Post-Surgery Isn’t the End. It’s the Beginning.
Ten years after the surgery that changed everything, I’m sharing what came next: the invisible toll, the emotional unraveling, and the long road back to myself.
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It started with a Facebook DM. Literally.
Not a siren. Not a phone call. Just a quiet ping that flipped everything.
One seizure. One ER scramble. One radiologist who casually mentioned brain surgery like he was ordering coffee. That was the moment our life cracked—and rebuilt itself around something we didn’t ask for.
Now? It’s been ten years.
Ten years since Marc’s (aka the hubs) seizure. Ten years since the golf ball-sized cyst no one saw coming. Ten years since I watched the person I love most relearn how to eat, walk, and be.
This isn’t just a story about surgery. It’s about what happens after. The invisible aftermath. The parts people don’t post about on social.
It’s about the version of survival no one prepares you for—and what you carry when the scans are clear but you’re not.
Crisis Never Asks If You’re Ready
April 13. Monday. 6:00 p.m.
I was about to shut off my phone for a knee treatment when a message came through. From one of Marc’s colleagues. F**k. This can’t be good.
“Has Marc ever had a seizure before?”
Instant stomach drop.
He’d had one at work. Thankfully, someone had caught him. He was already in an ambulance. I bolted.
At the ER, there were no obvious symptoms. No headaches. No warning signs. Just Marc, complaining about shoulder pain. The head? Not even on his radar.
Then came the late-night MRI. The radiologist, casually: “Oh, when he has brain surgery…”
Everything slowed down.
It was the middle of the night, and as the neurosurgeon was walking me through everything—words like “epidermoid cyst,” “benign,” “operable”—I was texting it all to my friend, a doctor himself. I was processing in real time, trying to make sense of it as I typed. Somewhere between fear and confusion, I found myself thinking, “Wait… this might not be awful?” His reply came back instantly: “This is good! This is good! This is the best news you could hope for.”
And in that moment, I finally let myself believe it. Oh - and I finally Googled.
I gripped those words like a railing.
Catch the full episode on YouTube.
Surgery, Survival, and the Haircut From Hell
April 15. Surgery day.
Watching Marc get wheeled away at 5:45 a.m.? Brutal. I didn’t cry. I scheduled my feelings into PT, errands and yoga. That’s how I stay upright.
At the end of class, the teacher played “Three Little Birds.” You know the one. Don’t worry about a thing… I lost it. Right there on the mat.
Later, construction blocked my route to the hospital. A woman from yoga offered to lead me through backroads. Eight minutes saved. Emotional rescue accomplished.
Marc came out of surgery after six and a half hours. Swollen. Pale. His hair shaved into a style that can’t be explained. We laugh about it now. That day? It almost broke me.
The first few days were survival. I slept in his hospital room. Friends came in shifts. One night, a friend brought wine in Solo cups. We sipped wine outside of the hospital just kind of taking in the events of the past few days. I needed that.
By day four, I told the doctor, “We’re ready to go.” We were. Forty-eight hours after getting home, Marc walked unassisted.
Sometimes your gut knows before the charts do.
The Pain That Hid in the Background
Marc’s shoulder had hurt from the start, but we’d all been focused on his head.
In June, during a PT session, he screamed in pain. The therapist called a shoulder surgeon. Diagnosis: almost every tendon in his shoulder had torn.
It hadn’t been a fall. It was the seizure itself—his arm violently jerking like a chicken wing.
Second surgery. This one felt scarier. Because this time, I had time to imagine the worst.
Watching him suffer again, in different ways? Excruciating. But Marc recovered. Walked 5K to and from work every day that summer. Alternated between two slings so I could wash one while he wore the other.
Grit, I tell you. His commitment to regaining full range of motion in that shoulder so he could swim was the impetus for me to be so fastidious about my bionic hip recoveries a few years later.
The Recovery That Doesn’t Fit On a Chart
Eventually, Marc tapered off seizure meds. And had another seizure. That was that.
Lifelong meds. No more open water swims. No homes without easy transit. One seizure = six months off driving. It changes how you plan a life.
During COVID, new complication: fluid buildup. Another surgery. This time, for a brain shunt.
Now it’s just part of the checklist. Like an oil change—but for your brain.
Recovery doesn’t end with discharge papers. Sometimes it never ends. It just becomes your new spreadsheet.
What We Didn’t Talk About (Until We Had To)
There’s something I didn’t say out loud for years.
After brain surgery, Marc wasn’t himself. He said things. Did things. Not cruel—but sharp. Out of character.
And he remembers none of it.
That window—six to eight weeks—is just… gone.
But I remember. I was there. And some of it hurt.
I made a choice not to bring it up at the time. What good would it have done? His brain was healing. We were trying to make it through the day.
But here’s the thing about emotional debt: it compounds. And by the time we finally dealt with it—during COVID, in therapy—it had gained interest. Like of the loanshark kind.
We didn’t go to therapy to assign blame. I wanted to name the thing that had been lying beneath the surface. The absence of memory doesn’t erase the impact of it.
And once we said it—really said it—it lifted.
Not all the way. But enough.
Sometimes that’s all you need.
This Week, Try This
If you’re in your own version of crisis—whether it’s caregiving, chronic stress, or just trying to keep your head above water—this part is for you:
Ruthlessly prioritize. What absolutely must get done? Do only that.
Define what “good” looks like. Not great. Not perfect. Just good.
Say no to one thing. And don’t fill the space. Let it be empty.
Ask for help. Bonus points if it comes with a Solo cup.
Say the thing. Even if it’s hard. Especially if it’s hard.
I call this kind of tiny progress micro-accountability. It’s what I do with my coaching clients—and it works because it’s human-sized. No rigid plans. No shame spirals. Just one small, clear step forward at a time.
What Comes Next
Ten years later, Marc is doing as well as we could have hoped. Same for me. We’re good.
And that’s not just enough—it’s everything.
If this story hit home, I’d love to hear from you—or work with you. Let’s talk.
And if you’re not there yet? That’s okay too.
Just don’t wait forever to say the thing.
Remember. It’s your life. Go the distance. Go Long.
