Chapter 10

A Date for the Big Day

On the 1st of June 2005, Dad and I flew to Sydney to see Professor Michael Morgan. He was one of the world’s most experienced surgeons in this procedure. Hopefully he would be prepared to operate on me. Feeling tired and anxious, we sat in silence waiting for the man that could save my life to see us … I was cold, freezing. I didn’t know if it was the temperature or the nerves. We both knew that this was the last option. I whispered to Dad, “I hope he agrees to operate.” He just nodded into his chest.

Entering Professor Morgan’s spacious room, me limping behind Dad on my stick, I plonk down in the vacant chair. As my AVM pulsates Professor Morgan looks over the scan results he’s received from Melbourne. I see his serious expression and his moving lips as he speaks, but I subconsciously block out all sound. I’m relying on Dad to listen and summarise the conversation later. I stare at the presentation, the stats and columns labelled DEAD versus RECOVERED. I don’t ask about the likelihood of paralysis. It seems irrelevant. I’d be stupid if I believed he knew. He doesn’t. No one knows.

I sat in that cold room with two men, focusing on trapping the tears trying to escape down my face. In desperation I looked around for a tissue. Dad noticed and patted my shoulder with a deeply concerned look. Professor Morgan said, “We will look after you,” and passed me the tissue box next to the plastic brain on his desk.

My tears eventually did escape when he told us that the cost of the procedure would be more than $100,000. This fee included the operation, doctors and private hospital fees. As my case was urgent, it was too risky to wait for a bed in a public hospital. But without private health insurance how would I pay for it? I already owed my parents $4000 for my Africa trip. That was nothing compared to this. There were so many things I would have preferred to spend the money on, like a massive deposit on a house or hundreds of holidays. Instead, I was opting to spend 100 grand to have my head carved, bone drilled and my tiny AVM removed and clipped; an operation likely to leave me dead or with all sorts of deficits like deafness and muscle weakness. Perhaps a wise but dubious investment!

Professor Morgan explained that they would have to mobilise the temporal lobe of my brain so they could move it out of the way to get to the AVM. Seizures could result, though they would initially put me on anti-convulsants to prevent these. This medication might affect my menstrual cycle post-surgery, along with my ability to get pregnant in the future.

How different I felt after that consultation. It took just one hour for all other options to be definitely ruled out. The operation was the only procedure left. If had been replaced with when and how much and where. I was on a one-way path and there was no going back. I was petrified.

We left his room and went to the reception counter. “Hi Emma, so you’d like to make a time for your craniotomy with Professor Morgan here in Sydney?”

I forced a nod. She looked at her computer screen. I watched her manicured fingers scroll the mouse. They stopped moving. “OK let’s see … our next available time is on the 17th of June 2005. How would that suit?”

I wanted to say, “Let me just check my diary.” Instead I whimpered, “That would be … fine.” Then I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. I could no longer stand upright. My stick seemed to buckle under me. I resorted to draping my exhausted, helpless body over the dark wooden counter. Dad seemed to pick me up by simultaneously squeezing both my shoulders reassuringly. I turned to him and wept into his checked sports jacket.

“It’s OK, Love, good that we have a date now.” He patted my back and assured me that I had made the right decision.

I didn’t give the receptionist eye contact again, fearing I’d only cry. Dad guided me to the lift and we left in silence.