Chiari - What If I Didn't Do the Surgery?

Well, we can’t guarantee you will get better…

At best there’s a chance you’ll get some relief. 

It’s 2016, and I’m freaking out. 

A few weeks ago I was diagnosed with an 18mm Type 1 Chiari malformation. Now I’m meeting with a neurosurgeon for the first time.

I don’t exactly vibe with the guy. He seems to know his stuff, EXCEPT for how many Chiari decompression surgeries he has performed. Isn’t that something he should know? Don’t I have a right to his credentials? 

As soon as I heard the word surgery, I was ready to sign on the dotted line and hop up on the operating table. I want the Chiari GONE. I’ll do anything. But this guy...

He’s…aloof. Jovial. Like this is a happy day. Like I give a flying fluck that he’s part of the neurosurgeon team for the Green Bay Packers. I’m sorry, but unless Aaron Effing Rodgers has a Chiari malformation, his boasting does not inspire confidence.

I leave and search other local surgeons, and find one that I like but his office won’t give me an appointment. They say I don’t need his opinion; that he’ll just do the surgery if that’s what I need.

If I’m going to trust someone to cut into my brain, I’d at least like to shake the guy’s hand first. Or AITA?

Now I’m at work free-writing about all the fears knocking around my brain when something unexpected scrolls across the page.

What if I didn’t do the surgery? 

I stop, stunned. 

What if I didn’t do the surgery?

It never occurred to me that I had a choice. Surgery is the only option I was given for this condition. Of course I’m going to do it. 

The first neurosurgeon’s half-hearted assurances echo in my mind: Well, we can’t guarantee you will get better. At best there’s a chance you’ll get some relief. 

A chance I’ll get some relief. Is his hollow, noncommittal statement enough to bet my future on? My brain?

In my final meeting with the surgeon I ask questions that he vaguely answers, and I smile. This man is NOT going to cut open my skull.

I break the news to my husband in the parking lot. I’m not having surgery. Of course he’s upset. Of course he wants me to do whatever on earth I can to get better so we can have a life. Our marriage has been on pause for too long. 

Too long, try years. 

It takes some convincing, but he finally succumbs. What can he say? He can’t force me to go under the knife. I just need to show him there’s another way. 

And I hope like hell that there is...