Russ's Ravings: I'm Glad I Am The One Who Is Sick

Editor's note: The following is Patch Field Editor Russ Crespolini's, hopefully, weekly column. It is reflective of his opinion alone.

On Christmas Eve I wasn't feeling well so I stayed home while my family went out to celebrate. After I had finished work for the day I grabbed the mail and found there were a pair of letters from my insurance company in reference to my upcoming brain surgery.

The details of this ordeal and my attempt to process what I am experiencing I've been writing about. I discuss my diagnosis, my fears of telling my daughter, the testing process, the isolations and depression associated with it and more. Check it out for yourself:

• Russ's Ravings: The Doctor Called To Tell Me I Have A Tumor
• Russ's Ravings: Your Life Flashes Before Your Eyes
• Russ's Ravings: A Tale Of (At Least) Two Tumors
• Russ's Ravings: The Horrors Of Waiting Mitigated By Laughter
• Russ's Ravings: 'One Slip, And You're Toast'
• Russ's Ravings: I'm not Okay. And That's Okay
• Russ's Ravings: All I Want For Christmas Is Brain Surgery

So opening up my letter I saw that my insurance company had approved the removal of my brain tumor by the good folks at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York. What they did not approve, was the second request, entitled "brain repair."

And I have to tell you, I laughed.

Because according to this they were perfectly willing to allow the surgeons to go in and muck around my head. Cut open some bone, yank out some stuff, move some material all around...and then just leave the place looking ransacked. Maybe I would end up like Jack Nicholson at the end of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

In my mind's eye it was like one of those Farmer's Insurance or Allstate Insurance commercials where there was all this mayhem wrought and Dean Winters was gleefully running around my noggin' in scrubs tearing out veins and making holes in grey matter.

Fortunately, the second letter in the bunch approved my brain repair.

So here it stands with my approval for the surgery all done and the procedure itself looming. And everyday I get contacted by someone who has heard my story and it willing to share theirs. And at the same time I was contacted by strangers who were reading my diatribes across the Patch network I was also getting notes from people who I knew. Former coworkers, parents of the friends of my daughter and they were sharing with me their struggles with breast cancer and colon cancer and things I never even knew they were dealing with.

It was such an eye-opening experience. They shared with me their struggles, and offered to help me with mine and I felt this overwhelming sense of gratitude that it was me and not someone I loved who was sick.

I have friends who have gotten serious illnesses and I know I wasn't there for them because I wasn't strong enough to face their infirmities. Friends who have sick children fighting serious illnesses or chronic conditions that I am not able to face because of the deep fear in me that forces me to confront.

I can't handle not being able to fix things.

When I see a student struggling in class with an issue, I can't not reach out and try to help. I don't know how to disconnect like that. If I see someone at work struggling I can't help but try to assist, no matter what else is going on. It just isn't in my makeup.

And believe me, this isn't boasting. I have gotten myself in trouble on more than one occasion in my life trying to help others. I've lost friends, I've lost jobs, I've lost opportunities because I don't know how to not try to help. My family has often wished I didn't put myself out there as much as I do. But I don't know any other way to be.

Part of that is because I am hard wired this way, and part of that is a conscious decision not to let others and their fear of extending themselves change me.

But this thought, this epiphany, that I am so grateful it is me that is sick, is a deep-seated one. I don't think I could take it if it was a loved one or my child facing brain surgery.

And it makes me feel so sad for my parents and my family. So selfishly, I am glad it is me that is sick.

Because I couldn't live with it otherwise.

Russ Crespolini is a Field Editor for Patch Media, adjunct professor and college newspaper advisor. His columns have won awards from the National Newspaper Association and the New Jersey Press Association.

He writes them in hopes of connecting with readers and engaging with them. And because it is cheaper than therapy. He can be reached at russ.crespolini@patch.com