What If ...

WHAT IF …

Thump, thump … thump, thump … thump thump … thump thump …

I could feel the soft thudding of my heart. Steady, measured and rhythmic. Calm flowed through me. I smiled.

*****

When I was little, I was fearless. Nothing scared me. I scared my parents. I scared my teachers. I scared my friends. But nothing scared me. I’d swing as high as I could on the big swings in the park, then jump off on the upswing and sail through the air like a bird. I might land on my feet, I might misjudge and tumble and skid across the grass and hard-packed dirt until I stopped in a heap. It didn’t mater if I skinned my knees and palms, I’d do it again.

I’d jump off the highest cliffs at the local quarry into uncharted waters. Was it deep enough? Were there rocks? Was there abandoned equipment just below the surface that I could crash into? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I always did the jump.

I would ride my bike down the steepest, longest hills, sans helmet, wind blowing through my hair. Sometimes I could stop in time at the bottom. Sometimes I couldn’t and I would sail through the intersection, not even caring if there were cars coming. Sometimes I would lose control and slide across the pavement, road rash from hip to ankle. Once, I only used only my front brakes and my bike flipped right over me. I landed in a heap with my bike on top of me. But I’d do it again.

I got hurt. I broke bones. I ended up in the emergency room so often I think my parents had preferred customer status. Regardless of what happened to me, I always laughed danger in the face, took the next risk.

I truly believed I was invincible.

As I got older, it was the same. I realized at some point that I might be an adrenaline junkie. Always looking for the next thing that would give me the endorphin high that I craved.

Moguls on a black a diamond slope—I’d ski right down the middle. Jump off a bridge in an unsanctioned bungee jump—I was the first in line. Subway surfing, free climbing, parkour—I tried them all. Sure I had adrenaline rushes, but never fear. I was fearless.

Until I wasn’t.

It didn’t happen all at once. I happened in stages—something that I had never balked at before suddenly conjured dread where previously there had been none.

The first time I thought about my own mortality and the possibility that I could die, I was doing the EdgeWalk at the CN tower in Toronto. I was 116 storeys above the city, all harnessed up, ready to go. When we all walked out onto the five foot wide ledge, I looked down. For a moment I imagined myself tumbling to my death. How long would it take for me to plummet the one thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight feet to the concrete below? Would I reach terminal velocity? What if I landed on someone? Would I even be recognizable after I hit the ground? Would I splatter? I’d never considered my own mortality before. A tiny ripple of something ran up my spine. It was fear. I gasped. For the first time in my life I felt true fear.

My rational brain knew I was perfectly safe—over one hundred and twenty thousand people had done the EdgeWalk, and not one of them had plummeted to their death. I knew I would survive. But, there was that small niggling at the back of my brain—what if …

Then the fear was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and I embraced the EdgeWalk. It was exhilarating and life affirming. I wanted to do it again. My friends enjoyed it, I guess, but I didn’t hear any of them say they wanted another walk on the wild side. Only me. I heard the words “scary,” and “terrifying,” and “frightening.” For a moment, I considered the fact that I now knew what their fear felt like—the coppery taste in the back of my mouth, the thudding of my heart, the dread. What if …

The next episode was at the airport. Just for context, I have flow to six of the seven continents. I have luxuriated in a first class seat on Emirates Air. I have bounced along in a six seat hopper plane. I have sat beside the pilot in a four seater Cessna. I have endured a fourteen hour flight in the middle seat of economy. I have flown in a helicopter as it whirled its way down to the shores of the Colorado River from the lip of the Grand Canyon. I actually love flying—well love may be a bit of an exaggeration—but I have never feared it. Never have I thought what if...

I was waiting to board a seven hour flight to Amsterdam. I looked out at the plane.

That plane sure is big, I thought. Really big. How exactly does a plane stay up in the air, especially one this big? I knew it had something to do with lift, thrust, drag. But how exactly did the magic happen? Not fearfully, but just a bit of inquiring minds want to know.

I boarded the plane, found my window seat, and settled in watching a movie. Every thing was hunky-dory until we hit turbulence. Not anywhere close to the bumpiest ride I’d experienced when flying between Laos and Vietnam, when I was sure it was going to be my last plane ride. This time it was just a little jiggle. But all of a sudden that same coppery taste flooded my mouth, my heart started to hammer, and my breath came in short gasps. It was hard to breathe.

“It’s fine. Just a bit of turbulence. Everything’s good,” said the man sitting in the seat beside me. His voice was reassuring and calm. Usually, I was the person trying to calm down the hyperventilating, over-reacting person beside me. But this time it was me freaking out. And I didn’t know why.

“I know,” I said with a weak smile. “Turbulence doesn’t usually bother me.” I looked out the window. Wrong move. We were so very far up. All kinds of terrible things could happen this far up, and there was not a thing anyone could do about it. All of a sudden, the opening episode from the TV show Lost tumbled unbidden into my head, stories about flight 370 that was never found, Amelia Earhart, and planes crashing into buildings. I was falling to pieces. I shut my eyes, my hands holding the armrest in a death grip. I stayed that way until we landed in Amsterdam.

I was confused. I’d flown hundreds of times without the slightest concern about airplane safety. Why was I suddenly doom-imagining all the worst possible scenarios? All the what ifs …

Then the big one. I was in an elevator that got stuck. No big deal, these things happen all the time, right? I was only stuck between the first and second floors.

But my mind and body didn’t react that way. What if the cable broke? What if no one knew I was trapped? What if the brakes failed and we plummeted down. What if …

I went into a full-blown melt down—weeping inconsolably, gasping for breath. I even vomited from fear. I needed out, and I needed out, right now. Not in ten minutes, not in two minutes. Right Now!

It didn’t help that I was alone in the elevator—there was no one to try and talk me down. No one to coherently answer the emergency phone when it rang. When the firefighters pried open the doors fifteen minutes later, I was paralyzed, in the fetal position, crammed into the corner, sobbing and mumbling to myself. They transported me to the hospital—not because I was hurt physically, but because I was hurt mentally.

After I had been given a sedative that allowed me to calm down enough to explain what had happened, I had a full medical workup, including an MRI. And right there, at the base of my amygdala was a peanut-sized tumour.

Dr. Kenyon, my neurologist, pulled up a brain schematic on his tablet, showing the different regions of the brain. He pointed to a small area on the left side of brain. “The amygdala is the brain’s emotional processor,” he said. “And is its early-warning system. It allows you to assess threats and dangers.” He looked at me. I nodded. “The tumour at its base could be the reason for the changes in your levels of danger perception.”

“‘Could be?’” I said, stunned. “What if it’s not the reason? What if it’s something completely different? You’re talking literal brain surgery—” My vision tunnelled. “—where you saw open my skull and cut out part of my brain!” I was starting to spiral out of control. I could taste the copper and my heart was crashing in my chest, the heart monitor beeping in sync.

Dr. Keyon leaned over and adjusted the drip on my IV, and I felt a warmth entering my body that helped me relax.“Even if the tumour has nothing to do with your fearfulness, it needs to come out. It’s a brain tumour. If we leave it in situ it will continue to grow, and cause other cognitive problems like seizures, depression, memory loss, headaches, and eventually death.” He pointed to the x-ray. “It’s in a good spot. We should be able to remove it with no secondary issues.”

“Secondary issues?” I whispered.

Dr. Kenyon smiled. “Any time you have surgery, there are risks. Anytime we enter the brain, there is the risk of impairment to speech, mobility, vision. And the ultimate risk of death.”

I looked at him. The heart monitor beeped faster. “What if—”

He interrupted me. “You need this surgery. You can’t ignore a brain tumour. You will die.“

So, brain surgery it was.

*****

Thump, thump … thump, thump … thump thump … thump thump …

I could feel the soft thudding of my heart. Steady, measured and rhythmic. Calm flowed through me. I smiled.

“It’s time!” someone yelled.

I touched the stubbly side of my head, traced the slightly raised scar with my fingertip, and smiled. There were no what ifs swirling in my brain. I was confident and ready. I stood up, and put on my helmet, checked my parachute, and jumped out of the plane.