TODD ANGELUCCI TODD ANGELUCCI

MY STORY:

Embracing Life’s ‘Hard’ Moments: From Nurse to Brain Tumor Survivor to Resilience Advocate”

In the tumultuous year of 2020, amidst the chaos of a global pandemic, I found myself facing the most profound challenge of my life—a challenge that would teach me the true meaning of resilience.

As a dedicated nurse on the front lines, I began experiencing subtle but persistent symptoms. These vague sensations could have easily been dismissed as dehydration, stress, or the result of relentless work hours. However, my unwavering commitment to my patients and the belief that I could handle anything life threw my way compelled me to keep pushing forward, even as fatigue and weakness crept in.

Close friends, colleagues, and my primary doctor began urging me to pay closer attention. They suggested that if these symptoms persisted or worsened, I should seek further evaluation in the emergency room (ER).

One autumn morning, after my usual 3-mile run, I noticed a peculiar sensation in my left hand—a subtle, almost indescribable feeling. Recalling the advice of my doctor and friends, I decided it was time to take my symptoms more seriously and headed to the local emergency room.

In those pandemic days, the ER was a place most people avoided unless absolutely necessary. I masked up, battling my fears, and underwent the usual battery of tests to rule out cardiac and stroke issues. During the MRI, the technician’s announcement that “the neurologist wanted to add some contrast for better images” raised concerns, but I dismissed them as I lay in the claustrophobic tube.

Upon returning to the ER room, a physician and nurse entered with expressions of deep concern. I can vividly recall that moment.

The doctor sat beside me, looked into my eyes, and said, “You are not crazy; you have a marble-sized tumor in your head.”

Time seemed to stand still as I stood up in a state of shock, moving to the other side of the room. It felt as though I had been punched in the gut, and a few tears trickled down my face, leaving me in a state of disbelief.

All I could muster was, “This sucks.” The overwhelming emotions and thoughts about my uncertain future had not yet fully hit me.

Turning to the doctor and nurse, they uttered the words that hit me like a ton of bricks: “I’m sorry.”

In that moment, it felt as though a death sentence had been handed to me. I felt as though I were terminally ill, facing the gravity of my situation—an unexpected brain tumor diagnosis, something many consider their worst nightmare.

That moment was etched in my memory. I began reflecting on the countless times I had said, “I’m sorry,” to patients and families when delivering challenging diagnoses. How often had I offered those words when people shared news of a loved one’s passing? It seemed almost like a reflex, a standard response in moments of uncomfortable silence. To be fair, it was a gesture of empathy and compassion.

On that day, however, I realized that no one could truly understand the depths of what I was feeling. My journey with a brain tumor would be arduous and filled with obstacles, yet today, I am here to share this story.

From that pivotal moment onward, both as a human being and a healthcare professional, I resolved not to offer “I’m sorry” in that context again. As I navigated the challenges of my brain tumor journey, I struggled with what to say when people expressed sympathy for my situation. Many well-intentioned individuals did say “I’m sorry” to me, and I understood their sentiments. However, it brought me back to that day in the ER.

After much reflection during my own battle with mortality, I found a way to respond authentically, providing solace, courage, and hope to those around me. I learned that sharing from the heart, although difficult, could offer a unique form of healing.

My brain tumor journey was grueling, filled with profound struggles, fears, and moments that felt insurmountable. I often found myself acknowledging, “This is hard.” I allowed myself to experience the full spectrum of emotions—sadness, fear, anxiety, and even depression. I permitted myself to embrace the difficulty, and in doing so, I discovered the first glimmers of relief. By acknowledging the “hard,” I took my first steps toward healing.

During this journey, I started a podcast featuring individuals who had faced their own formidable challenges. What struck me was that we all had our “hard” moments, but by confronting them head-on, we found strength and resilience.

As I returned to working with patients, I encountered opportunities to alter my response. Instead of instinctively saying, “I’m sorry,” I shared the story of my own experience as written above. I looked deep into their eyes and said, “This is hard.” I allowed them the space and time to embrace the difficulty, to cry, and to feel.

Then, I added, “BUT WE DO HARD THINGS.”

In that moment, I witnessed how these words infused courage and strength, not just in them but also within myself. It became a mantra for me during challenging times—whenever I faced adversity, I reminded myself, “This is hard, but I do hard things,” and I took one step forward.

I cannot emphasize enough how this shift in perspective has aided me and others during challenging moments. It has become an integral part of my approach to both life and patient care.

Through this journey, I’ve realized that you don’t need to have a brain tumor or cancer to experience the “hard” in life. We all face our own unique challenges, and as I’ve learned firsthand, life can be profoundly challenging. But together, we have the strength to conquer even the most formidable obstacles.

“We do hard things.”