Chapter 3. If There Were Something Seriously Wrong

Glioblastology, the Book

Hello, friends! Time for another chapter. A couple of quick notes before we jump into Chapter 3. First, a generous subscriber, Paul, has extended an invitation to gift three subscriptions to readers who would like to join at the paid tier but are not in a position to do so. If you’ve been wanting to read but haven’t been able to, please reach out, and I’ll coordinate the details. I’d love to consider patients or caregivers, but please don’t let that limit you! Paul expressed his desire to welcome others who are keen to share this story about a community of supporters that rallies around a family facing adversity. Drop me an email or DM to discuss.

Second note: this week’s chapter is maybe the longest yet. It meanders and hops around in the timeline. I’ve done a lot of editing, but I’d say this one is still pretty rough around the edges. I welcome your feedback in the comments or by direct message to share your thoughts on this chapter that sometimes abandons a linear plot. Okay! Happy reading!

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Chapter 3. If There Were Something Seriously Wrong

“I like noodles,” my cousin murmured awkwardly when I entered the kitchen. She stood over the stainless steel three-bay sink, hoisting up a large soup pot with her left arm, scraping noodles with a wooden spoon into her mouth, using her right hand. A commercial-grade, single-handle pull-down kitchen faucet, with pre-rinse sprayer, drips water and bounces gently on its flexible stainless-steel hose in front of her. I smirk, chuckle, spin a half circle to about-face, and I press open the flimsy, hinged double doors, returning to the cafeteria sitting area. I nudge my wife’s elbow and lean in to whisper, “My cousin likes noodles.” Whitney shoots a side-eye, quizzical look.

Thanksgiving family pitch-in, November 2015. My dad is the youngest of five siblings, and his siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, many of them also somewhere in the birth order of multiple children, gather annually near Muncie, Indiana. His side of the family are midwestern agricultural folks, and Dad was the last born of his generation when parents had kids for the extra farmhands, more than for the joy of parenting. This family, like many, has fractured, splintered, fragmented, moved, married, divorced, had children, lost children, lost parents, grandparents, remarried, and organized themselves in several other permutations of friends, family, neighbors, and loose affiliations that comprise American domesticity.

Whitney and I remained vigilant to monitor my anomalous symptoms, which began presenting in mysterious ways just about one year earlier. The light-headedness often turns to dizziness, a sensation that starts at the base of my skull and wraps toward the front of my head, followed by weakness throughout the left side of my body.

Our guard was raised at this family reunion because in March 2015, deep into the academic year pursuing my master’s degree, and three months after the initial holiday episode, I stood with a friend between classes in the green space outside of the central liberal arts lecture hall. The familiar sensation radiated from the base of my skull, creeping its way laterally around my head, then descending down my left shoulder, leaving a trail of pins and needles in its path, crawling down my left leg. I began to feel dizzy; my leg, weak. Riding it out defined my solution.

I spoke urgently to my friend, “I really have to get the reading done for my next class, and I only have fifteen minutes. I’ll catch up with you in Kahn’s 3:30.” He turns one way and I the other. I walk deliberately, with purpose. I knew what target I was headed toward, but I was lost. I limped my way across the commons area, scanning what’s in view. I located a bench with few students around. I tensed my abdominal muscles, and I walked briskly, grimacing, fighting my left-leg weakness, willing myself toward the bench. I gripped my phone in my back-left jeans pocket. Do I call someone? I returned the phone to my pocket, and I plunged my left hand into my front pocket to assist my left leg with each step by pressing my index finger and thumb into my quadriceps, pinching, squeezing, stimulating my leg muscles through my jeans pocket, step after step, to spur each stride.

Step, grimace, squinted eyes, move forward, you can make it.

Squeeze.

Step.

I fell onto the bench. I rapidly tapped my left foot, bouncing on my toes, pivoting at the ankle, hoping not to lose more sensation in my leg. I remembered the first episode–the crawl to the bed and the return to normal.

“Ride it out,” I thought.

I called Whitney.

“It’s happening again.”

“What is?” she asks.

“The dizzy thing. The leg thing. It’s happening again. I’m on campus.”

“Call an ambulance!”

“It will pass,” I say.