Chronic illness causes a lot of pain, and pain always carries fear with it. One way to cope is to recognize that fear can co-exist with many other feelings. It is OK to be scared, and it is OK to keep going.
PUBLISHED May 15, 2018
Samira Rajabi was diagnosed with a vestibular schwannoma, also known as an acoustic neuroma in 2012. She has had ten surgeries to deal with her tumor and its various side effects. She writes a blog about her life, surgeries, recovery and experiences at LivingWithHerbert.com. She is currently a post-doctoral fellow at the Center for Advanced Research in Global Communication at the University of Pennsylvania, where she studies media studies. In her spare time she plays with her two pups and spends time with her husband exploring Philadelphia.
After my first brain surgery, I thought that there would be nothing more difficult than sustaining that. It was a physical and mental injury that stifled me in so many ways. I was determined to be the patient who amazed everyone with her resilience, despite knowing how problematic that could be for me as a real person trying to survive, but I put the pressure of a perfect recovery on myself anyway.
I remember waking up after surgery feeling shaky and nauseous. Two nurses quickly came to my side and I felt a rectangular bucket in my hands. The blurry room in front of me started to take shape. I saw machines and cords everywhere. I looked down at my hands to see an IV poking out of my knuckles. In my own mind, I was sure I was dead, but I found myself disappointed that the trappings of a medicalized life had not fallen away. I thought to myself, “surely in death you don't need IVs.” As I watched the nurses rush around me and bustle about, I became more lucid. I realized I was, in fact, alive. The signs of life were being objectified by IVs, oxygen tanks and machines that monitored everything my body was doing.
I remember waking up after surgery feeling shaky and nauseous. Two nurses quickly came to my side and I felt a rectangular bucket in my hands. The blurry room in front of me started to take shape. I saw machines and cords everywhere. I looked down at my hands to see an IV poking out of my knuckles. In my own mind, I was sure I was dead, but I found myself disappointed that the trappings of a medicalized life had not fallen away. I thought to myself, “surely in death you don't need IVs.” As I watched the nurses rush around me and bustle about, I became more lucid. I realized I was, in fact, alive. The signs of life were being objectified by IVs, oxygen tanks and machines that monitored everything my body was doing.
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