I attended my appointment with a light hearted attitude. Dr Wihl had seemed confident that nothing sinister would be evident from the MRI, and I thought the last minute appointment was just indicative of people's attitudes towards NHS hospital appointments - simply that a slot had opened up.
I walked into Dr Wihl's office, and as I approached his desk, I noticed the screen of his computer. The screen showed a scan of a side-on cross-section of a human head, in which I could see a large growth. Thanks to Dr Wihl's closing gambit on my previous visit, I didn't read anything into it, and I remember thinking to myself, "I feel sorry for that poor bugger."
Dr Wihl was accompanied by a nurse, and asked me to take a seat, thanking me for coming at such short notice. You may have realised from my previous posts that I seldom visit doctors, and have been fortunate to have enjoyed good health - this situation was alien to me. I felt calm and relaxed, and waited for the doctor to collect himself. Dr Wihl took a breath, and said, "As you see from your scan...". I was the poor bugger. For a moment, my brain blocked out what was being said, and I focused on the screen. I felt a small sinking sensation in my stomach as I looked at the screen. The image was much like the one in the back-drop of this blog, but in the top-centre of the brain, there was a large circular mass. It was in clear contrast to the spaghetti-esque appearance of the rest of that part of my brain. It was a single solid colour, and had a discernible outline. I realised that I was still zoned out, and Dr Wihl probably had a lot more information that would seriously affect my ability to get through my day in one piece.
I zoned back in, and composed myself. Dr Wihl's tone was unchanged - he was still calm and assured. My brain had leapt to the obvious conclusion of 'brain tumour', but the doctor used a much less sinister vocabulary to describe what was going on. He described a "Mass", and used the words, "Probably benign". Boom. He followed up with the words, "Urgent referral". My attention was patchy. I had a moment of quiet contemplation as I collected my thoughts once more, and then the questions started. I needed to know more. Was a mass still a tumour? Yes. I had to check that benign was the good kind of tumour. It was. Why was my referral urgent, and what was the likely outcome? I had a lot of questions. Dr Wihl told me that he had made the urgent referral as I was healthy, but the signs were that the tumour was putting pressure on parts of my brain, and he wanted to protect what was still healthy to avoid any further damage. He told me that the likelihood was surgery. I peppered him with surgical questions, but he resisted. We both knew that until a surgeon had seen the scans, there were still a million possibilities. I swallowed...I was going to have brain surgery. I felt a peculiar mix of emotions. I was expecting to freak out at the prospect, but didn't. The scientist in me wanted all of the facts. I knew there was a mass in my brain. The doctor had told me that it was 55mm...roughly the size of a satsuma...all I could see was that it was taking up what seemed like a vast amount of space in my head. I knew it needed to come out, and was heartened by the fact that I was still deemed as healthy, and they wanted it out fast. I was impressed with speed of my appointment, and was now aware that this was no coincidence. I eagerly anticipated the appointments to come, and had confidence in my ability to deal with it. But how would I tell the people closest to me? That was another problem for another inner monologue. Doctor Wihl showed me scans which showed pressure on the speech centre in my brain, and on my optical nerves. Was my eyesight at risk? Time was of the essence. I had no more questions, and Dr Wihl had no more information. I thanked him, and stood up feeling like I was aware of the magnitude of the situation, and that I had the tools to deal with it. The nurse looked at me quizzically. "Are you ok?" She asked. "I'm fine." I replied. I was fine. It seems laughable - I was dealing with the most catastrophic news I had ever received, and I hadn't even flinched. The problem-solver in me had kicked in, and I knew what I was fighting, and what I had to do. I needed to tell my family, and I needed to research.
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