A Tumour named Pete

I met him two years ago, but he’s probably been around for years. I just didn’t know he was the one responsible for the searing pain in my head.

My massage therapist was trying to comfort me in the winter of 2021 when he said, in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger Kindergarten Cop impression, “It’s not a tumour.”

We both laughed.

Of course it wasn’t a tumour. The thought had never crossed my mind. 

I’ve never been stabbed in the eye, but that was how I would describe the pain that I awoke with on January 6, 2021. My right eye had never felt that sharp pain before. It lasted a few moments, and I was thankful when it subsided. But my relief was short-lived. The pain returned. It returned again and again.

Now, I have never had a baby, but I am an aunt/great aunt to 13, and there are a few more on the way, and I understand contractions. I thought I should time how far apart it was between each attack. Every five minutes that knife-like pain would strike my right eye.

I had no idea what to think of this. So, I took some pain meds and tried to sleep it off. That’s what I have to do with migraines. After three days of experiencing this excruciating pain, every five minutes, every hour I was awake, I thought I should see a doctor.

Have you ever been to the doctor when they do neurological testing? They don’t play around. Now I wasn’t just concerned about pain management, I was alarmed about my brain.

This began the long road of medical testing.

As the testing began, the pain morphed. The stabbing knife pain stayed consistent for about three and a half weeks. The next three and a half weeks, the pain no longer had a stabbing quality to it; it was a new pain accompanied by the feeling of someone forcing my eye closed. Again, this was every five minutes.

My current phase doesn’t have a schedule—I can’t time it—and it has lasted a lot longer than three and half weeks. There is a strange pressure on the back of my eye as if someone is trying to push it out of my eye socket.

Even as I type this, I want to both laugh and cry at the bizarre nature of how this sounds as I reminisce about the pain.

The testing journey was elaborate. Here are some highlights:

• They sent me to get my eyes tested with a regular optometrist.
• They sent me to an ophthalmologist.
• I had blood tests.
• I had an MRI.
• I saw a neurologist.

It was at the beginning of the neurologist’s appointment that the doctor said dryly: “You have a tumour. Now let’s talk about your headaches.” We then spent 20 minutes talking about my HISTORY of migraines BEFORE we circled back to the tumour. I was impressed with myself that I was able to shelve all the questions I had about the first sentence and answer all his other questions about the migraines.

After he had done all his tests and had his questions answered, he asked me if I had any. I calmly asked the question that you have probably asked: “So are we talking cancer or is it benign?” To that he replied, “That isn’t the concern. It’s a pituitary tumour, so there are different concerns.” Also, it wasn’t his expertise so I would need to see an endocrinologist for answers.

I asked a lot of other questions; some I remember, others I don’t. But the one takeaway for me was that he repeatedly said, “You are a reasonable person.”

I was thankful for those words when I got into my car and the shock began to kick in. I still had to drive myself home. “You are a reasonable person.” I said those words out loud and let them sink in.

I was just diagnosed by a neurologist as a reasonable person. 

It made me wonder what other responses he gets when he is telling people that they have something growing in their heads. I can understand a response that might be deemed less than reasonable. As I repeated my newly acquired medical diagnoses, I said, “I have a brain tumour. I am a reasonable person.” I began to wonder, How am I coping with this? Why am I not falling apart? Where does my reasonable response come from?

There is only one answer. Jesus.

Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 4:6-7

As the weeks, months and now years have passed, and I have shared parts of this health journey with others, they often remark that they see that peace being lived out. I cannot take any credit; it truly is God’s amazing grace. 

Don’t get me wrong—I have cried about it a lot, and I have had moments of fear, but my faith and trust in God are bigger than all of it.

After all the testing, research, and questions, where does it all stand?

The tumour is between a pea and a peanut and is on my pituitary gland at the base of my brain. That is why I named him Pete. (It is also difficult to fear something named Pete. I dated a couple of Petes—it’s not named after either of them.)

I have had a few MRIs, and it hasn’t grown in the last year and a half. It is hanging around my carotid artery, which doesn’t sound great, but depending on who you listen to, it does or doesn’t matter when it comes to surgical options.

The verdict: there are no plans to operate anytime soon. I am young, and the MRI hasn’t shown any growth. I will continue with yearly MRIs, neurosurgeon, endocrinologist, neurologist appointments, and blood tests. I am also on a special anti-inflammatory diet and medication to help with the migraines.

Where does my faith stand? There are many options, but here are my top three.

One: Jesus, the great physician, can operate on me at any time and remove the tumour. He can also heal me from the migraines and get me off the meds, and I can shout all about it (or write about it). This is my vote.

Two: It starts to grow again. And they operate.  

Three: I get to live with this thing in my head for the rest of my life.

It doesn’t matter which of these happens; my trust in God doesn’t depend on the outcome. My trust is in Him. He has walked beside me through all of this. He will keep doing so.

After I got my diagnosis, I walked into my massage therapist’s office. I told him, “I went and got my result.” I mustered my best Arnold impression and said, “It’s a tumour.”

_{Want to hear more about prayer and faith? Check out One Answered Prayer.}