The nationwide search for a neurosurgeon who could help me turned out to be a fruitless endeavor. Then something happened—reminiscent of a deus ex machina in a plot where a god swoops in to turn around a hopeless ending.

I got a call from the office of Dr. Cameron McDougall, specialist in fistulas and aneurysm repairs, on the staff at the Barrow Neurological Institute in Phoenix, Arizona—a short drive and plane ride away from Santa Fe.

As I barely breathed in anticipation, I listened to the secretary say that Dr. McDougall had probably done more surgeries on carotid cavernous fistulas than anyone in the country—a small number given its rare occurrence—and would consider operating on me. He wanted to have an in-person consultation with me first to discuss the procedure.

My friend and fellow doctor, Bruce Gollub, generously took time off work and escorted me to and from my appointment in Phoenix. Traveling by myself was no longer an option, given my crippling anxiety disorder and visual impairments.

While we sat in the waiting room at the Barrow Neurological Institute, Bruce skillfully kept me distracted by speaking to me about a range of subjects, including some of the functions on his cell phone. Simply listening to the sound of his soft and gentle voice with my eyes closed helped to loosen the tight grip of fear and anxiety holding me hostage.

Dr. Cameron McDougall spoke in a kind and straightforward manner. He repeated what I had heard before—about the extensive damage in my brain with fistulas that were too numerous to count. He said that he could not do open surgery because of the high risk of death.

Instead, Dr. McDougall would attempt to repair the fistulas by embolization, a procedure in which a catheter—a small tube—is inserted into the femoral artery in the groin and snaked up into the arteries in the neck. Then another smaller catheter is threaded through the first one up into the internal carotid artery in the brain. At the end of the smaller catheter are spring-loaded platinum coils.

Dr. McDougall showed me samples of the platinum coils—tiny strips of metal that could be stretched out into thin wires on the end of the spring-loaded catheters. When released, the metal strips spring back into the shape of a coil. They look like pieces of delicate jewelry of various sizes.

He explained that under fluoroscopy—a method of continuous high dose radiation used to light up the brain—the neurosurgeon aims the spring-loaded catheter at the fistulas. The fistulas are abnormal channels that connect the internal carotid artery with the veins in the cavernous sinus.

The so-called cavernous sinus is not a real sinus like the air chambers we have behind our faces. Instead, it is a large, widened venous channel that sits in a cavity on each side of the pituitary, behind the eyes.

The cavernous sinus is the only anatomic location in the body in which an artery—the internal carotid artery—travels completely through a venous structure.

On the river trip in Utah, the walls of my internal carotid artery weakened from the prolonged elevated blood pressure during the thyroid storm. Eventually the weakened walls of the artery ruptured within the cavernous sinus and formed arterio-venous fistulas—more specifically, carotid cavernous fistulas. If the carotid artery had ruptured anywhere else, I would have likely had a quick death from a hemorrhagic stroke.

The fistulas caused the venous vessels to balloon out from the excess arterial blood and press against my eyeballs, causing the right eye to protrude and create blurred vision, redness and swelling in both eyes. And the ballooned-out venous vessels also pressed against the delicate ocular nerves that travel along the wall of the cavernous sinus. The increased pressure left those ocular nerves partially paralyzed, compromising the movement of my eyes.

Dr. McDougall went on to explain that if he shot enough platinum coils into my head, then hopefully they would block the blood in the carotid artery where it had short-circuited into the large veins in the cavernous sinus. He said that if all went well, the pressure in my head from the dilated veins would go down and the pulsatile tinnitus—the pounding in my head—would stop.

As Dr. McDougall described the procedure, I visualized a man throwing mud patties at a dam that had sprung multiple leaks. The man kept throwing the mud patties until finally the dam stopped leaking.

At the conclusion of our consultation, Dr. McDougall estimated that I had a 50/50 chance. That meant that I had a 50% chance of getting significant improvement and a 50% chance of dying—a win/win situation. Either outcome sounded good. Dying in surgery would probably be less emotionally painful for my friends and family than committing suicide.

Dr. McDougall advised me to take my time in making my decision about whether to proceed with the surgery.

Back in Santa Fe, the news spread quickly that I might have brain surgery. A handful of people advised strongly against getting the surgery. One woman did a Tarot card reading and said that the cards revealed that getting surgery would not be a good idea. After respectfully listening to all the various opinions people had about whether or not I should get the surgery, I went deep within and made the decision to proceed. The date was set for Wednesday, August 5, 2009—well over a month away—giving me enough time to get my “affairs in order.”

My patients, friends and family prepared for the surgery as well, setting up little prayer circles and post-op help teams. One beloved patient even arranged and funded a blessing ceremony in my living room with the Dali Lama’s monks who had been touring the States to raise money for an orphanage.

When one of my patients, Alice Platt, found out that the expected hospital stay would be five days, she made five days worth of healthy meals, froze them in special containers, and then sent them with us to the hospital so that I wouldn’t have to eat hospital food.

After more than a year on my journey into the abyss, I had learned how to surrender and gratefully accept all the many offers of help and the mind-boggling acts of kindness and generosity.

At my last acupuncture appointment before the surgery, Dr. Jason Hao gave me what appeared to be a farewell presentation with a little speech thanking me for my service to the Santa Fe community. He handed me a present. Inside the carefully wrapped box lay a beautiful lotus necklace and a check for $500. As I looked at the check in disbelief, I had the distinct impression that Dr. Hao thought that I was going to die. I choked back the tears as I witnessed the depth of his feelings.

Another friend and fellow healthcare provider gave me a small, hand-carved mountain lion made of mother-of-pearl by a Native artist from the Zuni Pueblo. My friend had heard the story about the mountain lion that sniffed me and later became my spirit guide. I held the figure tightly in my hand and brought it with me to Phoenix.

My friend, Caron, the retired malpractice attorney who had accompanied me to Albuquerque when I got the angiogram of my head, now offered to accompany me to Phoenix and spend the entire hospital stay with me. She even set up a website where my friends and family could read her daily updates on how I was doing. And Bruce said that he would fly down the day of my surgery and be there for me as well.

How can I ever repay these huge acts of kindness?

The anticipated day arrived. Bruce and Caron stood on each side of the gurney in the pre-op room, speaking words of encouragement to me. I had come prepared, surrendering to whatever would be my fate, putting my full faith in the competent hands of Dr. McDougall—without fear.

The surgical assistant came into the curtained space and asked me to sign a document stating that I knew that the risks of the brain surgery included blindness, stroke, and death. The list also included the risk of a brain tumor from the prolonged high-dose radiation during the surgery. Just before I signed the document, I looked up at Caron and Bruce and said in a pleading voice, “I don’t want to go blind.”

The intravenous sedation took effect immediately. I said good-bye to my friends and then went unconscious.

The next memory took place in the recovery room. I felt like I was struggling to breathe. Bruce told me later that I yelled out, “I’m dying. I’m dying,” as the anesthesia started to wear off—but while I was still not fully conscious.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Bruce stroking my head. He said that everything would be all right and that the surgery had gone well. Caron was also in the recovery room, as well as an old friend, Sara, who lived in Tucson. Through the blurriness, I could see their smiles.

It looks like I’m still alive.

After the aide wheeled me back to my room, Dr. McDougall stopped by to tell me about the surgery. Through the grogginess, I remember him saying that the five-hour surgery went well but that he had to quit before the fistulas were entirely closed off. He said that he did not want to endanger me by exceeding the maximum allowable limits of radiation exposure from the fluoroscopy.

He went on to explain that the beam of radiation had been aimed at the back of my head and that my hair would fall out in that area.

Hearing his words, I imagined myself lying in a CT scanner for five hours—the closest equivalent to fluoroscopy that I could think of—and then tried to calculate the amount of radiation from an equivalent number of chest x-rays. Fortunately, Dr. McDougall speaking to me interrupted the scary calculations that I attempted to do in my head.

My eyes had become significantly more deviated inward toward my nose, but Dr. McDougall assured me that when the swelling in my brain receded post operatively, the deviation would gradually lessen.

Dr. McDougall said, while smiling, that my head was worth a lot of money, given the current price of platinum and given the number of platinum coils he had shot into my head—fifty-one coils.

I pictured the crematorium in Santa Fe carefully sifting through my ashes, trying to extract the platinum coils for my heirs. Much later, I discovered that the platinum coils were so delicate, that their weight probably didn’t amount to much.

The cerebral edema caused severe pain and persistent vomiting that lasted several days. Sadly, over the five days, I could only eat two or three of the meals that Alice had so lovingly prepared for me. Most of my meals consisted of hospital mush and liquids—only some of which I could keep down. Alice’s meals remained frozen and ended up being taken back home and eaten with great appreciation after the nausea eventually subsided.

Caron spent every day seated on a little couch at the far end of the hospital room with her computer in her lap, answering queries from concerned friends and family, writing entries into the website about my status, fielding phone calls and giving me words of encouragement.

Dr. Hao was among the concerned people who called at the end of the first day to find out if I had survived the surgery.

The narcotic-induced altered state left me with only a few memories of the flight home. I remember being wheeled around the airport and going through security very quickly. And I remember the tattooed young man who sat next to me on the airplane. He offered to put one of his ear buds into my ear so that we both could listen to his teenage-type music. I guess he felt sorry for me when he looked at my face and I told him I had just had brain surgery.

Relieved to be back home, I went straight to the couch and sat down right where the head monk had sat during the prayer ceremony. I felt really horrible with pain in my head and nausea, limited vision, and overwhelming despair and anxiety—along with uncharacteristic depression, irritability and uncontrollable crying.

Trying to get some perspective on the misery, I began talking to myself out loud, as though I was speaking to one of my patients in extreme distress.

“What you’re feeling right now will pass. You’ve had five hours of general anesthesia and huge doses of radiation to your head that has left your brain swollen and your body toxic. It will take time for the swelling to go down and the toxins to be released. You will get through this. Your depression, irritability and crying spells are related to the long-term effects of general anesthesia and other toxins that affect the brain. Don’t identify with these reactions. They are not who you are. Your core is intact and cannot be broken.”

Since becoming chemically sensitive in the early 1990s, my young son, Barrett, learned how to recognize the signs of toxicity and respond accordingly. “Mom, you need to go take a sauna. You’re toxic.” My usual defensive response was, “No, I’m not. What makes you think I’m toxic?” He would answer, “Look at yourself, Mom. You’re grumpy and you’re crying for no good reason.” His observations about my toxicity levels usually hit the mark.

The night after arriving home I had one hour of uninterrupted sleep—a major milestone. While the pressure in my head persisted, the loud whooshing noises with each heartbeat had lessened significantly, to the point that I could ignore them most of the time.

Because the majority of the fistulas had closed, I could stop taking the blood pressure medication that had kept my blood pressure artificially low to prevent a stroke. My blood pressure already runs abnormally low without medication, possibly related to my past life as an athlete. But, when the blood pressure went up to what would be considered normal levels in most people, my head felt like it would explode.

I welcomed being off medication. Each type caused a side effect, some worse than others. The Lisinopril that I took to artificially lower my blood pressure caused me to have a frightening anaphylactic reaction with swollen throat and tongue, after having been on the medication for almost three months—a known delayed side effect that occurs in a small percentage of people.

My French neighbor, Maud, bought me a recording device to document what I was experiencing. She suggested that I write a book someday about what happened so that what I learned could help others. She urged me to record my thoughts every night when I lay awake in bed.

The following night I tried doing as Maud suggested. I noticed that simply describing what happened to me and what I felt created a surge of intense anxiety. I had to put the recording device away. I never used it again.

As I lay in bed, I tried to keep my focus on anything positive that I could think of regarding my current status. I took inventory:

1. The brain surgery went better than expected. Even though not all the fistulas had been closed, the pounding in my head had significantly lessened. At last I could clear out my bedroom of the white noise machines, the CD players, the headphones and other gadgets used in vain to block out the pounding noise in my head.
2. The blood pressure medications and their side effects had been discontinued.
3. I got one hour of uninterrupted sleep. Maybe there would be two hours around the corner.
4. I have an incredibly loving and supportive community of friends, family, and patients for which I am deeply grateful.

After making sure to take a moment for savoring the positive, I went on to look at what continued to plague me:

1. Severe insomnia, the one hour of sleep notwithstanding.
2. Severe PTSD and ever-present crippling anxiety
3. Toxicity with depression, irritability, crying jags, and pessimism
4. Persistent thoughts about death as a form of relief
5. Persistent diarrhea and inability to digest food
6. Severe visual impairments

As the days passed, I realized that I needed to review my options and develop a coping strategy. As far as I could see, I had three options. The first option no longer existed. After talking to Barrett, I resolved not to commit suicide—although I allowed myself to think about it as an escape valve when the suffering felt unbearable.

The second option involved becoming a wizened old woman who constantly complained and no one wanted to be around. I ruled out that option because whenever I indulged in complaining, I actually felt worse.

By ruling out options one and two, I had only one viable option left.

I had to radically accept my condition and learn to live with it—somehow—and maybe I could even learn how to find freedom from misery and suffering.

But how am I going to do that?

At the moment that I asked the question, I noticed a book lying on top of a pile of reading material near my bed. The book had not been moved since I put it down in early 2008—the last book I read while I still had normal vision.

The title of this profoundly impactful book says it all: The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science, written by a psychiatrist and researcher called Norman Doidge.

The book is about neuroplasticity, the ability of the brain to change itself—no matter how old you are and no matter how desperate your condition.

In medical school we learned that the brain is fixed, hardwired like a computer, and incapable of changing. We thought that you had to live with the hand you were dealt. Now we know from the exploding field of neuroscience that the brain is a dynamic organ that responds to repeated thoughts, exercises and behaviors, and can change its structure and function accordingly. Even in the most severe and seemingly hopeless cases of neurological damage, the brain can adapt and create new neuronal pathways to compensate for the deficiencies.

The answer to my desperate question had appeared right in front of me. I resolved to do whatever it would take to make new neuronal pathways in my brain and extinguish some of the old pathways that were keeping me in a constant state of fear and anxiety ever since the brain damage occurred.

I walked out my back door and stood among the ponderosa pines. After a few minutes, I looked up at the sky and said in a loud voice, “I’m going to re-wire my brain for joy—in spite of it all.”