From the recent Niggling health problems are all too easy to explain. I'd tell myself I was wobbly because I'd drunk too much, though I'd only had two glasses of wine, that I'd lost my footing on the stairs because it was the middle of the night; and that I had no energy because early starts were really taking it out of me.
Yet seemingly insignificant problems can add up to something much greater - life-changing, even - as I now know too well.
My problems started during my second year of university when I noticed my hearing wasn't what it should be.
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I was fine in quiet surroundings but, as soon as I was somewhere noisy, like a restaurant, I struggled to hear what people were saying and often pretended to hear, mirroring other people's reactions to seem part of the conversation.
I went to a GP in Bristol, where I was studying, and was shocked when they put it down to the mumps I'd had six months earlier. I had no idea it could have so severe an effect. In fact, this complication is rare, according to the NHS
. But I accepted the explanation and carried on as normal.
A few years later, in early 2014, now working in London as a TV researcher on food programmes, I realised my hearing had become worse. I was straining to hear on my right side, and being in a crowd was impossible.
I went to my local GP, who referred me to an audiologist. After several hearing tests, he concluded I had severe hearing loss in my right ear, gave me a hearing aid and sent me on my way. Problem solved - apparently.
But that wasn't the full story. As my hearing gradually deteriorated, so did my balance. I'd often lose my footing, find it difficult to walk straight and stumble into things - so much so that my terrible balance became a bit of a joke among my friends. I assumed this was a result of my deafness and that nothing could be done.
I became cautious with alcohol, as it made things more difficult - on New Year's Eve, I had a glass of champagne and nearly fell over. I felt unnaturally woozy, though I'd drunk very little. I was once even turned away from a nightclub as the bouncer thought I was too 'smashed' to be allowed in, yet I'd had only two glasses of wine.
Then came my fall - a serious warning sign that I didn't pick up on. In September 2014, I went to the loo during the night and on my way back reached out to hold the banister, missed, lost my balance and fell backwards down the stairs.
Disorientated and winded, I wasn't sure what had happened, but I was in a lot of pain. The crash woke my flatmate, who insisted I go to A&E.
X-rays revealed I'd fractured a rib and bruised my rib cage. I was given a hefty amount of painkillers and sent on my way. I laughed it off: my balance was hopeless, that was all.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I really began to struggle. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt increasingly lethargic. My body felt like lead, and even the smallest actions took a huge mental effort.
I remember one day just staring at my computer screen for four hours, unable to conjure up the energy even to move the mouse. I was going to bed at 9.30 every night, yet still struggling to get up in the morning.
In January, I started to find it difficult to speak clearly, as if my tongue was caught in cotton wool, causing me to slur and stutter. I was also getting headaches, alarming head rushes and dizzy spells.
I went back to my GP, who did some balance tests and saw immediately that it wasn't normal. He put in referral requests for both an ear, nose and throat (ENT) and a neurology specialist, so I could make an appointment with whoever would see me first.
By then, I had a strong gut instinct that something wasn't right - but the next available appointments on the NHS were many weeks away.
After speaking to my dad, we decided to book a private appointment with an ENT consultant for the following week. The specialist repeated the balance and hearing tests - and he was outraged.
He said with such severe one-sided hearing loss it was unbelievable I hadn't been referred before. He advised an MRI as soon as possible to rule out anything brain-related.
Two days after my scan, I'd just got off the Tube on my way to work when I received a voicemail from the consultant, asking me to call him immediately. My stomach turned. I rang him straight away. Though he said he didn't like to do this over the phone, he told me they knew why I'd been having all these symptoms - why my hearing and balance were so terrible.
I had something called a giant acoustic neuroma, a benign brain tumour growing in the right side of my brain. He told me to go home straight away, and that he'd made an appointment for me to see his colleague, a neurosurgeon, that afternoon.
I spent the rest of the day stunned. My memories of that day are foggy, but I remember watching hours of TV at my parents' house in a daze.
That afternoon, the neurosurgeon told me my tumour was 4cm in diameter, and had been slowly but steadily growing in my brain for the past ten years.
An acoustic neuroma, or vestibular schwannoma, is a tumour on the nerve that controls hearing and balance. They tend to grow slowly, so symptoms come on very gradually. When relatively small, symptoms tend to be loss of balance and issues with hearing.
But as it grows and presses on other parts of the brain, it can cause other problems, such as headache, blurred vision and muscle weakness on one side of the face.
For smaller acoustic neuromas that aren't causing major symptoms, surgeons may opt to monitor it. In my case, given the tumour's size, the only option was to operate, requiring a highly complex ten-hour procedure. I was booked in to have the operation two weeks later.
The neurosurgeon told me I'd be 'knocked for six' and to write off the next six months. Strangely, while I was scared, in a way I was also relieved - relieved to know that I wasn't feeling like this for no reason, that I wasn't making things up, that I wasn't a hypochondriac.
I was in hospital for a month after. There were a few complications, including a small stroke, which has permanently affected the sensation on the left side of my body. It still functions completely normally, but my skin feels more sensitive, like I've always got pins and needles.
I've had three months of therapy at home, including speech therapy and physiotherapy, working on walking, handwriting and balance, and I'm still recovering. It's a slow process, and the past five months have felt more like a year.
A few weeks ago, I had my follow-up with the neurologist, where we looked at my latest MRI scan. It's bizarre to see so concretely that the 4cm tumour mass - a splodge of white - that used to be there has completely disappeared.
They left behind the tiny part of it attached to the facial nerve in order to preserve its function (damage to the nerve can sometimes cause a permanent droop on one side of the face - something I've been spared), but this is invisible on the scan.
There's still a possibility of the tumour growing back. I will have a yearly MRI and, if it starts to regrow, it can be treated with a very focused dose of radiation.
I'm still waiting for movement to fully return in my facial muscles. As my right eye isn't yet blinking properly or producing tears, I have to put in prescribed eye drops every hour. I'm also now completely deaf in my right ear as a result of the operation. The fact that I'm young (I'm now 27) and otherwise healthy has helped my recovery.
But it's been a salutary lesson: never think you're being dramatic or making a big deal out of nothing. If you feel there's something wrong, kick up a fuss. I wish I'd done that.
It's always better to get something checked out and feel silly than to leave it to get worse and feel even sillier for not getting help.
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