In the spring of my sophomore year in college, I woke up in the hospital, scared and confused, with little recollection of what had happened the previous night. My roommate was sitting in a chair near my bed in the emergency room with a panicked expression on her face. In the next hour I learned from the doctors that I had had several grand mal seizures. This episode was the start of the most difficult time in my life. A few weeks later, an MRI revealed a small brain tumor in the parahippocampus in my left temporal lobe.

I still vividly remember my reaction when my neurologist showed me the MRI scan for the first time. I did not cry; instead, I stood up and asked him to explain everything he could about my tumor and what course of action I would have to take. He replied that although the tumor was small and benign, it was slowly growing and its location put me at high risk for complications in the future. I would have to undergo brain surgery.

Thus, my summer was characterized by numerous visits with neurosurgeons and oncologists. My first attempted surgery was on July 7, 1999. It was a very taxing experience because the doctor discovered, after drilling a head frame into my head, that he did not feel comfortable performing my operation because an important vein was in the main passageway of surgery. He told me that if this vein were severed, I would suffer a full stroke. Naturally, I did not go through with the surgery and returned home with a less hopeful outlook on my future. A world-renowned surgeon had just told me that he was too nervous to perform my operation.

These feelings of insecurity and self-pity lasted only a few days. I immediately began meeting other surgeons and I continued interning at a law firm to which I had applied before these new discoveries. Some may call my reaction courageous or even weird, but for me it was always obvious. Sometimes bad things happen to good people and you can either become an introvert and pity yourself or you can keep on living and appreciating life in a new, enlightened way. I decided to live.

In August, less than a month after my aborted surgery, I found another surgeon who was confident that he could perform the operation. He said that he could operate in as little as two weeks, but I wanted to return to school and retain the normalcy in my life. The surgeon agreed, provided that I come home periodically for tests and accept the possibility of having to leave mid-semester if any problems arose. I felt elated. A month later I returned to school and I took a full course load. Instead of taking primarily economics courses for my major, however, I enrolled in a course in biopsychology to learn more about epilepsy and the brain.

I had brain surgery on December 17, 1999, when I was 20 years old. The surgery was incredibly successful from a medical perspective, but its psychological impact was greater than I had expected. My first memory was of a neuropsychologist waving a pen in front of my face and asking what it was. I recognized it, of course, but I did not remember the word "pen." Soon I realized that my cognitive skills were severely impaired. Although I was the daughter of two physicians and had been at the top of my class at Cornell University, now I could read no better than a fourth grader, and when I wrote, I could not remember how to spell the words. Naturally, when my friends came to visit me in the hospital they all brought books for me to read to pass the time. I became very angry and impatient for my memory to come back. In fact, I can definitely say that I felt more devastated about my memory loss than I did about the discovery of my tumor. Unlike my tumor, which is this abstract object, my inability to remember the word for my nose is very tangible. My friends later brought me a book designed for preschoolers, called Monkey See, Monkey Do. This book, with its simple words and elaborate illustrations from which to practice reading and naming objects, represented the start of my self-rehabilitation and my determination.

The second semester of my junior year would begin in a few weeks, and although it would be difficult, I was determined to return to school as a part-time student. Though I had a note-taker and a new computer program that would read my books to me, I practiced taking my own notes in class and reading, relentlessly. Through my hard work and unwavering determination to succeed, I completed the two courses and my skills have pretty much returned to normal. Thus, my cognitive problems turned out to be transient and all but cleared up after nearly a semester of fairly intense rehabilitation, but I cannot put into words how discouraged I felt when I thought that I would have severe deficits for the rest of my life. I still panic when I cannot remember a word. But at the same time I revel with delight when I pick up a book, whether it be boring Keynesian economic theory or Jung Chang's Wild Swans, my favorite book.

I am now 21 and I have one more semester to complete before I receive my diploma. I am still at the top of my class and I am confident that all the goals I have set for myself will become a reality. I have learned to appreciate so much about what is important from this difficult experience, but, most of all, I have learned that no matter what obstacles you are confronted with, you must continue to live.