Whatever You Do, Don't Google "Low-Grade Glioma"
It's 10:30am on Thursday morning. Bryan and I are sitting in Neurologist #1's office, waiting and wondering. Bryan is sitting quietly, attempting unsuccessfully to distract himself by reading the same random US Weekly magazine article over and over. "Stars" definitely did not want to be "like us" at this point in time; I can tell you that with certainty.
As for me, I'm staring at the wall, over-analyzing the doctor's "I need to see you tomorrow morning" phone call in my head. In my defense, I think this is what any semi-neurotic woman without answers would do. "Now how EXACTLY did he say the word "lesion?" "Did his voice sound more worried or nonchalant when he said he needed to see us?" "Do you think his accent made it more difficult to understand what he was really saying?"
Finally, we get the call to go in. "Please sit down." I'm poised with pen in hand, ready to take notes. The next 10 minutes feel like 10 years.
Neurologist #1 says that while he initially thought it was Multiple Sclerosis, it's not. (Okay, that's good news, right?)
However, there is a lesion/growth in the brain stem, where MS typically occurs. (What is a lesion on the brain stem? What does that mean?). We don't get a straight answer, because he explains that this is out of his area of expertise. (Okay, well, whose area of expertise is it and how quickly can we see THEM?).
Without saying too much more, he nonchalantly explains that the brain stem is the "Beverly Hills of the brain's real estate section," meaning that this most likely can't be biospied. (Exactly WHAT can't be biopsied?). And even though this is outside of his area of expertise, he thinks it's something called a low-grade glioma. Essentially a slow-growing brain tumor. (Ha! I'm sorry, but what did you just say? I must have heard you incorrectly...I could have sworn you said brain tumor. My mistake.) He says he'll get us referred to a specialist, but they can't see us until Monday afternoon.
Oh, and whatever you do, he explains, DO NOT go home and start Googling 'low-grade glioma.' (Oh, sure, no problem. You're just telling a trivia expert and a professional researcher NOT to investigate what is making Bryan turn into a human Gumby. It's like putting a cupcake in front of a kid at fat camp and telling him not to touch it. Insane.)
Then, as if nothing ever happened, he concludes with: "Do you have any fun plans for the weekend? I'll be pruning my rose garden."
I'M SORRY. DID YOU JUST SAY THAT MY FIANCE HAS A BRAIN TUMOR AND THEN START TALKING ABOUT YOUR ROSE GARDEN? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?
He then gets up and leads us to the door in stunned silence, leaving us to stew for three more days on the fact that there is something in Bryan's brain that is getting worse, not better. But have a great weekend!
We get in the car and head home. Google, here we come.
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