Two Days, A Lifetime Changed: My Brain Surgery Story

On the 6th of July, 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’d 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 doesn’t prepare you for the moment you’re 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, I had no idea what I’d wake up to — or if I’d 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 hadn’t had a stroke. I hadn’t lost anything. If anything, I had gained something intangible: perspective.

My first night was in intensive care under constant, attentive care. 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’s 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 can’t thank them enough.

But what I’m left with most isn’t just relief — it’s gratitude. Gratitude that the ticking time bomb in my head is now gone. Gratitude that the worst-case scenario didn’t 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 can’t be wasted. They shift something in you. They ask something of you. And I want something good to come from this.

This wasn’t just a procedure. It was a second chance.

And I don’t intend to waste it.