On March 12th 2017, after feeling an excruciating headache that lasted over a 3-hour international flight, spending more than 10 hours in an emergency room of a little hospital in Guadalajara Mexico, and after several tests including two CAT scans and an MRI, a neurosurgeon walked into the room and in a very casual tone told me I had a brain tumor.
There are a lot of things I don’t remember from my life, but I don’t think I will ever be able to forget that very vivid memory.
The peeling white and grey paint on the walls, the curtain separating my room from the rest, the bright white light reflecting from the ceiling, the sound of steps moving just outside in the hall, the deep blue color of the robe they had changed me into, the mixed smell of medicines and disinfectants, the cold metal of the bed resting against my arm, the thick Colombian accent of the doctor, the still pounding pain on the left side of my head and my mothers strong hand holding mine.
“You have a brain tumor,” those five words echoed in my head in slow motion as the doctor explained the rest. I looked around the room one more time; everything around me was as unfamiliar as the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth. In the middle of a big blur, I desperately looked for something recognizable. Then I heard my mother’s voice: “ We’ve got this,” she said. I looked up at her and through her watery eyes and genuine smile I saw nothing but love and so, I believed her.
I don’t remember my first moment on earth. I don’t know if I was sad, scared, or disoriented, but I am certain it must have felt a little bit like that moment because my mother was also there, and despite the uncertainty of what was going to happen neither one of us felt alone.
I could see the love shinning through my mother’s watery eyes and her effort to keep the tears from revealing any pain. My mother had always seemed so effortlessly strong for me and now I understood how hard it actually had always been. So I didn’t cry, instead, I held on to the strength from her hand holding mine and said, “Yes mom, we’ve got this.”
Waiting on the phone was my husband who had already been told the news. I didn’t know what to say to the voice that had always held the power to make me laugh waiting at the other end of the line. I didn’t know if I would have the strength to smile at him like I always did. I took a deep breath before holding the phone up to my ear.
“Don’t be sad,” I told him before he could get a word in. I had seen his worried look when he dropped me off at the airport some hours earlier and I knew he had been in constant communication with my mother from the moment I had landed. I pictured his worried face and as a reflection of my own feelings I asked, “Are you scared?”
“No,” he replied, “ I don’t get to feel any of that. You do. I just get to be here for you every step of the way. ”
And just like that, effortlessly, he made me smile.
Three months before he had stood in the altar and with the sweetest words and raw emotion he had promised me one single thing: to be the best husband. What had at the time sounded like a romantic declaration, suddenly became a fulfilled promise. There he was, with no questions, expectations or conditions, for better or for worse, my rock.
I still didn’t know what to feel but I knew that whatever version of myself I decided to be he would be there. I knew that blinded by confusion he would be my eyes, and his voice, even from a distance, gave me comfort.
I talked to my sister shortly after and her words were short but just as potent:
“I would tell you to be brave Daniella,” she said, “but you already are the strongest person I know. If you want to cry however,” she continued, “it is okay and I am here to cry with you.”
“You have a brain tumor,” the doctor said. And before I could even begin to understand what that meant I realized that my life was full. So, I finally cried. Not because I was sad, not because I was scared but because I could. Because in a whirlpool of doubt and a moment of confusion I was too overwhelmed to know what to feel but one thing was clear, I was surrounded by love and so I felt safe to humbly cry.
The most beautiful thing about love is that while it gives you strength when you need to be there for others and it also liberates you at your weakest moments. My mother had taught me to be strong by example; she had shown me the strength of unconditional love, which I had learned to reciprocate with the beautiful souls I had encountered in my life. Not because I expected something back but because it made me happy. Unknowingly, over 27 years of life I had grown my heart so full that at my weakest point, I found strength and it multiplied by the love that others felt for me.
And so, ironically, it was at my weakest point, at the moment where my life was the most uncertain, that I felt the most alive. My life powered by love was so full.
If I had ever needed confirmation that I was living my life the right way this was it.
Over the following seven months I received many messages of support. Everyone acted so positive and hopeful even when inside they were sad and angry. They called my situation a “challenge” when truly they believed it to be a misfortune and an injustice. They called me an “inspiration” and a “warrior” even while I was unable to hide my physical symptoms. The healthy life I was so used to quickly turned into fatigue, nausea, and joint pain. My skin and hair became dull, my eyes a little more sunken, my movement became slower and I felt weak. I didn’t look like a warrior and I certainly didn’t feel like one. Regardless, they still called me one.
Despite the way I physically felt, I looked around and admired my life. I was married to most amazing man I knew, I had the most loving pets and my family was caring and supportive. Everyday I had the opportunity to walk outside and breath fresh air, share a meal with my family, smile and laugh, learn something and teach something. In good days and in bad days, my life was still full and I was blessed. My life was simply happy. Why would I ever want to let that go? Wanting to hold on to something I loved so much didn’t make me brave and it hardly made me a warrior.
Brave were all the people surrounding me who covered their true emotions in order to give me strength. Brave was my mother for never sheading a tear in front of me despite her sorrow. Brave was my husband for turning his anger towards the situation into a way to make me laugh. Warriors were all of those who joined a battle that wasn’t theirs, who never let me feel alone, all of those who showed me that in the mist of something sad, I was lucky and blessed.
If life is defined by little and big moments, by those situations that cause a change in us, if failing and wining is all part of the journey, if making mistakes and learning lessons is what creates us and if finding, giving and receiving love is what keeps us breathing, then we don’t need to wait for a big epiphany to really start living.
I was alive and after realizing that my strength would not come from my armor but from the love surrounding me, I no longer felt like crying. If this was it, if my life was cut short, if I never got to cross out the 156 items in my bucket list, if I never visited all the places I wanted, if I never achieved all my dreams, if I didn’t get to celebrate 100 years, if this was my last battle, I would still have lived an incredibly beautiful life and that felt like a victory.
On October 23th 2017, after consulting four different neurosurgeons in different cities and countries, meeting with two different endocrinologists, bi-weekly blood tests, a couple more MRIs, and seven months of physical pain, emotional stress and a lot of uncertainty, a neurosurgeon walked into the exam room of a follow up appointment in Houston, TX and in a very casual voice told me my brain tumor was gone.
And just like that, I was given back the one thing I really didn’t need but I so exceptionally cherished, more time.
At 28 years old I learned that life is the gift and time is just extra. We are put on earth for a reason and we promptly start a quest in the search of its meaning. My purpose was love and that was fulfilled. How bless I am to realize that after building a life of love I now also have a little bit more time for all the extra.
My Life in Breaths 