Youth, Interrupted
by Katy French
He was the starting pitcher for his all-star team. With a powerful curveball, he stood out among his teammates. But every now and then, something happened on the mound that no one could detect but him. It began with odd sensations prickling up and down his pitching arm. He would feel a sudden jolt, a surge of electricity rushing down his right side into his leg. He felt as though he had a robotic arm that would short-circuit and shut down. At times he was unable to move the limb at all. Other times, his arm would rebel, hurling the baseball in an unintended direction. But Geoff Henderson wasn’t a retired athlete suffering the effects of a decades-long career. Geoff Henderson was only 11.
Geoff was a typical American boy. If not skateboarding or shooting hoops in, he was fishing or bowling. He never thought much beyond the next weekend, the next game, the next play. His parents indulged his passion for athletics. He defined the seasons by the sport he was playing: baseball in spring, basketball in fall. A talented athlete, he loved to be outdoors. As far as everyone knew, he was a normal, healthy, active youth.
But then there were other signs: headaches. Geoff was especially prone to them, inherited from his mother’s side. Starting as early as third grade, they became progressively worse. They peaked around fifth grade. Doctors have dubbed the headaches “complicated migraines,” an umbrella term for the intense headaches Geoff described as “four headaches in one”: a sinus headache behind his eyes, a standard headache behind his forehead, a pressure headache on his left side and a tension headache at the base of his skull.
At first, the headaches began as pesky distractions from schoolwork, but they soon escalated to painful, debilitating events. They were excruciating, but he learned to live with the pain. They only made him more eager to get out of bed and back outside. As the headaches came more frequently, he found that playing sports helped him cope with the pain. Anything that drew his attention away from the pounding in his skull and redirected his focus was a welcome relief. But the game was not always enough. He once dropped to his knees, grasping his skull in the middle of a basketball game. Angry and frustrated, he refused to be taken out, determined to fight his way through the pain.
When the headaches became worse, his mother took him to several doctors who all gave him prescription-strength pain relievers and said the same thing Geoff told himself about his arm: It’s probably nothing.
Still, the headaches persisted, and Geoff’s frustration mounted.
On Friday, July 16, 1999, Geoff anticipated a weekend of adventure, perhaps working on some new skateboarding tricks or a pickup basketball game.
On that summer afternoon, Geoff was at a friend’s house playing with two friends and his little brother.
The boys, waking up from a sleepover, decided to start the day with a game of Monopoly, the “Star Wars” edition. Geoff chose to be Luke Skywalker. As the game commenced, Geoff made his first move. He picked up the miniature Luke Skywalker figurine and everything went black.
In the frenzy of counting money and simulating epic battles among the tiny characters, the boys saw Geoff fall over onto the floor. Assuming he was being dramatic and participating in the battle, his friends thought he was only joking when he collapsed and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. When he began foaming at the mouth and shaking uncontrollably, they knew it was no joke. The mother of one of Geoff’s friends dialed 911.
Geoff opened his eyes in the ambulance. Strange faces were looking down at him. Machines were making loud sounds that reverberated in the vehicle. Geoff was dazed and disoriented. He fell back asleep.
“Beep, beep, beep … BEEEEEEP!”
Geoff opened his eyes and looked over at his friends as they mimicked the sound of the machine flat-lining and burst out giggling. Somehow, Geoff felt better and less afraid. The room was so white. The fluorescent lights above his bed made everything look a little blue, so sterile. He didn’t know what had happened, only that his head was killing him. He regained consciousness long enough to understand where he was. But the doctors didn’t yet understand what had sent him there.
Maria Henderson was at a business lunch when her pager went off. Because she and her husband kept in constant contact throughout the day, this wasn’t unusual. She was a little annoyed because she was training a colleague that day and wanted to devote her attention to the task. But when the page began with 911, she knew something was wrong. When her husband, a strong, unemotional man was barely able to speak, she knew something had happened to one of their children. As she raced to the hospital, she prayed that her son would be OK.
The rest of the day was a blur for Geoff as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It seemed as though a different adult was at his bedside whenever he opened his eyes. He was put through a series of tests to find out what had triggered the seizure. He had an EKG to look at his heart and a CAT scan to look at his brain. Soon, the doctors discovered the source of his condition.
“The tumor is right there. Well, it’s either a tumor or an infection that has gone to his brain. But it’s right there.”
The radiologist conducting the CAT scan broke the devastating news to Maria, Geoff’s mother, before the doctor had even arrived. Maria looked at the images on the screen in front of her with disbelief.
A small tumor had formed on the front lobe of Geoff’s left brain. The left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, which explained his numbness.
Maria waited for the doctor to come and confirm the radiologist’s diagnosis. “There could be a mistake. The CAT scan only skims the surface. It surely can’t be that bad. What was the radiologist saying about a need to operate?”
Maria thought through every possible scenario, but it was too much to absorb.
Doctors sent Geoff for an MRI, an in-depth scan of the brain.
When they wheeled him into the hospital parking lot, where the temporary MRI station was set up, Maria spotted a penny on the ground.
“Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck!”
Maria remembered the proverb and picked up the coin. She kissed it and put it in her pocket. She kept it during Geoff’s entire stay.
The doctors confirmed the radiologist’s speculation: What appeared to be a tumor had grown in the front lobe of Geoff’s left brain. A flurry of specialists – oncologists, hematologists and neurosurgeons – gathered, initially unsure of whether it was a tumor or an infection that had spread to the brain. But the doctors were sure of one thing: They needed to operate immediately.
The CAT scan was at 3:30 p.m., the MRI was at 4:30 p.m., and by 5:30 p.m. he was admitted to intensive care.
He was immediately scheduled for brain surgery the next morning at 7 a.m.
When Geoff next awoke, he was in the operating room. “All right now, Geoff, I need you to count backwards from 100.”
The doctor had just administered the anesthesia and by the number 97, Geoff was out.
The next few hours could determine whether he lived or died.
That morning Geoff’s family waited patiently in the lobby, distracting themselves by praying or watching television. It seemed an eternity until a man in a white coat finally approached the Henderson family.
The neurosurgeon had finished the operation in less than three hours.
To the family’s relief, the doctor had good news: He had removed the entire tumor.
Maria’s penny must have worked its charm.
What the doctors found was a stage I malignant astrocytoma tumor, most common in children and young adults, formed by the star-shaped cells that offer nourishment and support to the brain system.
The tumor was two centimeters in diameter and situated in his left frontal lobe. It was located near the surface, and because the doctors had clear access, they were able to remove the infected tissue.
The doctors closed the incision with a precise line of 29 staples. Geoff’s shaved scalp looked like a baseball, a neatly stitched curve on his left side.
Still woozy from the anesthesia, Geoff ingested a cocktail of painkillers and steroids to reduce any swelling in his brain. He was on his way to recovery. The next few days would be the most important for survival; but, the hardest part of the recovery was yet to come.
At that point, Geoff had a blurry recollection of what had transpired. But the last 24 hours slowly materialized, and he began to comprehend the magnitude of the event. How long ago was it that he was a normal, healthy boy, playing in a friend’s living room? Though it was nearly impossible to believe, his aching head was the strongest evidence that he had actually had brain surgery.
When he first awoke, though mildly disoriented, he assumed he could simply get up. But as soon as he lifted his head “one millimeter,” the vertigo that seized him was overwhelming. Trying to get up was like stepping into “just-got-off-the-tire-swing-but-worse land.” His balance was completely shot; he was so dizzy he could barely open his eyes. He couldn’t walk. His first feeling was pain, his second, anger. He was ready to go home immediately; he just wanted to leave.
Geoff was angry. Most of all, he wanted to be the way he once was.
Though his strength and stubbornness persisted, his body resisted his will. His head still ached, the incision hurt, and he was overcome with dizziness when he merely tried to sit up. He was accustomed to actions coming quickly and naturally to him and it was hard to accept that it would take time to rest and recuperate from the surgery.
One night, after his mother left the hospital, he was overwhelmed with frustration. He got out of his bed, something he had thus far only been able to do with help from others. But when he tried to stand, he immediately fell. He was dizzy and felt ill. Defeated, he managed to get back into bed before anyone knew. The experience left him even more depressed.
Maria could sense his frustration. When Geoff’s tumor was diagnosed malignant, Maria could barely contain her emotions. She had been diagnosed with skin cancer while pregnant with Geoff. She felt a surge of guilt, believing that she had somehow passed the cancer on to him. Doctors made sure to convince her otherwise. But she was a mother prone to worry, and it hurt her to see her son suffer. She was terrified to leave him out of her sight and was determined to be with him day and night. She did not leave his side for 10 1/2 of the 11 days he was in the hospital.
Throughout his stay, Geoff fought with his abilities, but he was also worried about other’s reactions. His large extended family was deeply concerned about him. Geoff, like his mother, was always eager to please and thinking of others before himself. When visitors came, he didn’t share his inner turmoil. Instead, he joked about his disappointment that the metal plate in his head wouldn’t set off airport metal detectors. Determined to appear upbeat, he said he hoped to have some sort of trophy after the ordeal.
With so many visitors, doctors and nurses constantly scurrying about, he didn’t have much time for self-reflection. He really hadn’t had much experience contemplating his own mortality either; he was only an 11-year-old boy. Absorbing the full emotional impact of the last 24 hours seemed impossible. Even after visiting hours, the large room he shared with more than five other patients kept him distracted. The machines beeped and interrupted his thoughts. He knew people were worried about him and he wanted to comfort them by showing that he was OK. He was barely beginning to sort out what had happened but was determined to show a brave face.
As tough as it was, he learned his limits. Geoff was grateful to his friends and family, but he still longed to go home. His birthday was a month away, and he had begged his mother to take him to the Vans Skatepark, which was across from the hospital where he was staying. Geoff was tortured, knowing that all the fun and excitement he yearned for lay just beyond the sterile hospital walls. His birthday was in a month, and everyone said his condition wouldn’t allow him to go to the skate park. But he refused to accept this.
He was fortunate compared with what could have been. He could talk, and he had functional use of his body. Still, he was seized with fits of vertigo. It was maddening to sit in the boring hospital room. While his friends were outside skateboarding, playing basketball and being boys, he was stuck “inside,” a place he despised even when he felt well.
When he was finally released from the hospital, after an 11-day stay, he attended his Little League team’s award ceremony at a local pizza parlor. This initial outing left him feeling frustrated and defeated. The doctors told him he would have after-shock headaches, but they didn’t know how bad they would be or how long they would last. They hurt him daily. He tried to participate in the fun, playing video games with his friends. He would sporadically lose vision in his right eye or feel his right arm go numb, the nerves confused. Geoff had trouble controlling his right hand. His reaction time was too slow, and he had no strength to press the buttons hard enough. For the boy who had always been good at everything, this was a harsh blow to take.
But Geoff was desperate to return to his old self. Every day he woke up, he remembered his birthday was approaching faster and faster. Despite discouraging words from his doctors and warnings from his parents, Geoff was still determined to celebrate his birthday as planned.
He began to prepare himself. He paid attention to his physical state. When his body reacted, Geoff adapted. He pushed his body to get back to normal but stopped when he knew he had done too much. He watched Tony Hawk skateboarding videos and learned how to fall properly, to protect his head. He ignored the vertigo that plagued him, determined to walk unassisted. He seized every opportunity to go outside and tried to exercise his limbs, particularly the left side. Geoff struggled to maintain a positive outlook, he refused to even think of spending his birthday at home.
Thirty days later, his family cheered from the sidelines as Geoff put on his skateboarding pads and helmet. Back to his old self, he climbed up a ramp at Vans Skatepark and kicked off.