It's that time again.

My next MRI is tomorrow. I distinctly remember the anticlimax of last year, I even wrote about it. It was no big deal. So why am I so worried?

I've been doing a lot of running recently, and one of the best things about it is time to think. I've not had much time to myself since the baby was born and so it feels like a real luxury to just think for a while. Inevitably at this time of year I've been thinking a lot about head scans, brains and tumours.

I'm not sure if I ever asked, or if I've just forgotten, but I don't know how a tumour starts. Like, why does it begin?

When I was 12 I skied off a cliff. It wasn't intentional; I was trying to avoid a tree. Obviously with a bit of hindsight it wouldn't have been so bad crashing into a tree - no helicopters, splints or head scans would have been involved. On the plus side, I actually own copies of my 12 year old head scans which is pretty cool. And there is no tumour.

So where did it come from? When did it start? Why did it start? Why has this not occurred to me before?

Last week I managed to think my way through a 40 minute run, comparing my tumour to the entire universe (the world does revolve around me, doesn't it?). Either, I thought, it was created by God one day, or... there was an almighty big bang in my head (the cliff THE CLIFF), and then the tumour existed. (I admit, there are some failings to this comparison).

Oliver thinks it was a cell mutation, which makes sense. But even if that's the case, it doesn't really answer my question. Why? Why did it mutate? And why that one, and right then, in that way?

The thing is, I could have all the information in the world about how and why and what to expect, but until anything shows up on a scan it is all theoretical. None of it is worth wondering about even, it's such a waste of energy and worry - until there is a scan to look at. And tomorrow, there will be.

What is also not helping is the fact that I've had three migraines in the last five days. Not really recovering from one when the next hits. The last time this happened I was shovelled into an ambulance and ended up having my head sawn open. Bodes well.

Another thing I've been thinking about is the person doing the scan. They can see the results as it happens right, so they know, like straight away, if there's a whopping great lump of something in your head that isn't supposed to be there. What a weird job to know that about someone and send them merrily off home again to wait for a few weeks until they called in. I don't think I'm going to be able to stop myself staring at them on the way out, to see if they have pity in their eyes.

Em arrrrrgh eye.

Yup. It's that time again. Next month is April, and it isn't April's fault but it has been linked in my brain to all things, well, brain. Poor old brain.

I have had a sudden flurry of NHS appointment letters through the door, scans, consultations and a meeting with the "headache clinic". That one was a coincidence but somehow adds to the pressure. When I say scans, I mean scan. And consultations, consultation. I don't know why I feel like exaggerating things. Maybe because I know it's no big deal really and I'm trying to justify the panic.

I don't really need to write this post, I could just look up the one I did last year and copy and paste.

As I get further from the actual experience of brain surgery it gets more surreal and quite frankly, unlikely. It feels like something I made up once to tell strangers at a party in a bid to sound more interesting. Plus, loads of stuff has happened since then, like Alfred and... yeh just Alfred. But he's a big thing.

I'm rambling. As it feels so unreal, that doesn't quite align with physically going for scans and meeting with brain people. I really really really REALLY hope everything's ok.




PS. Pleased with that title. Just made myself chuckle. Yep, still got it.

A nice cup o'tea.

Well. Something enlightening has happened. I am enlightened. 

Despite working in dubious bistros, restaurants, cafés and pizza huts for many years in a previous life, serving all variations of hot drinks to the Great British public, I never fully thought about the meaning of "decaf". I know, I'm an idiot. 

Decaf tea! I love tea! At age four, my grandad gave me some heavily sweetened tea, much to my mum's disgust, and I've loved it ever since. 

Trouble is, I've always associated it with migraines. In the desperate search for a trigger it seemed obvious, the only caffeine I consume. There was never any evidence, but a growing 'just in case' mentality which left me scared stupid to even LOOK at a cup of tea. 

Until now WOOHOO, decaf tea! It tastes... just like tea. My sugar intake is just about to go through the roof, I'll just put the kettle on. 

Migraine terrors.

Aaaand back to reality. As predicted, today the migraine has mostly gone, and so has my imaginary tumour. Two days of a migrainous gunge-filled head has left me emotionally as well as physically reeling. The lingering sickness and fogginess, and the impulse to move my head the absolute minimum is so familiar to me. It's been a while, but my body remembers it well. The emotional repercussions are something else.

It has been one year, 13 weeks and a day since I had this kind of migraine. I can date it so well as that was the day they found my tumour. That day marked a big pin in my lifeline, a clean split creating a before and an after. And it turns out I had thought I could count migraines in the 'before' part.

Although I have had migraines since surgery, they have been totally manageable. I took two paracetamol and went to bed for a couple of hours. Felt rubbish for the rest of the day but was able to function as normal within 24 hours. I always knew this could have been pregnancy hormones, but there was just a tiny chance that surgery had improved them, for good.

I hadn't put much conscious thought into it but after yesterday I realise that, subconsciously, I believed I'd been cured. I haven't had a migraine for nearly ten months. Unheard of. And that was well easy to deal with. It has been a real blow coming to the realisation that I haven't been cured.

Before all this kicked off I lived in permanent fear of migraines. Not least because I can't work through them, and I feel like such a fraud taking time off work with no visible symptoms. Does anyone believe me? Does anyone know what this is like? It's isolating in the way that I can't even describe how wrong it feels. I used to get them regularly, about every two months. They would last three days and there was nothing I could do about it. No way of working and no way of escaping the horror.

I was walking paranoia. I avoided caffeine like the plague, ran away from camera flashes, didn't drive at night because of car headlights, and if out at night at all, would stare at my own toes just in case. Waiting for trains was a nightmare, they always have their lights on and catch one by accident entering a station? Blind panic for half an hour. I lived in fear. Don't even say the word in case it brings one on. Don't even!

But now they're back.

I'd been enjoying my migraine-free life, I've been drinking tea, not getting enough sleep or drinking enough water. I've been downright frivolous with camera flashes. It has been great fun, not living under the paranoia of a looming migraine. Now that I know I'm not cured, I don't see how I can avoid that paranoia again. It's been a depressing realisation to come to.

Work was one thing, I would have to call in sick no matter how much I didn't want to. There was no way I could work. The terrifying thing is, you can't call in sick to a five month old baby.

Stupid brain.

And so it begins. I have become incredibly skilled at compartmentalising worry. I used to be a right worrier, always planning and worrying. Worrying and planning. What if I'm late? What if I've got the wrong present? What if it rains? What if my brain tumour grows back?

I have learnt to let go of the worry by either working through the logic (take an umbrella, nobody will die) or by accepting there is nothing I can do about it (I might die, how will worrying help?). 

But sometimes I just worry. Before I've remembered that I don't worry anymore. 

Yesterday I got a migraine. Not like the ones I had during pregnancy, when a few paracetamols and a bit of sleep would sort it out. One like I used to get, back when I had a brain tumour. 

In the depths of a migraine it's difficult to act normally. The all encompassing pain, disorientating loss of vision, the full body sickness and something else indescribable makes me not quite function properly. I can't make decisions, I forget which drugs to take, I fumble and mumble and worry. This canNOT be normal. 

And so it begins. 

With the darkness surrounding the episode I am hardly at my most rational. I'll be fine tomorrow but I wanted to capture it. It's back, I can tell. I'm going to walk over the road and ask nicely for an MRI. Then I'll know. I'll be able to see a big white blob. A reason, an answer, everything fitting neatly into boxes with answers and solutions. (Although let's not think too much about solutions.)

I know it's ridiculous. But The Feeling is back, the gnawing, dawning, whining worry I must ignore to carry on. 

Roll on tomorrow, and normality. 

Ah yes, and HNY everyone, may 2014 treat you kindly xx

This time last year.

A year isn't an arbitrary number of days, but a full earthly swing around the sun. After a particularly painful relationship breakdown, I had some great advice that I think is applicable to any major life change: the first full year, with each annual event, resets the normal and allows you to move on. Birthdays, seasons, national holidays and anniversaries. We can't help but compare them to previous years.

It does seem arbitrary though, 365 days. 'This time last year' is something I've been saying a lot. We didn't know. We didn't know that I had a brain tumour and we didn't know how that news would impact us and what it would mean. We didn't know we would have a baby. Everything is different now, and I can't articulate how changed I feel.

All along I have been marking the time passed since my surgery on the 24th October 2012. It has recently struck me that that date isn't as important than the one looming now. The day everything changed was much earlier. In fact I can't pinpoint an actual day, but a steady build up of days.

Oliver's birthday (yesterday), followed by a family weekend by the sea (today and tomorrow), then immediately to a couple of days in Poland for work. And that's where it all kicked off with what I thought was a migraine in a hotel lobby. I'd been feeling kind of terrible for a couple of months but I hadn't really noticed it creeping up on me.

The emails I sent to work explaining my absence throughout the following week are fascinating to read back, and my twitter feed gives a somewhat simplified version of events:

• 21st September: dark when i leave work, dark when i get up for work. hope summer starts soon.
• 24th September: business travel on ryanair isn't quite business class. not that i'd know.
• 25th September: quite enjoying working in a hotel lobby today. particularly the soundtrack.
• 25th September: a triptan, 2 pints of water, vitamin c tablets, apple juice, spoon of marmite, prawn cocktail crisps. hot water bottle. bed. die: migraine.
• 27th September: in bed with a bag of peas on my head. @omorley is singing give peas a chance and i smell of peas. not in a good way. migraine, peas off now.
• 1st October: love the nhs.

I can't quite explain the fascination I have for this annual comparison. I continually marvel at the difference to today, but there is something else too. Would I go back to a year ago? Would I choose a different path if I could? No. I have developed as a person and learnt a lot about myself. It's been a worthwhile journey.

But it seems an anniversary to make a note of in some way. I feel almost tearful at the thought of this time last year, and as if I keep banging on about it. As per the advice above, maybe I'll move on after this. We'll soon have been through every annual event and the new normal will have been set. Time to look forward rather than back.

(There is no button and you can't go back.)

My one monthiversary.

Suddenly it's one month since surgery. Wow.

I'm celebrating, on my own, in bed, with a migraine. I'm really disappointed. I knew it was a long shot but I was really hoping that the tumour had been the cause of my migraines.

Rubbish.

Symmetry of time.

I went on a course once about personality types, and was identified as a type of person who remembered dates. I've been thinking about dates a lot recently, and the weird symmetry of time.

It was a year ago yesterday that Oliver and I decided to get married, over Sunday lunch. It was such a good decision, and Oliver was on Jen-sitting duty yesterday, that I think that set me off thinking about the year we've had. It's been a great one, 2012. We've done some brilliant stuff and this is just a weird part of that.

It was a year ago today that I started my new job at Pearson. I feel quite bad about the fact I hadn't yet been there a year when this all kicked off, and they've looked after me so well. But it is a marker of the passage of time.

And then there's the whole tumour business. It was the 1st October when we went to see the GP (I remember asking Olly to send a pinch and a punch email to Tristan as I knew he was away and would forget. It made me laugh through the pain). Before then, we had no reason to believe this was anything more than a bout of migraines, it was less than a month ago.

Today is the 31st of October, I am taking the last of my drugs today and having the stitches removed from my head. It will all be over by 6:15pm tonight.

October 2012: tumour month.

Told you so.

This is a weird thing that just is.

I've been getting migraines for years, had my first one at 24 working in Nottingham and I just suddenly couldn't see, it was terrifying. Then I had to lie in a room for three days without the light on trying not to vomit - what is this hell? I couldn't understand what was happening to me.

I hate migraines, they are invisible and almighty. There is just no arguing with the nausea and pain and when it's there it feels like it will never go away. In a migraine I just can't imagine a world where I don't have that pain.

During these episodes over the years I have been known to be melodramatic. Every time, I convince myself there is something really wrong. Something is causing this horrendous head pain and it must be really wrong. There's only one thing it could be - I've got a brain tumour.

I've been saying that for years. I say it to Olly during every migraine and then we both go "naaah don't be ridiculous". I said it to the consultants and clinics I've been to. I've moaned at my family. I think I've even said it to work people.

I don't think I ever really believed it, but during the dark migrainous hours of seemingly endless and unstoppable pain, it has felt like the most obvious thing.

But of course I didn't really believe it (too easy to say that now).

When we were waiting in A&E on that Monday two weeks ago me and Olly talked about the first brain scan. I said I was well pleased. I would finally have categoric and visible proof that I don't have a brain tumour - oh how we laughed.

In the back of my mind there was a little gap though... unless...

Bloody told you so!