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— From "Alumni Matter," University of Iowa Alumni Magazine IN MY EXPERIENCEPhinally Done"I'd like to thank my family, professors, and, uh, my brain tumor... " Since I'm completing my PhD this summer, recognizing those who helped make it possible is the right thing to do. Some people credit a supportive spouse, others a caring mentor. I have a brain tumor to thank. The tumor introduced itself during a poker game, blinding and paralyzing me. Suddenly, the lights went out, and I went facedown on the tabletop like a puppet with its strings cut. As bitterness mixed with terror, I thought, "So this is how it happens. I'm having a stroke; I'm dying." Not the way I pictured the end. And it wasn't — a stroke, or the end. So much for the good news. The bad news, somberly announced in an emergency room: a brain tumor — larger than a golf ball.
That began to change after a no-nonsense counselor ridiculed my perceived right to sit on the sidelines and thumb-suck. He said "Sympathy's in the dictionary, Bill, right between sweat and syphilis." Telling me it was high time I saw my glass as half-full instead of half-empty, he "recommended" that I help others with disabilities. By this time, I had become healthy enough to...to what? My sister summed it up nicely. "Let's see," she said one day, as we talked about my future, "you're physically disabled, you've failed out of college, have no marketable skills..." She paused as we both pondered that resume. "I think you'd better register for some classes at the junior college. See how you do." So, I found myself standing in line to register, wondering if I was too old or damaged to do something with my life. I got in, of course: public junior colleges admit anyone with a pulse. Aside from the fact that I hadn't been in a classroom since the Nixon administration, I had a lot of trouble with my vision. Other parts of the printed page would superimpose on the text I tried to read. Until I adjusted, it took me forever to read anything, and, of course, it led to some interesting misinterpretations. I spent that first semester worrying if I'd pass my classes. Grades were posted: 4.0. I thought it was my vision problem, but the registrar's office assured me the grades were accurate. That was the first time I really began to believe I could make it. I was thrilled. In fact, if excitement were people, I would've been China. Along the way, I've also chameleoned into a freelance writer. The first time I saw an article I'd written in a magazine, it felt like I was 14 again and I'd just sighted the girl I was terminally infatuated with. Writing immediately became the thing I never knew I always wanted. Of course, I've accumulated a stack of rejection letters thicker than the Iowa City phone book. But I realized, as I first did while getting an education, that anything worth having takes persistence. One of the immediate benefits of selling something I'd written proved to be simply that: getting paid. This was a novel and welcome experience. At times, I even get paid to write about something I actually want to write about. That's like giving an 11-year-old boy money to play baseball. It's been an interesting and rewarding journey. But when I'm congratulated on my accomplishments, such as when my dissertation received a $2,500 grand prize at a recent conference, it reminds me that I've been fortunate indeed — for someone whose brain has been fondled more often than my mother handled the Sunday meatloaf. Although the brain tumor taught Bill Asenjo not to take too much for granted, he says that by the time this article appears in print, he should have received his doctorate in counseling from the UI. © 2009 Bill Asenjo |
Grumbling the whole way, I did. And after I had read for a blind man ,and worked with children in wheelchairs, I was glad I did. Helping someone else made it very difficult for me to feel sorry for myself. I began to feel an unusual sensation — gratitude. I realized that whining about the luck of the draw didn't help: you have to play the hand you're dealt.