I would lecture myself to stop daydreaming and pay greater focus on what was taking place around me.

Then a few months later the headaches began. I’ve never been prone to headaches. But when these started they became unbearable. I would sometimes excuse myself from work to sit in my car with my eyes closed and the seat all the way back hoping the intense pain would soon pass. It was the first time in my life I was experiencing such brutal symptoms from spring allergies. At least that was what I thought was happening.

This one-two punch of lackadaisical attention to my surroundings and mind-splitting headaches continued from the spring until late fall. Then I started having moments of dizziness and was losing my balance. On a few occasions, I had to take a knee to steady myself. But those episodes usually passed rather quickly.

In retrospect, I realize those were clear signs that something was amiss with my health. How could it not have been so obvious to me back then? Perhaps I still thought of myself as being ten feet tall and bullet proof, and immune from any serious health hazard.

Then one night I awoke with a start and realized there was more going on than just allergies and an inability to focus. And I knew it was serious even though I didn’t know exactly what was happening. Initially, I was reluctant to see my doctor. I was afraid of what would be discovered. I knew it wouldn’t be good.

Finally, I saw my primary care physician who gave me an exam and then told me to see my ophthalmologist. After my ophthalmologist examined me, he gave me a field of vision test. He was measuring my peripheral vision. He saw some things that concerned him and said he wanted a second opinion. He referred me to a neuro-ophthalmologist.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, I met with the neuro-ophthalmologist. He gave me a thorough exam including another field of vision test. It turned out I was nearly blind in the two left quadrants of both eyes. That explained why I didn’t notice cars overtaking me until they were well ahead of me. I had no peripheral vision on my left side.

The neuro-ophthalmologist made a phone call and got me a head-of-the-line appointment at a nearby MRI facility. Afterward, I sat in the neuro-ophthalmologist’s waiting room waiting for the results. After a short while, he fetched me and walked me to his private office and sat me down. He sat in a chair directly facing me, pulled it uncomfortably close, and placed both his hands on my knees. Then he said, “I strongly encourage you to get your personal affairs in order. This is not going to end well for you.”

I remember those words and the pained expression on his face like it was yesterday.

He told me I had an unusually large brain tumor – about the size of a baseball – pressing on my occipital lobe. It was crushing my optic nerve, which is why my eyesight had been significantly reduced. It also explained why I had all those massive headaches. Then he told there was a neurosurgeon waiting to see me at the University of Maryland Medical Center about 45 minutes away.

Once I got to my car I knew I had to make a phone call. I had never mentioned to my wife about the vision, the headaches, the dizziness, or the doctors visits. Now, I had to break the news I had a brain tumor and was on my to see a neurosurgeon about surgery and treatment. That wasn’t a very pleasant phone call. I will leave it at that.

I fully realized just how serious the situation was when I entered the neurosurgeon’s office. I introduced myself to the receptionist and asked how long before the doctor would see me. She replied, “He’s ready. He’s been waiting nearly an hour to see you.” That stunned me.

I met with the doctor and his chief resident. I had my wife on speakerphone. The doctor thoroughly explained surgery and treatment. He patiently answered all questions. He told me he was already booked for the following morning, but he could perform my surgery the day after that.

I told him I wanted to wait a month. The doctor was surprised. He wanted to know why I wanted to delay especially since I was losing more of my eyesight each day. “Life will get very rough for you when you go totally blind,” he said. I told him I had two daughters in college who would soon be taking final exams. I didn’t want to drop this on them. Nor did I want my family hanging around a hospital room over Christmas. I couldn’t imagine anything more depressing to do for the holidays. I wanted to schedule my surgery in the new year.

I always thought I would be panicky if I ever found myself in this situation. But it didn’t happen that way. There was no panic whatsoever. I had a plan that would take care of my family if I were to leave earlier than I hoped. In fact, I was completely calm and totally at peace with whatever was going to happen to me.

After I got home, my wife and I decided we were going to keep this to ourselves. I had to tell a few people at work because I was to stop all travel. We decided we would tell our daughters after they returned home for Christmas break. Otherwise, we weren’t going to tell friends, neighbors, and co-workers until after I was admitted for surgery.

There’s a silver lining to every dark cloud. This secret allowed me to tell every dumb dad joke I could think of in the most awkward situations (“I wonder if I’ll meet a brain surgeon one day” and “I need that like I need a hole in my head.”) I was performing my own private stand-up comedy gig.

After a second consultation, I chose a neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins Hospital. He owns a farm, hunts and fishes, likes country music, and drinks Jack Daniels. He was just my kind of guy.

I underwent surgery on January 10, 2018. It took about 6 hours to remove the tumor and treat me with proton radiation. It was while I was recovering in the neurosurgical ICU that I learned just how powerful a drug fentanyl is. As the surgery painkillers wore off I experienced the most excruciating pain imaginable. After I mashed the nurse call button, the doctor on duty administered fentanyl. My pain went from 10+ to non-existent in about 10 seconds.

I was told beforehand my entire hospital stay would be 8 days. I was discharged 47 hours after my surgery started. They claimed my recovery was remarkable. Either that or they needed the bed.

I expected to be absent from work for about three months. I was back in the office in just four weeks. I kept my shaved head covered until my hair grew back. The ugly incision and 62 staples in my head were not a pretty sight to share with others.

Fortunately, I’ve had no more tumors since the first one was removed. I underwent a brain MRI every six months for the first four years after surgery to confirm no recurrence. Now, I get one annually. Including all pre- and post-operative MRIs, I’ve had 13. Number 14 is in the coming weeks. Fingers crossed.

I count myself incredibly lucky. Just about every single day, I say a little prayer for those who I refer to as the “Hopkins 3.” Those were the other three patients who also had brain tumor surgery this same day five years ago.

None of them are with us today.

Mark Hyman is an Emmy award-winning investigative journalist. Follow him on Twitter, Gettr, Parler, Post, and Mastodon.world at @markhyman, and on Truth Social at @markhyman81.

His books Washington Babylon: From George Washington to Donald Trump, Scandals That Rocked the Nation and Pardongate: How Bill and Hillary Clinton and their Brothers Profited from Pardons are on sale now (here and here).