A Baseline MRI: Grappling with Glioblastoma's Harsh Reality

Today Was My Baseline MRI

So, what exactly does that mean?

Well, nearly a hundred days after being diagnosed with Glioblastoma, the deadliest form of brain cancer, I found myself navigating through the intricate web of medical procedures and terminologies. The baseline MRI serves as a pivotal point of reference for future scans, a benchmark against which the progression of my tumor will be measured. It is the foundation for the months and possibly years of monitoring to come. This one scan becomes the ruler, the measuring stick, the constant in a sea of terrifying unknowns.

As I sit here, contemplating the significance of this test, a myriad of emotions swirl within me.

The upcoming scan stirs up a storm of emotions within me. I wrestle with the fear of what is to come, grappling with the uncertainty that looms ahead. It is a kind of mental tug-of-war—half of me screaming for answers, the other half too afraid to hear them. The MRI itself may be routine to those who perform it, but to me, it is loaded with meaning. A machine that might whisper what my future holds. A glimpse into the battlefield within my brain, invisible to the naked eye but always, always present.

Amidst this turmoil, I find myself torn between the desire to keep living and the desperate need to understand what my illness has in store for me. It is a strange place to live in—this in-between space where hope and fear share the same breath. I try to stay present, to feel grateful for the now, but my mind often races toward the what-ifs. What if it is worse? What if the treatment did not help? What if this is the best I will ever feel again?

It is not just about my journey but the cherished moments and dreams I hold dear.

I yearn to be there for my nephew's milestones. I want to watch him grow, cheer for him at school performances, and see who he becomes. I long to share countless adventures with my husband—lazy Sundays, spontaneous road trips, anniversaries filled with quiet joy. I crave more time with my family. Time to laugh, to argue over nothing, to sit in comfortable silence with those who know me best. These are not extravagant dreams, but they are mine, and they matter deeply.

But as I reflect, I cannot help but be overwhelmed by regrets and wishes, each a stark reminder of life's fleeting nature.

I think about time I wasted worrying about things that now feel trivial. I think about plans I put off for someday. That mythical someday that never seemed urgent until my mortality knocked on the door. I wish I had traveled more. I wish I had taken more pictures. I wish I had been gentler with myself. It is amazing how clear things become when you are forced to look at life through the lens of limitation. Regret does not dominate my thoughts, but it lingers like a shadow. A reminder to live with fewer delays, fewer apologies to myself.

As I lay in the MRI machine, surrounded by the sterile hum of medical equipment, I am reminded of the fragility of life.

There is a chill in the air, a mechanical rhythm to the clicks and bangs of the machine that almost feels like a soundtrack to my thoughts. The technician’s voice comes through the speaker, calmly instructing me to stay still. That command hits differently now. Stay still. In a body that feels anything but certain. In a life that has been turned upside down by a diagnosis no one is ever prepared for.

I close my eyes and picture my husband’s face. I picture my dog curled at the end of the bed, unaware of how drastically our lives have changed. I picture my friends who have rallied around me, showing up in small ways and big ones. The love I have received has been unexpected and beautiful. It lifts me. It carries me through these scans, these appointments, these endless cycles of worry and waiting.

Despite the heaviness in my heart, I find solace in the love surrounding me.

I have learned that love does not need to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes, it is found in the hand that squeezes yours before a test. In the friend who texts you every Monday without fail. In the nurse who remembers your name, even though she sees hundreds of patients a week. In the stranger who leaves a comment of encouragement on your blog. These small gestures add up to something immense. They remind me that I am not walking this road alone.

Each moment becomes a treasure, each interaction a testament to the beauty of human connection.

I am learning to collect these moments like souvenirs. A good cup of coffee. A walk in fresh air. A genuine laugh that sneaks up on me. They do not erase the fear, but they make space for joy to coexist with it. And that is something. That is everything. Even on the hardest days, I am finding that joy can live here too, if I let it.

Today's MRI is not just a medical procedure; it is a poignant reminder to cherish every moment and to live with purpose and gratitude.

It is so easy to get caught up in the what-ifs, the scan dates, the treatment side effects. But today reminded me to return to the simple truths: I am alive. I am loved. I still have time. And in that time, I get to choose how I respond. Maybe I cannot control what the scan says, but I can control how I face it. I can choose to be present. I can choose to be kind. I can choose to be real, even when it is messy and hard.

Though the road ahead may be uncertain, I find strength in knowing I am not alone.

That strength does not mean I do not cry or break down. It means I keep going. It means I keep showing up to appointments, to family dinners, to late-night talks about everything and nothing. It means I write these words, hoping someone else feels a little less alone because of them. It means I reach out when I need help, and I listen when someone else needs the same.

Together, we navigate this journey, one scan at a time.

One breath at a time. One laugh at a time. One MRI at a time. That is how we move forward. That is how we hold onto hope. Not by pretending everything is fine, but by acknowledging how fragile and beautiful it all is. Today, I faced the machine. Tomorrow, I will face the results. Whatever they say, I will keep holding on—to love, to hope, to every moment I get.

Because this story is not over. Not yet.

And that is enough.