There’s this guy named Mark, and he’s my hero.  He’s brilliant, kind, and easy on the eyes.  He’s funny, compassionate, and has a steady hand.  He’s also the person that I believe saved my life.  Five years ago today, Dr. Mark Luciano performed my brain surgery at Cleveland Clinic, and even he stated that he had no idea what he was dealing with until he was already in there.

June 18, 2009 – my parents, my siblings, and two of my best friends were sitting with me in prep before noon.  We were getting scolded by the nurses (Heather and Dee), wringing our hands (Mom), joking and laughing – really laughing, right Maria? (Dad, Sveinn, and Maria).  Dr. Luciano walked in and immediately plopped down on my bed, joining in the conversations.  He put my family at ease.  I left my family en route to the OR and I was scared.  Petrified.  I talked myself down, going over the neurosurgeon’s creditials – he has patents, and labs, and ongoing studies; he’s the Section Head of Neurological Surgery at the freakin’ Cleveland Clinic!  I had my very own McDreamy!  At this point, my anesthesiologist, Bird, came in; a great big guy with a personality to match.  The last thing I heard was “see you in a few hours, sweetheart”.  And this is what he left me with – a hole from a size 14 IV.  Still have a scar!

As my family and friends were, in no particular order, drinking insane amounts of Starbucks, walking 2 miles to smoke a cigarette, threatening desk nurses, getting fed (along with the rest of the hospital) by some Middle Eastern royalty, and having a very, very long day, my McDreamy was having complications.  A four and a half hour surgery was now six hours, now eight hours, until finally, about 10 hours later, he walks out to talk to my “posse”, as he calls them.  He was carrying two candy bars, which to Dee meant that he had good news (who can eat candy with bad news, right?), hence his first nickname, Dr. KitKat (his second was Dr. Hottie – for obvious reasons).  In the recovery room, I woke up screaming.  SCREAMING.  I was in so much pain, my feet were on fire from being strapped to a metal table for so long.  My neck felt like it was ripped in two from the incision.  I cried because I just didn’t feel right.  Something was wrong.  Dee wiped my forehead clean of the blood to reveal holes in my forehead and my face felt like it was blown up like a balloon.  The way my family looked at me terrified me.  My Mother, frantic about the blood coming from my ears, wasn’t whispering as much as she thought she was.  All I wanted to do was go back under.  I made my family and friends, who so patiently waited for me, go home.

I woke up the next morning and realized within an hour that everything had changed.  I was deaf and blind on my left side, my chest hurt, and my body was weak.  I couldn’t even keep my balance laying in a hospital bed.  My blood pressure took a direct hit in surgery and was having a hard time regulating.  A sympathy stroke during surgery weakened my left side.  And my hair was gone.  GONE.  I had a small tuft on the top that was left and that was it.  This wasn’t supposed to happen!  I was sad, and scared, and angry.

The next week was horrible.  I wasn’t with my kids, the meds they had me on were eating my veins, my vitals constantly flunctuating.  I had to learn to walk with a walker, I drooled on myself, I could still feel the swelling of my brain.  Constant nausea from severe vertigo, the fact that I had to be dependent on everyone, for everything, was enough to make me pissed off.

This paragraph will be short because it’s my rock bottom, and I don’t like to revisit it.  I came home and needed help with everything, even sitting on a couch so I wouldn’t fall off.  My friends washed my hair, my family took care of my kids, and I did nothing.  I was worthless.  I started feeling sick on Wednesday and prayed that whatever it was would take me.  By Friday I was in the ER with my kidneys shutting down and I wanted to die.  I was so angry with my Mother for not letting me just die.

Then I woke up on Saturday.  Physically and emotionally, and even spiritually.  I was alive.  Not only was I alive, but so were my kids, and my family, and my friends.  I had a job to go back to, I had Mommy-ing to do, I had a lot of sarcastic comments to catch up on.  I remember thinking “screw this, I’m better than that”.  I immediately apologized to my steadfast support group for being such a whiner.  I threw out my walker and started walking, ok bouncing off walls, but it was still on my own.  I got my hair cut that covered enough to make it look decent, but I still pulled it up in a ponytail ala 90s grunge style.  I went to things my organizations were putting on, that my kids were involved in, and rebuilt my life.  I had every reason to put one foot forward.

I lived for a reason that day five years ago.  Emma and Alena were my one and only focus and they are what saved my life.  Three months after surgery, I met Jason.  And my life just pulled together.   Those three people are, unapologetically, my first and foremost.  So to those who think I prioritize them too highly, or show my appreciation too much, or love too publicly – I don’t care.  People that matter don’t mind, and those that mind, don’t matter.  I still live with the residual effects from surgery complications, but they’re not my crutches!  I don’t complain and whine because that is exactly what I did to get to my rock bottom.  I don’t breed hatred over someone else’s accomplishments because I know how hard I had worked for mine.  There was no one else to blame for my rock bottom but me.  I came back with avengence because I was allowed to.  I have never been happier in my life than I have been in the last five years, and it only is getting better – if that’s not something to shout in the streets about, I don’t know what is.

So, to my parents and siblings – thank you for loving me at my lowest and celebrating with me at my highest.  To my friends – thank you for being my strength and my cheerleaders.  To my children and my now husband – thank you for understanding the bad days and making the great days.  Last but not least, to Mark Luciano – thank you for my everything.  On my fifth anniversary of that day in Cleveland Clinic, I’m proud to say that I got a life sentence.