Pictured Suzy Becker.By Andrew Davis
Despite what certain TV shows (including ones that I like) trumpet, the real survivors are nowhere to be found on some island eating snails to snag a reward. The true survivors are people around you who persevere through events so traumatic that those reality-show veterans would run in the other direction if confronted with them.
One of those real people is author/illustrator Suzy Becker. Becker has written I had brain surgery, what's your excuse?, which details her frightening odyssey of seizures, brain mass detection, surgery, and recovery. What is truly surprising—in the most pleasant way—is the amount of humor that's present. She hilariously pokes fun (through words and drawings) at everything from the operation to the medical establishment. Trust me—the undeniable mix of emotions in this book makes for a most engrossing read.
Windy City Times: I have to say two things about this book.
Suzy Becker: Remember, you're being taped.
WCT: (Laughs) First, I was surprised by how easy this book was to read. I read the entire -page] book in two days—and I pretty much work seven days a week. Second, even though I knew the outcome, I was surprised by how caught up I got in everything you went through.
SB: Thank you. I think the pictures pretty much helped. Some people just read from one picture to the next.
WCT: Why did you write this book?
SB: I don't know that [writing this book] was a completely conscious decision. The closest answer I can give you is that it was a combination of two things. One was a writing fellowship I got at Harvard. They said to me that the worst thing that would happen would be that my presentation to the community would be cancelled if I couldn't do it. However, knowing that my presentation was scheduled for March, 2000—and it was January—I knew that I had to get something going. The other factor was the whole 'write what you know' philosophy. I felt like this [situation] was the only thing I knew a lot about—and then it became like occupational therapy.
WCT: The first seizure you mentioned in the book—which happened in 1999—was not the first one you had. [The first one actually occurred in 1995.] However, the 1999 one was significant because that was the first one your [then-partner] Karen noticed. Where do you think you'd be if Karen hadn't insisted you see a doctor?
SB: It's a little hard to say. I had gotten to the point where a doctor—who's now in Chicago—told me that these seizures were stress episodes. Part of me thinks that I could've gone on having seizures every six months or so. However, the reality is that the seizures were getting worse and eventually my speech would've been affected—so at some point I'm pretty sure I would've had brain surgery.
WCT: You mention your relationship with Karen rather matter-of-factly. Are you worried that your relationship might put off any first-time Suzy Becker readers?
SB: I'm not. If someone is put off by that, then that person won't like Suzy Becker. It's interesting. It seems that more people are worried for me than anything. It's frustrating that there is this 'ghettoization' of gay literature. My publisher never approached this book in that way. The relationship was—and still is—a non-issue.
WCT: Now it turned out that the mass the doctors removed was not a tumor, but something called a gliosis. What is that?
SB: It's a rare type of scar tissue that the doctors said doesn't usually recur.
WCT: Well, that's good news. How often do you see a neurologist now?
SB: I went directly to a neurosurgeon and never saw a neurologist. I don't see one now because I don't want to be on [that type of] medication ever again. However, I do see my neurosurgeon once a year.
WCT: What was your lowest point during recovery? You mention in the book that you felt suicidal at times.
SB: I have to say that it turned out that I wasn't really suicidal: I try to make a distinction between 'being suicidal' and considering suicide an option, that is, putting it on the table. However, if I had to go on another 18 to 20 months like [I was], I would've just allowed myself to end my life (or let go), because I just didn't want to live like that. It was a quality-of-life issue. Experiencing all those limitations and pressures was just horrible.
However, the lowest point was the neuropsych testing within the first few days of leaving the hospital. I didn't know if it was the total lack of compassion of the person doing the testing or going through a battery of tests and finding out how many cognitive skills were impaired ... it was just hard.
I also considered moving where nobody knew me and starting over—but I couldn't even conceive of a job that I could do. I thought that I couldn't be a cashier, but I was actually encouraged by the thought of being able to bag groceries because I have a good sense of space.
WCT: So what was the turning point in your recovery?
SB: There were a couple of turning points. The first one was making someone laugh for the first time after surgery. That happened about 5-6 weeks, in the neurosurgeon's office. The second one was getting back on my bike. That gave me a sense of autonomy that I didn't have anywhere else.
WCT: So how are you today?
SB: Today, Wednesday? I'm OK. I made a lot of silly promises to myself and whatever higher power during my recovery and the only one I've kept is not to be a Pollyanna about the whole situation.
One of the facts about the whole experience is that, to get through things from day to day, I had to abandon the standards I had for myself. I had to stop comparing myself to the person I was before the surgery. After 18 months, I probably recovered 95% of the cognitive skills that I had. I don't want to submit to testing again; I really don't want to know [everything about it].
There are some lingering side effects. I have a little trouble reading out loud and things like that—but I'm glad I didn't take my previous standards back. I didn't realize how great it is to do what I do: walking around the world, making people laugh, and drawing cartoons. I feel much happier now. I used to live in that gap between who I was and who I wanted to be. Now, I feel better.
WCT: Where did your alter ego Augusta come from?
SB: I just spoke with her last night. Augusta was at Harvard and was this outspoken [entity]. She was always in my head; before she was Augusta, she was a patient who was more perfect than I was.
I actually starting using Augusta as a source of enpowerment. I started thinking, 'What would a person who's better than me actually do right now?' and thought that, maybe, I could get halfway there.
WCT: You also named your mass—Ferdinand. Why Ferdinand?
SB: I grew up with the picture book about Ferdinand the Friendly Bull. Although I've drawn him to look scary in the book, I figured that if he'd wanted to take me down he could have—and he didn't.
WCT: But why not ... Babar?
SB: Well, Ferdinand was a pacifist. Babar ... I didn't really get a take on where he stood about things. (Laughs)
WCT: What advice do you have for others who may find themselves in a similar situation to yours?
SB: The most important thing is to not panic. Try to continue to define your own life as much as you can; don't let the illness define you. Also, trust yourself. You can find the resources in yourself to cope ... and you don't even know what they might be.
It's important to maintain a healthy body and a healthy outlook. For me, that involved riding bikes and spending time with people whose company I enjoyed—even if it meant not telling them what was happening so I could have normalcy.
WCT: What did you learn about yourself?
SB: I learned that I'm both stronger and more vulnerable than I knew. I had never even spent a night in a hospital before ... and to go from that to having brain surgery put a big chink in my armor. I was scared at the prospect of surgery and at the possibility of not getting my speech or career back. Once you get through something—using fear, denial, humor, or something else—you know that those resources will be there the next time something happens.
WCT: You suffered another setback the summer after your surgery when your first editor, Sally Kovalchick, passed away. Did you want to comment on her?
SB: She died suddenly of a heart attack. I had worked closely with her so [her passing] was sad. There's actually a good story about her. At Sally's memorial service, which happened in the fall after she died, her sister told a story about Sally finding a penny on her way to work. She found the penny on a sidewalk in the middle of a snowstorm—and taped it to a piece of paper. So her sister said to think of Sally any time you see a penny. Later, I turned in what I thought was the first draft of the book. However, I had a lot more work to do on it, which was discouraging. Anyway, I decided to take a walk in New York. As I turned a corner it looked like someone had broken a bank—there were pennies everywhere. I thought 'Oh, Sally's telling me to keep going.'
WCT: Let me read you one person's review of your book: It's '[a]n inspiring story, told with humor and panache. No one is spared the brunt of the author's jokes; her wit is directed at doctors, friends, family, and, perhaps most of all, herself. And ultimately, no one is left outside the author's warm embrace.' What's your reaction to that?
SB: I'm so grateful. There were a lot of lonely times working on this book and some scary times reliving some experiences. It's gratifying to hear from people who have and who haven't had brain surgery that they can identify with what I went through.
You can find copies of I had brain surgery, what's your excuse? at various bookstores, including Women and Children First.