Two Days, A Lifetime Changed: My Brain Surgery Story

On the 6th of June 2025, I walked into Wellington Hospital for a procedure that would change my life: brain surgery to correct and obliterate an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) in my left parietal lobe.

I had known it was there for some time, this tangle of blood vessels that could, without warning, rupture and cause a catastrophic brain bleed. But knowing does not prepare you for the moment you are wheeled in for brain surgery. I was nervous. More than nervous. The risks were real: stroke, loss of motor function, or even death. And in that quiet moment beneath the operating table lights, I had no idea what I would wake up to, or if I would wake up at all.

But I did.

And the very first thing I did was move my hands. Then my feet. Then touch my face. A mental checklist: mobility, sensation, function. Intact. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. I had not had a stroke. I had not lost anything. If anything, I had gained something intangible: perspective.

My first night was in intensive care under constant, attentive watch. I had expected to be there for at least three days, but just one day later I was stable enough to move to the general ward. Another day, and I was discharged altogether. Two days in hospital. That was it. Out the door and back home, walking, thinking, being, as if nothing had happened, but everything had.

It felt like a small personal triumph. I had prepared for five nights, but left in two. Maybe I was stronger than expected. Or maybe just very, very lucky.

I received outstanding care. From the surgeons who operated with such precision, to the ICU team who watched over me, to the physiotherapists and ward nurses who helped get me on my feet. I cannot thank them enough.

But what I am left with most is not just relief. It is gratitude. Gratitude that the ticking time bomb in my head is now gone. Gratitude that the worst-case scenario did not come true. Gratitude that I had access to world-class care when I needed it most.

And now, as I rest and wait out the next few weeks of recovery, ten days until the staples come out, twenty days until the risk of post-op seizures passes, I find myself asking: what now?

Because experiences like this cannot be wasted. They shift something in you. They ask something of you. And I want something good to come from this.

This was not just a procedure. It was a second chance.

And I do not intend to waste it.