Of course, I had increasingly painful headaches radiating from the bottom left of my head and difficulty swallowing several times, but like many people, especially during the pandemic, I put off going to the doctor assuming it was just covidian stress. Endless zoom life and calls.
But there it was on the scans, a tumor pressing on my brain stem. He needed an operation. A brain tumor. Surgery. In the middle of a pandemic.
It wasn't in my plan. It was December 2020, I was polling ahead of the Georgia special election to celebrate the new administration, and thinking about the next steps in my career, my job at CNN, maybe a vacation.
As I absorbed the seriousness of my diagnosis, my mind raced, wondering what to do next. First, find someone to look after my dog. Then find a neurosurgeon, schedule medical appointments, checkups, hire a lawyer to update my will and get my affairs in order. How long do I have to put my mail on hold? I thought about what could go wrong during the operation. What if it's not "me" on the other side? While also trying to focus on being passed out in a room full of strangers with my brain exposed like in an episode of "Grey's Anatomy".
I was overwhelmed. So I did something that went against the norms of Washington DC political culture: I prayed that violence would become vulnerable.
As a black woman, I know personally and professionally how vulnerability can be viewed as a weakness, how it can fuel stereotypes and be used as a weapon, especially in our current media environment. As a policy advisor and communications strategist, I've spent time with clients helping them understand how to effectively manage and communicate real and perceived vulnerabilities. As a commentator, I know how to analyze them.
Brain surgery was completely new territory. I quickly realized that I couldn't prepare, survive, and recover from brain surgery without wanting to be vulnerable, to trust my friends, family, and my beliefs. Accept that he couldn't control the situation just how he reacted. I was also unable to cope with the whirlwind of terrifying information, uncomfortable emotions, and insecurity while I was flying alone. One of my heroes, researcher and author Brené Brown, defined vulnerability as insecurity, risk, and emotional exposure. If that doesn't describe trying to survive brain surgery, I don't know what that feels like.
It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, telling my friends before and even now after the surgery is over. I fear that I will worry or place an enormous additional burden on people in the midst of a pandemic that has already taken its toll.
I am concerned that my situation will reveal to them their own vulnerability and the frustrating limits of what they could physically do to help, especially during Covid. Finally, I shared the news with a small group of friends, family members, and co-workers, and prayed that the people I did not have the opportunity to speak to directly would understand me. It was like an emotional "loss of trust".
It turned out that my "village" has taken action and I will be eternally grateful with all my heart. They set up a support network and were willing to sit with me without knowing how the operation would go. They created a rotating schedule to get me to doctor appointments and tests before surgery and the first month I was out of the hospital. They prayed with and for me and helped me manage all kinds of logistics in life.
A mentor of mine came to me as a second ear for many virtual medical appointments as I had complicated conversations about different surgical options and made decisions about the best course of action. A former boss came in to offer help and support.
Two amazing friends who had undergone brain surgery gave me generous advice and connected me to important resources before and after the surgery. Since my operation took place before the big vaccine rollout, I "teamed up" with a close family. They put some of their lives on hold, brought me and my dog Mabel home, and literally left me well for over a month after the operation. You helped me ask a lot of questions.
When I was in the hospital and couldn't defend myself effectively, they politely harassed the doctors and nurses on my behalf. They made sure the hospital staff knew people were looking at me to make sure I was getting the care I needed. You and many dear friends are always with me on this healing journey.
I am very grateful to the neurosurgery team at Johns Hopkins Hospital who removed my tumor and continue to help me heal, my ENT, nurses and specialists who looked after me and continued to help me heal, especially the clinical technicians who have changed my sheets. He helped keep myself clean, get up, leave and check my vital signs like clockwork every four hours.
It was a complicated operation, and while it was very successful, there were complications. The critical nerves that control the complexity of swallowing and my left vocal cord had to be moved to remove the tumor. As a result, I couldn't even take a sip of water about two weeks after the surgery. I couldn't eat. It was difficult to speak.
After 10 days in the hospital, leaving the hospital meant that a feeding tube had to be inserted. A week after leaving the hospital, I started outpatient therapy, which allowed me to swallow, eat and strengthen my voice again. My speech and language pathologist is a warrior who has helped me come a long way over the past eight weeks.
Even for someone like me with good health insurance it was extremely difficult to survive the health system. Just as we need to improve the quality, affordability and accessibility of care, we also need to bring "care" back into our health system.
This does not mean that the people in the system (doctors, nurses, clinical technicians, people from different departments who schedule appointments, surgeries and procedures, residents, cleaning staff, MRI technicians) or the insurance claim staff decide whether to approve one or not not procedure or claim, don't worry. You absolutely do. However, in your current situation, there are several factors that can make it unnecessarily difficult for these people to provide the care that patients want or really need.
The health system can also be too complicated, redundant and sometimes irresponsible. A doctor with excessive hours who is five minutes late for laps (the daily time allotted to hospital visits for convalescent patients) may only have two minutes to answer a patient's question overnight. Lack of coordination of care between departments can result in a patient rushing a few days before surgery to find a place where certain preoperative tests can be done in a timely manner, to be passed on to doctors and to ensure that they are also insured are. The examples are endless.
As a patient with a support group, despite all the help, experience, and resources available to me, it has been frustrating and sometimes dehumanizing to get involved with the healthcare system.
After nearly 12 weeks with the surgery behind me, some friends and colleagues thought I should wait until I was airborne again and speak in public until my voice was completely healed. In all honesty, we don't know when that will be the case. And I'm trying to have the courage to show what healing looks and sounds like while I'm still in the thick of it, fighting for my life now that I'm on the other side of the brain tumor. Surgery.
I really appreciated coming to "The Lead with Jake Tapper" last Friday. It was fun talking about politics instead of practicing diaphragmatic breathing and phonation. A friend across the hall later texted me stating that he thought I hadn't missed a blow in my analysis even before hearing that I had suffered a stroke. I'm fine, getting stronger every day as I continue to recover. The tumor was benign, but I'll still need an annual brain scan.
The scar on the left back of the head and neck of the incision is fading and my hair is slowly growing back. I'm getting used to my new "smoky" voice.
I am deeply grateful to be able to write this article and share my story. I am deeply grateful to my friends, family, co-workers, and the CNN family for their continued support, prayers, help and love throughout this journey. I literally wouldn't be here without her.
My message is as follows. Whatever the challenge, find your village - people who look after you are happy to be invited to help. Show them your vulnerability. Let her hold it to you. Let her speak for you when you can't. During the journey you will discover a deep connection and friendship that is the most powerful medicine of all.
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