scans that reveal no new tumors, I stop taking trametinib. It’s a huge relief—and a big cause for concern. The horrible rash that I’ve continued to suffer from disappears almost instantly, and I feel better. But what will happen inside my skull now that I’m off medication? Will the tumors resurge and attack? Dr. Atkins seems confident that the melanoma cells in my whole body have been defeated and that they have, as he says, “stopped seeding”—spreading through my bloodstream into the rest of my body. It’s reassuring to hear that my cancer may be eradicated for good. But without the drugs I feel like a white-water kayaker without a life jacket.

Another tumor appears at the end of July 2016, after I’ve gone several months without treatment. It’s in my cerebellum, the region that controls voluntary motor movements, but it’s so small it causes no symptoms. A few weeks later it gets zapped with the CyberKnife.

Throughout the summer of 2016, I slowly return to my former self. I run and swim and cycle, and I travel with Mirek to visit my family in their own homes. It’s a nice change to be able to go away, so heartening to no longer be the seriously ill mother and sister they came to see as often as possible—never knowing whether each time would be the last.

But although I am tumor-free for now, another disaster is brewing in my head: brain tissue necrosis, the delayed and potentially fatal effect of radiation. Necrosis occurs when an area of dead tissue forms at the site of a brain tumor after radiation therapy and the surrounding tissue doesn’t heal. It is more prevalent among cancer patients these days than it once was because of the increasing use of SRS and CyberKnife techniques combined with immunotherapy; the two procedures work synergistically to destroy tumors but also destroy surrounding healthy tissues.

The symptoms of brain tissue necrosis may not appear until a year or longer after radiation treatments. It’s been fourteen months since I received a series of radiations for my tumors. So in a sense I am right on time when, at the end of August 2016, the site of the biggest tumor, in my frontal cortex, begins to act up.

As I’m getting ready for a hiking trip in the White Mountains in New Hampshire with Maria, I notice a blind spot at the top of the visual field in my left eye. At first, I don’t pay it much attention. Maybe it’s a slight cataract, I think, and I try to ignore it into oblivion. But within a few days the vision in my left eye deteriorates as rapidly as if a curtain is being lowered from the top to the bottom of my eye. From day to day, it gets worse and worse. My doctor orders an emergency MRI of my brain and eyeballs. The scans confirm what we suspected: the problem is not the eye itself but my optic nerve. Aftereffects of radiation to the frontal cortical tumor, which was very close to my left optic nerve, have destroyed the nerve. I am diagnosed with irreversible optic neuropathy, total blindness in my left eye. There is no cure. I will have to learn to live with one eye.

Two days later, I fly to Boston and meet my sister. We are ready for a three-day hike. At the last moment, I decide to buy trekking poles at REI in case I have trouble with my balance. They are very light and comfortable and turn out to be my lifesavers during our challenging trip. We hike up rocky and steep Mount Washington. Being blind in my left eye, I no longer have depth perception. At the start of our trek, it’s very hard for me to estimate the inclines, and I fall frequently. I have trouble climbing, and it’s even worse going downhill. I trip and stumble. But in very short order, I adjust. We successfully and joyously complete our planned route through the mountains and our three days of hiking.

Back home in Virginia, I have to relearn so much. How to run without stumbling—many times I return from my daily run with bloody knees and palms. How to cycle—I add a side mirror to my bike so I won’t crash into objects on my left. How to type and read in my new off-center world. How to drive my car—I rotate my head so far around before changing lanes that Mirek jokes I’m becoming an owl. I also learn to ski without depth perception. I downgrade myself from expert-level, double-diamond runs to single-diamond trails. Fortunately, swimming is easy. I don’t bump into anything but water and just follow the line at the bottom of the pool.

It’s a slow process, but my memory continues to come back, especially as I begin to write this book in the spring of 2016. As I reflect on the two months of my journey and try to piece together what happened, I can grasp little bits here and there and often recall entire episodes.

But when I ask my family questions to help me fill in the gaps, they usually don’t want to talk about it. Mostly they say they can’t recall, and I think they are telling the truth. It is too traumatic for them to relive. It’s as if they don’t want to resurrect the version of me who was so unkind, the version they worried would be their final memory of me.

In the spring of 2017, Kasia asks Sebastian if he remembers the time I was mean to him. It’s been two years since it happened, and Sebastian is now ten years old. He’s grown into a tall, thin kid with a tremendous talent for running. He tells his mom he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He doesn’t remember anything like that at all.

In truth, conjuring up the images of those episodes isn’t easy for me either. I’m still embarrassed at how I treated Theresa during my first

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