— From CAREERS & the DISABLED, April 1999

A PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE

Trauma And Transformation

On a pleasant spring night in 1985 a brain tumor introduced itself, blinding and paralyzing me. Six surgeries, spinal meningitis, and several months later, the surgeon removed the last of the stubborn, golfball-sized growth and its tentacle-like roots.

I'd worked as a bartender, truck driver, construction worker—whatever physical labor paid the bills—that is, until the tumor. Toward the end of the following year and after my rehabilitation program, I anxiously registered for junior college while wondering if I was too damaged.

Starting college again took encouragement from family and friends. My first time in college, more interested in beer bashes than business classes, my 1.8 GPA earned me a permanent sabbatical. Six brain-tumor surgeries later, success seemed even less likely.

Once in school, I felt like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future. Surrounded by much younger classmates, I struggled with damaged vision, poor mobility, and rusty study skills. in fact, because I'd been out of school for a number of years, my study skills were more than rusty, they were nearly non-existent. An after-school study skills class helped.

But even though things were working out, self-pity plagued me like a hungry mosquito on a warm August night. Thus far, my life had been a steady diet of me, me, me—my wants and needs. Yet, it seemed the more that I focused on me, the worse I felt—and I didn't know how to change that situation.

During this first semester, I attended counseling sessions. I showed up expecting soothing words and unconditional support. But after listening to my sob story of how unfair life had treated me, my counselor leaned forward in his chair—as if he were about to tell me the key to the meaning of life—and calmly said, "Bill, stop sucking on your thumb and focus on someone else for a change."

I was appalled. This, of course, wasn't what I wanted to hear, but it was exactly what I needed to be told. By this time, even I was sick of me. Bored with whining and eager to get relief from my self-pity, I grudgingly contemplated his no-nonsense suggestion. But it didn't make sense to me: How could helping someone else make a difference in how I felt? Altruism, as you might have guessed, was a foreign concept to me.

With time and counseling, I came to accept some unpalatable facts about myself—my problem wasn't my disabilities, my age, or what others thought of me. My problem was my attitude; I was self-absorbed, always looking at my "glass" as half-empty instead of half-full. I held the belief that self-worth depended on someone else's opinion of me.

Volunteer Work

Following my counselor's suggestion, I began volunteer work. Soon afterward, feeling suspiciously better, I also joined a campus group engaged in community service, which helped me make friends, find opportunities to be useful, and develop a healthy sense of self-worth. it also lessened my suffocating self-absorption.

Not only did I start to feel better, but, to my surprise, these activities helped me qualify for scholarships. For instance, the Kiwanis Club offered a scholarship based, not on grades, but on community service. That first scholarship further enhanced my self-respect.

By the time I was graduated from the University of South Florida, I'd received a dozen scholarships and awards—and nobody was more surprised than I. The University of Florida offered me a fellowship to graduate school.

Since returning to school, I've been involved in a variety of volunteer efforts. Today I participate in an online discussion group for those with brain tumors. I'm not sure how much my suggestions and personal experience help those with whom I have contact. but I'm certain of this fact: It rarely fails to put things in perspective. Reaching out to someone struggling with a brain tumor always reminds me how different iny life has become since nearly dying—several times in 1985.

It remains a mystery to me why I've been so fortunate; my family, for example, has been wonderfully supportive. The least I can do, it seems to me, is spend some time each day helping someone else.

Today, while completing a PhD, I often ponder the life I've been privileged to experience since that crisis 14 years ago. But as someone once pointed out to me, the Chinese language uses two symbols for the English word crisis-one represents danger, the other opportunity.

Although I may never know why I developed that brain tumor, it seems it's the best thing that ever happened to me.

© 2009 Bill Asenjo

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