Last night I drank too much.
After my first set of midterms in pharmacy school, a peer invited me out for a drink. The dive bar, a regular hang out for all the students at UMB, was staffed by familiar friendly faces. A necessity for a place with no working air (it was hot and humid as hell) and the ever present curious odor of stale beer and ammonium. I ordered red wine; there were only two options for wine—red and white. It tasted like vinegar and grape juice with the beautiful under tones of a wine that’s turned bad several weeks ago.
We sat outside and after a couple “red wines” our conversation turned from the normal and polite to more personal. She told me about her dating escapades. I told her about my relationship with my fiancé. She told me a story about a close friend of hers with cerebral palsy; her friend is doing incredibly well due to an experimental treatment with botox shots. I told her I have a brain tumor. You know, normal girl talk. Then, I did what I always do after I tell someone. I drank more. A lot lot more. But, telling her did make me feel better.
We started talking to a local couple standing outside. My peer left and I continued talking to them. I asked several questions and, like most people, they were excited to have the opportunity to talk about themselves. The man was black in his late 20s and had glass (supposed to look like diamonds I am sure) earings. He was from Austin Texas and had moved all the way to Baltimore to be with this lady. She was a white thin weathered woman in her mid forties. Her cheap makeup did an awful job at covering the scars that riddled her face—scars either from adolescent acne or drugs. They were an odd couple but seemed nice. They were open and honest, willing to share with me. And so I returned the favor.
Big Big mistake. As soon as I told the lady her demeanor turned from chatty to angry. She accused me of lying and being a horrible person. Before I could say another word, she got up and walked toward the other end of the bar and told them about my “lie.” They all turned and looked at me as I sat there amazed at what just happened. Immediately, my heart plummeted into my stomach as my reasons for keeping my diagnosis to myself flashed before me. I am a freak. I have a tumor crushing my cerebellum and it makes me a freak. I have something that scares people so desperately they feel it fair to embarrass and mock me for it.
I started to whimper, got up and left. As soon as my food hit the gravel outside I lost it. The alcohol, the good feeling from telling a peer earlier, and the bad at making a mistake by telling a near stranger was too much for me. I sobbed like a crazy person on the streets of Baltimore. Two other class mates saw me and, because I hadn’t embarrassed myself enough, in broken gibberish I tried to explain myself. While I am quite ashamed I am glad they stood with me. The lady was apparently not done. She had come out to pick a fight with me. And they ushered her away.
I feel like I should go and apologies to those friendly faces that I know so well at the bar. I don’t what to say though. I don’t know what I am doing. And I am scared. I am sad and I am so very scared.
I am writing this blog. I am writing it because I need to tell something and I can’t go around drinking and telling people at bars. My name is Aida. I am 25 years old and I have an epidermoid tumor about 5cm in diameter in my brain. It’s crushing my cerebellum and has spread to my midbrain. I have to have surgery. And I am scared.
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