Inside my head: how did I find out I had a brain tumor?
My first surgical experience was somehow traumatic. I was 19, studying journalism in Colombia, when my appendix decided to get infected and burst inside me. The pain was exactly as bad as it sounds —a burning sensation running through my abdomen and a desperation I’d never felt before. It was a complicated surgery, and I think I even had to spend a few days sedated in the hospital before waking up.
I recovered pretty well after spending a whole month at home. My mom, who’s truly the best caretaker in the world, was incredibly attentive to my diet and schedule. She’s definitely the reason I got back on my feet back then, and she’s played a big part in helping me do it again this time around.
Anyway, I was lucky enough to spend all of my 20s living my best life: changing countries, finishing my Master’s in Berlin, and settling down as a young adult — 9,415 km away from where I grew up.
What were my symptoms?
This is probably the most common question I’ve received since I started telling people I had brain surgery. How did I find out I had a benign brain tumor? Well, my path to diagnosis took almost two years, and by that time, it was clear that surgery wasn’t optional.
My left eye became very dry and extremely sensitive to light toward the end of 2022. I had undergone laser eye surgery a few months earlier, so it was easy to blame it on that. I visited the eye doctor who performed the procedure several times, and the answer was always the same: physically, the eye looked great, it was probably just a dry eye, a very common side effect of laser surgery.
By the end of 2023, and into early 2024, I started noticing numbness on the left side of my tongue. I also realized the skin on my left cheek felt different —not completely numb, but definitely less sensitive than before. Still, I wasn’t in pain, and it didn’t interfere with anything. I even started wondering if it might still be related to the laser treatment. I mean, maybe the laser had gone a little too deep and altered the sensitivity of my facial nerve, right? Looking back, I realize how naïve that was… that’s not exactly how facial nerves work.
Around that same time, I noticed that when I talked on the phone using my left ear, voices sounded more distant than they did on the right side. I went to the ENT, shared all my symptoms, and explained that I was a bit concerned. They ran a hearing test, which showed that my hearing on the left side was just slightly lower than on the right. Their conclusion? It was probably due to seasonal allergies and nasal congestion —the likely cause of my “closed ear.” After all, ear, nose, and throat issues are so closely connected.
Last year, things started to get scary. I remember biking in the summer, and when I turned left, my vision suddenly felt a bit cloudy. I didn’t really have what you’d call sharp peripheral vision. Since I work from home, I’ve become a walker. I go out every day and usually try to do a 2–3 km walk each morning before starting work. During those walks, I started noticing that my balance felt off. I’d be walking in a straight line, and then suddenly I’d find myself drifting to the left before quickly correcting to the right. It felt like walking home after having one too many drinks.
That’s when I went to my doctor and explained everything. The first one who saw me said it was probably just stress — the easiest answer, right? I was working too much, I needed to relax, and it was all in my head.
But the symptoms didn’t go away. Then came a kind of tight neck pain, the kind that radiates upward into your head. That one became a massive red flag, and I have to admit, it scared me the most. It was really painful, and it only got worse with time.
I went back to the doctor — thankfully, a new one — and he ordered several exams:
a peripheral vision test
blood tests,
and an MRI.
It was the first time someone suggested the issue might be neurological and that we needed to investigate further.
After the eye test, the ophthalmologist told me that while my vision was clearly off, the eye itself was perfectly healthy. Her advice was clear: I should see a neurologist.
Meanwhile, the radiating pain got even worse. I had to wait three months for the MRI appointment — but that was fine, I told myself. I could wait. It’s probably just stress. Maybe I wasn’t doing enough to take care of myself. So I made a mental list: exercise more, eat better, sleep well, take my vitamins. You know, the usual.
Christmas. New Year’s Eve. 2025. Wow, finally the year that would feel a bit more “normal” after the pandemic. I was so ready for it.
January 29, 2025. MRI day. I’d done MRIs before, but only abdominal ones — never for my head — so I kind of knew what to expect, but not really. The night before, I told my husband I was feeling a little anxious and really hoped it wasn’t anything serious.
“Of course not,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
I thought the same — and off I went.
8:00 a.m., first appointment of the day. I was ready.
Ready to prove that I needed to stress less, that I was overreacting.
That I was the problem — just not taking care of myself properly — and this MRI was finally going to prove it.
The technician asked me to prepare — shoes off, no metal, the usual. I got a pair of fancy headphones to protect my ears from the noise, and my head was secured into a metal frame to make sure the images came out as still as possible. We began.
It was supposed to take only 20 minutes, but she kept going… and going… and going. Around the 30-minute mark, she returned and said she’d need to inject contrast. She tried to find a vein — no luck. This has always been an issue for me; I’ve had very thin veins since I was a child. She switched arms. Still nothing. Eventually, she brought in the doctor, who had to do it himself. The situation was already feeling tense and off.
“I’ll only need five more minutes,” she said, and left the room.
I felt the cold fluid start to flow into my veins. Did I mention I hate contrast dye? Ugh — really not my thing. After what felt like five minutes… I realized it had probably been 15. Then 20. Then 30. In total, I was inside the machine for an entire hour.
When they finally took me out, I expected the usual:
“You’re all set. Please get dressed — your results will be ready in two weeks.”
But instead, she said: “Please grab your things, put your shoes on, and wait outside. The radiologist wants to speak with you.”
My stomach dropped. I gave a nervous smile.
Wait, what? He wants to talk to me?
That’s weird. What does he want to tell me?
He turned out to be one of the kindest doctors I’ve spoken to in a while. He invited me into his office and asked about my symptoms. He listened closely, nodding the entire time. When I finished, he said he had both good news and bad news.
The good news: We now knew what was causing the symptoms.
The bad news: I had a benign brain tumor, an acoustic neuroma, that would need to be removed surgically.
He told me not to worry — it was benign and the surgery was “very common.”
(Spoiler: no brain surgery is really common, but his tone did the trick and helped me stay calm.)
My first, and probably only question (I can’t really remember) was, “What is the tumor made of?” What?! That nervous laugh again. He explained that it was like a scar on nerve tissue and used a lot of technical terms I honestly can’t remember because I didn’t understand most of them.He told me that if I had time, I could wait for the Befund (the official diagnostic report) and take it straight to a neurologist — or better yet, go directly to the neurosurgical clinic at Charité.
I waited for what was probably 15 minutes but felt like four days.
Once I had the report in hand, I rushed outside, called my husband, cried on the phone, and we made a plan — where and when to meet so we could go to the neurologist together.
A brain surgery that only two people at Charité can perform
We eventually had a neurology appointment where the doctor confirmed that it was indeed a benign tumor — but a large one — and it needed to be surgically removed. He said that out of the 20 patients he sees each year with this condition, 13 come out fine after surgery. We didn’t really ask what happens to the other seven. He strongly recommended that I go to Charité and try to book a surgery appointment as soon as possible.
I went in for the consultation, and two weeks later, I was having brain surgery — performed by one of only two people at Charité capable of doing it. Charité, one of the largest, most renowned, and oldest hospitals in Europe, felt like the right place.
I also got a second opinion, which confirmed the need for surgery, and went back to my GP for help exploring other hospital options. In the end, I chose the one that everyone kept recommending.
How the surgery went — and what I’m dealing with now — is a story for another post.
