Craniotomy #1

The Diagnosis

This is a little difficult for me to write, because I think I have to go back to the day of my diagnosis.

It was supposed to be May 14th—Andrew’s birthday—but it got bumped by a day. I remember feeling relieved, if I’m honest. It gave me one more day of normalcy, even though the appointment lingered in the back of my mind.

When we went in on May 15th, I had a feeling I knew what was coming. I stayed strong—I just wanted to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

But once we got to the car, I broke down.

It was a Grade 2 Astrocytoma diffused into my brain. Brain Cancer.

I cried for days. My emotions felt completely uncontrollable for months, which may have also been the tumour pressing on my brain.

Everything felt heavy.

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Grief Before Surgery

I was still on seizure watch, and life didn’t slow down around me.

My dad was getting worse from cancer, and we had started having hospice conversations. I remember the last time we visited him—the last time I hugged him. It was about two weeks before my craniotomy.

The days leading up to surgery were a blur.

I was scheduled as the first surgery of the day, which meant being at the hospital for 5:30 a.m. Andrew and I stayed in a hotel the night before. I remember leaving my dad a message, not knowing if he got it.

I now know he didn’t.

But it’s funny how some of those things became easier to let go of over time.

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Walking Into Surgery

Registration and pre-op felt heavier this time.

Compared to my biopsy—which had felt almost easy—this felt different. Everyone seemed nervous, and I could feel it starting to affect me too.

I hugged each of my sisters. I hugged Andrew. And then, as they wheeled me into the operating room, the tears came—and I couldn’t stop them.

The last thing I remember was my surgeon placing his hand on my shoulder as the room moved quickly around me.

He saw my tears and reassured me that it was completely normal. He even said he’d be more concerned if I wasn’t emotional—because this was a big deal.

That brought me comfort.

And then everything went black.

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Waking Up to a Different Reality

This time, I don’t remember the recovery room.

I remember getting sick. I remember Andrew coming in. I remember trying to speak—but I couldn’t say what I was thinking.

The nurses asked if I knew who he was.

Slowly, I muttered, “That’s… my husband.”

Whenever I tried to say “yes,” the word “right” came out instead. It was close enough for them to understand me.

I couldn’t move the right side of my body.

I got sick again, and eventually Andrew and my sisters left me for the night.

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A Long Night

That night was really hard.

Every time I got sick, I could feel my skull move—but I couldn’t explain it to the nurses. One nurse took the time to really try to understand me. When he finally did, he smiled and reassured me that what I was feeling was normal.

I was woken every couple of hours, and morning came quickly.

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The News I Never Expected So Soon After Surgery

After an MRI, I was moved to the neuro floor, where I would stay for two weeks before rehab.

I had an incredible team—nurses, physiotherapists, occupational therapists—but it felt like I was just trying to survive.

That afternoon, June 3rd, Andrew told me my dad had passed away that morning.

I remember the tears falling—but my head hurt so badly from the incision that I had to tell myself not to cry too hard.

He told me my dad went peacefully in the hospice in Moncton.

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A Tender Kind of Grace

That night was especially heavy.

I couldn’t get comfortable. I couldn’t communicate what I needed. And I was trying to process losing my dad.

One of the nurses found me crying.

She was young, and when I told her what had happened, she brought me a popsicle and sat with me. She showed me pictures of her farm and her animals. I told her my dad was a good man.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t try to fix anything.

She just stayed.

I truly believe she was a blessing—sent to calm me and help me through that night.

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Fighting for Strength

I found strength in small moments—even in the middle of feeling completely hopeless.

The muscle spasms in my leg were excruciating. It felt like a Charlie horse that wouldn’t let go, sometimes lasting for hours.

Andrew drove up every single day. Sometimes all he could do was hold my hand while my leg spasmed.

Eventually, they found medication that helped, and slowly, my right side began to wake up.

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Learning to Live Again

Learning how to walk again felt strange.

I was fitted for a wheelchair, which I only needed for about two weeks—until after my first weekend of rehab.

There’s so much more I could say about my time on the neuro floor, but I’ll leave it here:

Things slowly improved.

Hope slowly returned.

My family kept reminding me that Dad would want me to get better—and that carried me through.

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Minute by Minute

I didn’t take it one day at a time.

I took it one minute at a time. One hour at a time.

Just getting through the next moment—and reminding myself that Jesus was with me in it.

Eventually, a bed opened up at the rehab center, and I moved into the next phase of recovery.

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Recovery & Faith

One thing I’ve learned through all of this is that faith doesn’t always look like strength.

Sometimes it looks like surviving the next minute.

Sometimes it looks like letting someone hold your hand while your body does things you can’t control.

Sometimes it looks like crying quietly so your head doesn’t hurt too badly.

I didn’t feel brave every day. I didn’t feel hopeful every day.

But I was never alone.

I believe Jesus met me in the smallest moments—the quiet reassurance of a nurse, the patience of a therapist, the steady presence of my husband, the gentle reminders from my family that my dad would want me to keep going.

Strength came in pieces, not all at once.

Recovery taught me that healing doesn’t have to be instant, and faith doesn’t require pretending everything is okay.

It’s choosing to keep going when things aren’t okay.

It’s trusting God minute by minute when the future feels too big to face all at once.

I don’t know what the rest of this journey holds.

But I do know this:

I’ve already seen God’s presence in places I never expected.

And that has been enough to carry me forward—

one step, one hour, one day at a time.