An Inconvenient Tumor

Last weekend Bryan and I traveled up north to attend a wedding in Lodi, about an hour outside of Sacramento. It was the first real traveling we'd done since our honeymoon and while this time we weren't carrying 50-pound suitcases packed for 15 days of wedding and honeymoon travel, we encountered an entirely different set of challenges.

First, Bryan and I packed all of our belongings for the 3-day trip into one small carry-on suitcase. Therefore, luggage wasn't an issue. Since we were flying out on a Thursday, I was hoping that the traveler count within LAX's Terminal #1 would be lighter than typical weekend traffic. My dad nicely dropped Bryan and I off as close as he could to the Southwest Airlines security line, where I carried our suitcase and Bryan tried to manage his walker. The problems were twofold: 1) Bryan is still getting the hang of the walker. He has to really focus on using the left side of his body instead of only relying on his right side. It's extremely hard, since one side is "normal" and the other side is really affected by the radiation. 2) Since this was the first time we'd ever traveled with a walker (the experience came about 50 years too soon, if you ask me), we had no idea if we were going to have to check it. As a result, we decided to be cautious and bring the small, fold-up walker with the grounded tennis balls. Well, tennis balls don't exactly glide smoothly over concrete sidewalks (the tennis balls catch on the concrete) or cheap, indoor terminal carpet (the tennis balls act like Velcro against the static-y carpet).

Luckily, a security guard noticed us and ushered us to the elevator, where we were able to bypass the majority of the outdoor line. I figured that once we got through security, it would be smooth sailing. Turns out I was completely wrong. In reality, it was one hurdle down, several more to go. After respectfully handing over our IDs and boarding passes to the scrutinizing TSA worker, we were directed to the handicapped line. Initially, my reaction was, "Yes! Bryan doesn't have to maneuver through the zig-zag lines or walk too far." Well, right after we had dutifully placed our shoes, wallet, belt, purse, toiletries, etc. into a bin, we were ready to go through the metal detector. Not so fast.

I'm not sure what the policy is on cutting in the handicapped line at LAX, but clearly there is a hierarchy among those in wheelchairs and those, well, not. As Bryan and I were finishing a conversation with a TSA worker about whether Bryan could walk through the metal detector without the aid of his walker (he can't), we were nearly mowed down by a fast-moving group of three people in wheelchairs. It was like a gang of geriatric hoodlums pulled up next to us and took our spot in line, oblivious to the fact that we had patiently waited our turn. To add insult to injury, one particular wheelchair-bound line-stealer who had come to a halt directly in front of me (no more than three feet from the entrance to the metal detector), JUMPED out of her wheelchair and started opening her suitcase to find God knows what. She was about 50 years old and walked perfectly, talked perfectly, had no trouble taking off her shoes or hastily rummaging through her suitcase. She even had to be told by her LAX-appointed "wheeler" to sit back down so she could through the metal detector. Otherwise it was clear that she would have been able to walk herself right through the machine.

Now, never in a million years did I think that I'd be the person saying "Excuse me, you don't appear to be handicapped at all. Is it really necessary to cut in front of my clearly-struggling husband and force him to balance with his walker while you dig in your suitcase for your 8-ounce bottle of face wash (which by the way, will NOT get through TSA in your wildest dreams)?

Before you get all up in arms, know that I did NOT say that to anyone. But I was certainly thinking it. Because it's 100% clear that people take advantage of "handicapped" benefits when they absolutely should not. It doesn't end with hopping a ride in a wheelchair just to bypass the security line. People apply (and get) handicapped parking placards and license plates when they have no handicap to speak of. Prior to Bryan getting sick, it had never occurred to me that there were people who worked the system just to avoid walking an extra 20 feet into the grocery store or wait 10 minutes in a security line. I would never do it, so in my mind I just assumed no one else would ever do it either. Terribly naive of me, I know, but true. I had never stopped long enough to really think about it. Now, however, I've had over four months to not only think about it, but live it every day. To drive around and around and around a parking lot just to find a spot where Bryan doesn't have to walk too far into a store. To get held up by a perfectly-fine woman coasting in a wheelchair when Bryan is having a hard enough time just standing with his walker. It pisses me off to no end, because they don't get it, and more importantly, don't care to get it. The fact is, for every five or ten genuinely incredible people out there, there are one or two a-holes who ruin it for those in need of help the most. And I'll tell you what, it infuriates me. Not only for Bryan and me, because our current issues are relatively minor, but for the people who truly need assistance and each movement is a struggle. It's just not fair, but it's an unfortunate fact of life.

While Bryan and I eventually made it through security, we were soon met with another fact of life: staring. I hadn't noticed it too much until we were in the airport, because people were looking at Bryan and me as though we were aliens. As in, bright green martians from another planet. It was crazy; hadn't people seen a walker before? Was it the fact that he was a young man with a walker? To an untrained eye, I would assume Bryan just looks like he has a pretty severe leg injury on his left side. He was strolling pretty well along, maneuvering the tile-then-carpet-then-tile-again terrain of Terminal #1. I thought he was doing a fantastic job, especially given the onslaught of people, noises, lights and other distractions that really overwhelm him and tip the scales of his "over stimulation" issue.

For the record, people with neurological conditions – tumors, brain trauma, etc. – have a common condition known as "over stimulation." Unlike people with normal neurologic functions, whose brains are able to block out the majority of external stimuli – think the weaving, honking traffic at LAX, the glare of the sun glinting off car hoods and windshields, hundreds of voices speaking in a terminal mixed with loudspeaker announcements and people walking every which way – people with neurologic problems have no defense against these stimuli. As a result, they can become extremely overwhelmed and fatigued very, very quickly. To the point where Bryan, a normally quick-witted and decisive individual, became paralyzed in reaction to the chaos in the terminal. I literally needed to tell him exactly where we were going every ten feet or so, just to keep him on track and focused on the destination. Knowing that the simple act of putting on his shoes can make him take an hour-long nap, I knew traveling through LAX would really drain him.

Eventually, we got to our gate, found seats and sat down. Bryan had done incredibly well and I was so proud of him for getting to the gate. But I was severely disturbed at how people just gawked at us, some even pointing and whispering. It was outrageous to me and made me really upset. The fact is that people weren't just staring, they were overtly watching us. I tried to ignore it, but every time I looked up, people were still staring. One of our friends later tried to point out that maybe people recognized Bryan from the radio show, but people were staring as though he were Brad Pitt, not Bald Bryan from TACS. C'mon, I love my husband more than anything in the world, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I guess this staring thing is a new addition to our newly-changed lives. But I really, really hate it. I was raised to be polite, to never stare, to mind my Ps and Qs. Granted, it's not always worked out that way, but I would never, ever stare at someone the way that people stared at us. It really made me want to scream at people, to make them feel ashamed for staring at an incredible 30-year-old man who just endured a brain tumor diagnosis, six weeks of chemotherapy and radiation and now, a seemingly never-ending slew of post-radiation symptoms and fatigue. But I didn't say anything. Sometimes I stared back, lifting an eyebrow at the people who watched us the longest.

But ultimately, no matter how upset the staring made me, I realized that it's just another thing in this whole "cancer battle" about which I'm out of control. I had to remind myself in LAX, as I continually do, that the only reactions I can control are my own. I can't control whether people stare or not. I can't control whether people unjustifiably worked the handicapped system just to cut in the security line. Throughout this entire process, I've realized an incredible sort of self-control that I truly never knew I had. I have always been Type-A, but when it comes to cancer, especially a brain tumor, you have to realize – quickly – that you're not in the driver's seat. I literally forced myself to block out any worries or personal fears over whether people thought I was doing a good job taking care of Bryan, or taking care of myself, or taking organized and comprehensive notes at appointments, etc. It didn't matter what other people thought, because they weren't living in our shoes. And I realized that even one second spent worrying about it took away my energy to care for Bryan and for myself (I've learned those are equally important tasks). So, while I hated (and still hate) the fact that people stare at us, it's just the latest thing that I've got to let roll off my back.

And guess what? We made it to Sacramento. Bryan made it through the entire wedding weekend and we made it back to L.A. We didn't let any outside distractions – like prying eyes – bother us or take away from the celebrations at hand. Because here's the thing: to be in control (and to stay sane), you have to accept being out of control. It's just another lesson learned, and while the circumstances are suspect, it's truly a lesson I'm thankful I've learned early on.

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