A month after
"So here is her brain, and this is the tumor." Dr. Pierce showed my mother and I.
"Oh, Ella." My mother held me tighter and urged the doctor to press on.
"From what I can see, her CT scan revealed a Vestibular Schwannoma, an acoustic neuroma. Basically, she has a tumor the size of a gold ball pressing on her brain, that's why she has been having hearing issues, and the size of it may be what is causing the blackouts-"
"Is it cancerous?" My mother injected. The doctor looked down at his hands and back up at my mother, then focused his gaze on me. He had a pained expression on his face, the took a deep breath.
"I don't know. The there are certain tests we could run, a full body scan to search if it has metastasized. I don't think it is, we don't see many cases of that in young adults, but we usually don't see this either. I think it would be safe to check." He looks young but so distraught, as if this is not the first time, and it won't be the last. He seems like a nice doctor, and person but in my mind all I can think is, "Fuck you." My mother gasps and I realize I said it out loud.
"Ella apologize. He had nothing to do with that, you shouldn't-"
"I shouldn't do a lot of things. Here is what should of happened, I should have been tested for this before. When I was being poked and prodded, and studied, why not add scanned to the list? And here you are about to tell me I have a fucking tumor, don't look down at your hands and take a deep breath, that makes it worse. If I am going to die, look at me straight in the face, and just say it, every other second is a waste. Well, Doc?" He looks at me in shock, and after a few seconds gathers himself and says it.
"I don't know what your odds are. A tumor this size needs to be removed and the fastest way is surgery but there are complications. If it is cancerous, and it is in the brain it can travel anywhere, your body is an express elevator. I just don't know. I'm sorry. I understand why you feel like this, but you have to understand these cases are very rare. Your family doctor thought it was stress and anxiety causing the blackouts, or maybe some family issues, not a tumor. I am very sorry. This hasn't been my first case, it probably won't be the last, which is why I hesitated. People have gone into shock at news like this, I wanted to be careful." The room is silent for a moment. We all just look down and breath.
There isn't anything to say. I have a tumor. Half of my mind is thinking it will be fine and the other half is going, "Fuck. Fucking hell. Great I'm dead. I'm as good as dead. I am Elvis dead. I'm friken Beethoven without syphilis. Just great.
Seventeen, almost legal, don't have a boyfriend, literally just about to apply to university, that cute guy said hi to me, I have prom, grad, watching Emma get valedictorian, Lucy telling Ben to man up, so many things to do. Fucking. Great."
My mother breaks the silence. She speaks calmly trying to mask her true reaction. "So, what next?"
"Well, we can do a biopsy. We would have to open you up and try to get a sample of the tumor, the danger is because it is your head and a crucial area, we would have to go in blind. The other case is to do a body scan, see if anywhere else is affected, and go from there. It is too late for any other option. We either schedule a surgery, or we run more tests. I would prefer to try to get it out now, but there is a big danger. You could lose-"
"My hearing, I know. That isn't an option. What happens without the surgery?"
"I am afraid losing your hearing is a very good possibility. Without the treatment, and it is just a benign tumor, it will be pushing on your brain, and it might even grow, which means you will get worse. There are some chances getting rid of it but not very strong, once it gets to a certain point. However, if it is cancerous, it could spread through your whole body, faster than we can guess, and then the most I can give you is..." He stops to ponder and think. Is that a good thing? Does that mean a long time? Does that mean he's trying to break it to me?
"Well I just don't know. I've never seen anything like this in someone so young. If it has spread, and depending on the rate and type it could be months or years. My best bet with a tumor like this could be another 5 years? Of course those would be 5 years of pain and agony and more." Dr. Pierce says back firmly.
He knows not to sugar coat things now.
The meeting goes on for another hour. In the end he tells me to research and we will meet back in a week to decide. He refers me to a shrink and says she will know my situation and talk to me everyday about it. I don't care what people say. This thing, this disease in my head, I don't care. I am not losing my hearing. If it means five years than fine, I'll take those five years, and live them. I am not going to live in a world where I can't hear. A world doesn't exist, without music. Not for me. Not anymore.