It was now a month post-op. By now, my wound had all but healed, and the landscape of my head was the only really physical sign of what I had undergone. I had started playing football again a couple of weeks after receiving the semi-clear, and was back at work on reduced hours, so not to wipe myself out.
As I concentrated on my investigations (which had remained as I had left them in the case of the longer running enquiries), I would idly run my fingers through my hair. This would serve no purpose other than an idle distraction, if anything, as I hadn't begun to style my hair again. When I ran my fingers across the top of my head, I could trace the outline of the square of bone that had been removed. I could feel the corners where it didn't quite sit flush with my skull. I could feel the screws and plates that added rigidity to my head, the starter hole where the process had begun, and small areas where the follicles on my scalp had been replaced with scar tissue, and the ridges where the wound had healed unevenly. Each idle grope reminded my of what had happened, and still does.
To the outside world, I was no different to the rest of the population, but looking a little deeper showed something more. My scar was neat and hidden, and in a sense this suited me, but the small boy within me wanted people to feel the undulations of my head, to see the signs. I was proud of how I had tackled my demon. Part of me wanted to brag about it.
Mentally, the signs were more subtle, but I was eminently aware of them. My speed of thought was improving, but I was notably less mentally agile, especially when it I was called upon to be quick witted. My word selection was laboured when I was tired, and when typing a double letter in a word, I would often type (and still do) the letter before or after as the double. These weren't things that caused me any real concern, but they were there, and I was aware of them.
I occasionally pondered how I had escaped relatively emotionally unscathed, but set the thought aside, preferring to congratulate myself on my mental fortitude.
Football brought an alarming improvement. My right foot began to function properly, accurately, and for the first time that I could remember, to the concern of my fellow players. This was good - I could stand this kind of side-effect! I was wary of headers, but I noticed that I was focused on playing, rather than the much more self-protective style I had started to subconsciously employ prior to diagnosis. I can only guess that within my subconscious, my brain had activated some kind of safe-mode. I can only assume that my body was aware of what was happening long before both the medical professionals and I had discovered.
I built up my stamina in every aspect of my life, and finally finished the course of steroids they had put me on to prevent inflammation. Within a month of being back at work, I was doing my full hours, and was back to feeling on top of everything. It was now apparent that my work issues had been totally tumour related, and not ability or motivation based as I had once thought. Time passed quickly as my life returned to its normal pace.
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