It's not brain surgery...

I knew it wasn't over.

At 17 I had two tumors taken out of my spine and spent eight weeks in Boston at Massachusetts General Hospital getting proton radiation. I'm originally from a small suburb outside of Chicago. I remember driving home a few days after my last treatment with my Dad, pulling into our driveway, getting out of the car and he opens his arms to hug me and says "we did it". But like I said, I knew it wasn't over. That was in March of 2008.

Fast forward 12 years, it's 2020 and I'm now 3o years old. A birthday card from this year said "old enough to know better and young enough to not give a shit" which seemed terribly appropriate for my current state of mind. It felt like I had my life together for the most part (*by societal standards)-- married, a homeowner, with a good job and a few dogs. No kids, which society definitely holds against me, but my husband and I were happy. I had the greatest friends, traveled often and had an almost unsettling contentment about life. But that's always when it happens, right? When the ball drops.

It was a story-book kind of summer day, August 20th to be exact, and I had just finished a round of golf with some clients and a friend. After golf my friend and I ended up meeting my parents at a local bar. I remember I had just gotten done telling my Dad about how the numb sensation I'd had in my right leg for so long (since before my surgery at 17) had seemed to be getting worse. He shook his head, told me I needed to make an appointment with my doctor, and took another sip of his beer. My mom and friend looked at me, smiled like "listen to your Dad" and then we all followed suit with another sip of our drinks.

I got up to go to the bathroom, mask in hand, but I'll be honest and say I didn't properly put it on. You'll see why this is important in a minute.

As I pushed open the bathroom door, walked into the first stall, I turned to shut and lock the door. Out of habit I'd pull the door shut with my right arm on top and my left hand on the lock. Not this time. I remember standing there and thinking "why isn't the door closing." I remember standing there and time seemed to be moving in slow motion. As I'm attempting to bring my right arm up to pull the stall door shut, it continued to just fall limp to my waist side. It got just above my waist before it took it's natural place and hung there. I looked down and see my mask-- the one you see doctors and nurses use everyday-- begin to slip out of my hand. I tried to close my fingers around it, but nothing.

A moment of clarity and I realize I needed help. I push through the stall, get to the bathroom door and pause. As a right handed person I try again to lift my arm and open the door but again, nothing. Immediately I raise my left arm, open the door, take a few steps and pause again. I think to myself "Kaytlin, raise your right arm." Nothing.

At 30 years old, in the middle of a bar, I did something I hadn't done since I was little. I yelled for my Dad. I just remember repeating "Dad! Dad! DAD!" Once we made eye contact he ran over and then I remember saying "I can't use my arm" and then the rush of tears started.

He immediately wrapped his arms around me as I just sobbed and repeated over and over "I can't use my arm. My arm isn't working!"

Minutes passed and after what felt like forever, and suddenly, a familiar feeling. Both of my arms wrapped tightly around my Dad in a return hug.

I will never forget that day, what I was wearing, who I was with, what I was drinking or the completely unfamiliar feeling of numbness in a limb I use every single day.