Inside my head: what my brain surgery was like

It was clear I needed surgery — another one. In total, I’ve already had six surgeries under general anesthesia in my life. All of them were abdominal. They weren’t fun, but luckily I never had any complications, and my recovery was always within the norm.

Since I seem to be a surgery expert patient by now, I thought to myself: okay, I’ve got this one too. No worries. I’m not afraid of anesthesia or medical procedures — I’ll just relax and get through it.

But this time around, I was scared. I’m not going to lie. I was afraid because they were going into my main operating system — the one that runs my body and my consciousness.

What if I woke up and couldn’t remember the languages I need to live the life I’ve chosen?
What if I couldn’t remember who I was?
What if I woke up without cognitive functions and had to relearn all my basic abilities from scratch?

Those were probably the strangest days I’ve ever experienced before a major event in my life. Just waiting and placing all those terrifying questions in the hands of medical specialists I’d only met once for ten minutes. It’s fucking scary. It really is. But what can you do? The only other option was to wait and risk a far worse outcome.

The big day

If you’ve had surgery before you know how it goes, you need to stop eating around 6pm the night before (particularly when general anesthesia is involved, to prevent aspiration). This time around, and to prevent bacterial infections, I got a special soap to wash my body and hair. I also needed to start taking a medication that affects the functioning of nerve cells and counteracts the effects of vascular spasms as preparation for the procedure. I was ready, mentally not so much, but physically yes. 

5:00 am

The hospital was very far away from home, I headed to the hospital pretty early to be there at 6:00 am. I was nervous, but checked in early, had all I needed with me, the time difference with my parents helped, we were chatting and calling before I went in. My husband was going to come to the hospital by the time I was out and awake.

I got this, I am a strong independent woman. The stupid radiating pain from my neck into my head had gotten worse and the wait was just making it harder to ignore. 

08:30 a.m.

“Frau Castillo, Sie werden gerufen” — which basically means: it’s your turn. That’s when the rush begins. You have to change, pack all your things into plastic bags, put on the armband that helps identify you, and off you go. You lie down on the bed where you’ll eventually wake up. A big folder with all your documents gets placed on your chest or at your feet, that’s when you know things got real. .

In Germany, I don’t know how it is in other countries, it definitely wasn’t like that in Colombia, hospitals have staff whose job is to transport patients in their beds from point A to point B, usually to surgery. The woman who picked me up was kind. We ended up talking about traffic and how she believes men are better drivers than women — mainly because her husband is a truck driver, so of course, he’s a great example. She also told me this is one of three jobs she has. Life has gotten too expensive, and she simply can’t afford to live on just one income.

08:45 a.m.

I went through so many doors and corridors that I probably couldn’t have found my way back to where I started. Two nurses helped me transfer onto the surgery bed, and one of them marked an X on the ear that wasn’t “working so well.” I told him, “Both ears work — the tumor is just on the left side.” He marked a cross behind my left ear, and then they brought me into the prep room. Operation room 004.

A very friendly doctor’s assistant greeted me, wrapped me in a warm blanket, and began explaining a few things. I kept checking the time. My heart was pounding.

The anesthesiologist — a very kind young woman — introduced herself and asked me the usual questions to confirm I was the right patient. As soon as she finished, she let me know that this surgery was a bit more complex and serious. She explained I’d be getting a catheter sewn into my hand now, and when I woke up, I’d have another one in my throat — directly into an artery.

She started numbing my hand. “It should just feel like a bee sting,” she said. It hurt so much. But it did numb the area, and then she inserted a huge catheter into my wrist. I didn’t look — except when I felt like she was sewing something into me. It could’ve gotten more graphic, but thankfully, it stopped there.

Then came the mask. Oh, the mask. That’s when you know it’s time — you’re about to black out.

I took one last glance at the clock on the wall: 09:00 a.m.
A few more breaths — and the next thing I remember was a young nurse waking me up, asking me to follow his fingers with my eyes, and then to squeeze his hands with both of mine.

I was so confused and exhausted, and yet I had to answer questions to prove my brain was responding. They brought me to the ICU, and a few minutes later, my husband arrived.

3:30 p.m.

I was finally back to consciousness. I couldn’t really tell what had happened before that moment. That’s also when I felt the first pain at the wound site,  it was at the back, just behind my left ear.

Painkillers, blood samples, an overwhelming feeling of hunger and thirst, and my husband were my companions during those first few minutes back to reality. He was texting friends and family, keeping them updated on what had happened.

I only realized something was wrong with my face when I tried to drink — and it didn’t work so well. Fun fact, you don’t feel a facial paralysis. You only see it. In my brain, my face was doing everything it was supposed to. But unfortunately, the left side just... wasn’t.

The facial paralysis 

The first night in the ICU wasn’t that traumatic. I ended up with two nurses who, coincidentally, were also from Colombia. They made me laugh a lot, and we chatted about the things we missed and joked about our experiences in Germany. That’s when I felt a huge sense of relief — my memory and language abilities were intact. I’d been speaking German with all the doctors and medical staff since waking up from surgery, English with my husband, and Spanish with the night shift nurses.

The next morning, around 10:00 a.m., they moved me to the room where I’d spend the next five days. There was a mirror in the room, but it still hadn’t sunk in that I had been diagnosed with peripheral facial paralysis.

© 2025 Valeria Castillo. Unauthorized use is forbidden

That night, I received a watch glass bandage for my left eye — a small but brilliant invention that has likely saved thousands of people from discomfort. It’s now a non-negotiable part of my bedtime routine every single night since I woke up from surgery.

The second day was tough. It was also when I realized I had lost the hearing in my left ear. “I’m half deaf now,” I kept telling the doctors during their rounds. I noticed it when I tried to listen to a podcast episode (you’re too tired to read or watch anything), and my right earbud fell out — and suddenly, there was no sound at all.

It felt sad. There’s a kind of grief that comes with losing a sense — a deep, quiet one. Adjusting to a new normal, all while processing the fact that I’d just gone through an incredibly complex brain surgery, was only the beginning of what has become a three-month journey. With time, I’ve gotten used to it, and I’m learning how to navigate life with single-sided deafness. What’s still challenging, though, is the tinnitus — the constant ringing in that ear. It’s the result of my brain trying to keep up with the outside world by emulating the perception of sound when no external noise is actually present. 

I love you, brain. Thanks for trying to make my perception easier… even if you don’t know it can actually drive me a little crazy sometimes.