The Bullet That Didn’t Kill Him — But Almost Killed Me: A Story of Childhood Trauma, Silence, and Survival

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This story discusses a firearm accident, childhood trauma, and references to suicidal thoughts. Reader discretion advised.

Some moments don’t just change you — they grow you up before you know how to be grown.

I was 12 years old the day I stopped being a child.

And it happened in the wide-open sagebrush country of eastern Montana — a place I once loved for its freedom and silence.

A place that would go silent in a whole new way that day.

The First Harvest and the Shot That Shouldn’t Have Happened

“I was walking up on my first buck, full of pride and innocence — within seconds, everything I knew about safety, confidence, and who I thought I was shattered.”

It was my first year hunting, just two years after completing hunter’s safety — which in Montana isn’t just a class; it’s a rite of passage.

I was with my father, grandfather, and brother. We’d split up at first, planning to meet back at a predetermined ridge. I was over the moon — I’d just shot my first mule deer buck. A 4x5. He was beautiful. I was proud. I had arrived.

As I walked up to the animal, I turned to look back — thinking no one was behind me.

I was wrong.

In a split-second that still plays in slow motion in my mind — my rifle suddenly fired.

There was no warning. No conscious pull of the trigger. The sound shattered the sky and hollowed my hearing. My vision darkened. I felt frozen inside a body that had just experienced something I couldn’t comprehend.

When my hearing and sight started to return, they came back in pieces — first the ringing, then the panic, and then my dad’s voice:

“FRANKIE!! FRANK!! START RUNNING! CHASE THAT TRUCK! RUN!!”

His voice wasn't calm. It was pure panic, urgency, and fear.

And it snapped me into action.

A Run for Help — And a Moment I’ll Never Forget

I took off running.

The sage tore at my legs. My lungs seared. I stumbled, fell, got back up. I screamed so hard nothing came out. I just ran until I caught up to a truck, waving my arms, begging it to stop.

The truck finally did.

A tall man with dark hair in a red plaid jacket and hunter’s orange vest jumped out of the cab and ran toward me. I collapsed into his arms, shaking, barely able to breathe.

I somehow managed to say:

“My grandpa — he’s been shot! It was an accident.”

He grabbed his radio instantly and called it in. We were instructed to meet the ambulance on the highway.

My brother and I turned to wait for our dad and grandfather.

And then — I saw them.

The Only Voice That Spoke Truth

My grandfather didn’t collapse where he stood.

He walked half a mile — with a bullet in his abdomen — up to the road where I was waiting by my dad’s Bronco. He was holding his side, pale, sweating, covered in pain and determination.

When he reached me, he didn’t speak at first.

He just handed me his binoculars — the ones the bullet had ricocheted off of, the ones that had saved his life.

Then he laid down on the ground with his head in my lap.

He looked up at me with eyes half-lidded from pain and said:

“I'm tired, Frankie. Don’t let me go to sleep.”

I’ll never forget the weight of him in my lap — or the terror of believing I might lose him right then and there, in my arms, not during a hunt, but because of something I couldn’t even make sense of.

After that, he climbed into my dad’s Bronco, and we drove to meet the waiting ambulance.

He survived.

“I remember the world going silent — and the silence stayed long after the sound of the shot was gone.”

The Silence That Followed

After surgery, I was the first person he wanted to see.

He held my hand and told me:

“This was not your fault. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad.”

I believed him — or tried to.

But no one else said those words.

My grandmother wouldn’t look at me. The adults went quiet. The police questioned me.

And after one brief session with a school therapist, I was deemed “fine.”

I wasn’t fine.

When Trauma Is Treated Like a Fluke

Childhood trauma isn’t just about what happens to you.
It’s about what happens after.

When adults don’t talk to you, don’t help you process, don’t believe you — the wound goes uncleaned.

Unfelt pain doesn’t vanish.

It festers.

It waits.

Growing Up in the Quiet

For years, I replayed that day over and over, trying to make sense of it.
Trying to figure out how the rifle fired.

Trying to understand what I’d done — and why no one was talking about it.

I knew my finger wasn’t on the trigger. I knew I followed the rules. I knew I hadn’t reloaded — and yet I was the one the police pulled aside. I was the one who got quiet stares. I was the one who went silent — because silence seemed safer than saying, “I don’t understand what happened.”

But staying silent came at a cost.

I didn’t just stop being a child that day — I stopped knowing how to be alive in a world that expected me to carry on as if nothing had happened.

I internalized the blame.
I turned the confusion and guilt inward.
I became afraid of myself — afraid of what I’d done, and what I might do.
I was terrified, constantly, that I was capable of causing harm without knowing how or why.

And no one saw it.
No one checked in after the hospital.
No one asked how I was sleeping, or if I was eating.

I withdrew.
I masked.
And as a result — I spiraled.

Nights were the worst. I had vivid nightmares. Terrifying reenactments. Sweaty flashbacks I couldn’t escape from.

And slowly, without language for what I was feeling, the only escape I saw was not being alive anymore.

I was a child silently contemplating death — because I thought that was the only way to escape what I'd allegedly done.

That’s what untreated trauma does — especially to an undiagnosed autistic kid with ADHD living in an abusive home, where feelings weren’t safe and silence was survival.

When you learn that your pain isn’t welcome, you stop showing it.
And when you're never taught how to process the unbearable, it turns inward.

A Question That Changed Everything

Years later, when I was finally diagnosed with PTSD, my psychiatrist asked me something I had never allowed myself to consider:

“Frankie, your father is an alcoholic and you know your finger wasn’t on the trigger. What if your father was the one who accidentally shot your grandfather… and you were made to believe it was you?”

That question changed everything.

It cracked open years of silence and self-blame, forcing me to see the possibility that the story I’d carried might never have been entirely mine to bear. I may never know the full truth — but I know that little girl deserved to be believed, protected, and guided through this.

Instead, she was left to survive the weight of everyone else’s fear.

How I Reclaimed the Wild

I didn’t go back to hunting for fourteen years.

It wasn’t until I met my husband in 2018 that I picked up a rifle again and it would be three more years before I harvested my first deer seen in the picture above

.
With him, hunting became something different — not about ego or perfection, but about connection, sustainability, and healing.

It was the first time I saw hunting as a way to reclaim the parts of myself I’d buried.

To step back into the wild without fear — and with reverence.

Now, even with POTS, brain injury, significant hearing loss and auditory and visueal processing issues, visual impairment, and neuro fatigue — I still go.

Not to prove I’m capable.

But to remind myself that I still belong.

Because the wild didn’t abandon me — people did.

For the Child I Was and the Woman I Am

If I could speak to that 12-year-old girl now, I’d tell her:

You didn’t do anything wrong.

There were layers of things working against you.

You followed the rules.

And the silence that followed wasn’t your fault either.

You didn’t deserve the blame.
You didn’t deserve the shame.
You didn’t deserve to be alone in that pain.

And one day — you’ll find your way back to those sage-covered hills.
Not as the child who fell —
But as the woman who rose.

If this story speaks to anything you’ve carried alone — childhood trauma, chronic illness, neurodivergence, or the long road back to yourself — I hope you’ll stay with me, follow along @thechronicallyresilient.

And as always, Stay Resilient. ❤️‍🩹

From Life-Saving Surgery to Lifelong Consequences: My Fight for Answers

By Frankie
Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

“I never imagined the treatment that saved my life would take so much from me.”

If you’re here, maybe you’ve been where I’ve been — sitting across from doctors who once saved your life but now can’t explain what’s happening to your body. Maybe you’ve searched for answers in medical portals, scrolled through research articles at 2 a.m., or wondered if anyone would ever believe you again.

This is my story — of survival, loss, and a slow, painful rebirth into a life I never expected to live.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

In December 2018, I was diagnosed with a cerebral arteriovenous malformation (AVM) — a rare, tangled web of blood vessels deep in my brain. At the time, I was an active-duty medic in the United States Air Force, thriving in a high-pressure environment where precision and strength were part of my daily life.

When the diagnosis came, it felt like a betrayal by my own body.

I wasn’t the patient — I was the healer, the one others turned to in crisis.

My AVM was too large for open surgery, and on January 31, 2019, I underwent Gamma Knife stereotactic radiosurgery, a targeted form of brain radiation designed to destroy the AVM over time. The doctors were confident. I was told it was safe — precise, effective, controlled.

And it was. Gamma Knife saved my life.

But no one warned me about what else it might take. 

“I went from fighting for the lives of others to fighting for my own.”

Within a week, I developed bilateral pulmonary emboli — blood clots in both lungs — triggered by my oral contraception. I survived that too, but my recovery was complicated and frightening.

A year later, my lungs failed me again. After months of shortness of breath and fatigue, I underwent a bronchoscopy and mediastinoscopy. The diagnosis: pulmonary sarcoidosis, a rare autoimmune disease that attacks the lungs and lymph nodes.

I was exhausted — but hopeful. I thought maybe this was just part of the healing process.

I was wrong. 

When the World Went Silent

In September 2019, while hunting, I suddenly lost hearing in my left ear. One moment, I was aware of the world — the sound of my breath, my heartbeat and the frost crunching under my boots — and the next, there was silence. I was hiking the rolling hills of eastern Montana chasing antelope with my husband when suddenly there was a high pitched ringing in my left ear followed by that muffled hearing you get after firing a rifle without hearing protection. Except, my hearing never came back…

Eventually, I lost hearing in my right ear too and now I wear hearing aids to accommodate for some of my hearing difficulties.

Doctors couldn’t explain it. They called it idiopathic (no known cause) sudden sensorineural hearing loss, and every test came back inconclusive (allegedly). Actually, initially it was blamed on an extremely rare complication of sarcoidosis, neurosarcoidosis, or sarcoidosis. of the nervous system which can cause sensorineural hearing loss. This didn’t make sense though because my MRIs were not consistent with neurosarcoidosis.

With my medial background I naturally began doing my own research. That’s when I discovered studies linking Gamma Knife radiation to hearing loss and even scarier, cognitive impairment depending on which brain regions were affected. Before ever experiencing cognitive decline I reached out to my neurosurgeon and radiation oncologist through my MyChart portal messaging in December 2019, asking if my hearing loss could be related to my gamma knife surgery, looking for validation of what I already knew to be true.

They didn’t reply in writing. They called instead. I remember the words clearly — “That’s not possible.” My husband remembers the conversation too too.

But I knew something was happening inside my brain.

“It felt like my mind was slipping away, piece by piece.”

By 2021, my cognitive began impacting my life and I didn’t even realize it.

I forgot tasks, misplaced simple information, showed up wrong place wrong time, lost my train of thought mid-sentence.

I had always been sharp — the Air Force medic who thrived under pressure — and suddenly, I couldn’t function. I lost my job as a clinical receptionist, something that had once come naturally to me and theoretically should be super easy given my past profession. It devastated me, embarrassed me, brought about shame and deep unsettling fear for my future.

I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t unfocused.

I had a brain injury — and no one believed me. 

The Diagnoses That Finally Named My Reality

In 2022, I underwent a comprehensive neuropsychiatric evaluation. The results were both validating and devastating:

• Major Neurocognitive Disorder

• Autism Spectrum Disorder

• ADHD

• Non-Verbal Learning Disorder

• Math Disability

During that same evaluation, the doctor asked a simple question that changed everything:

“Are you flexible?”

I showed him — the bendy joints, the stretchy skin I’d always joked about as a kid. His eyes widened. That led to a referral and, finally, a diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), a genetic connective tissue disorder that explained my whole life — my chronic pain, neurodiversity, fatigue, and joint instability. 

“Everything finally had a name — but no one had warned me any of this could happen and even worse they wouldn’t admit it could have happened.”

By 2023, a new MRI confirmed what I already felt: stable but permanent brain damage — areas of encephalomalacia and gliosis, meaning my brain tissue had been injured and scarred. It was described as a “chronic treatment effect.”

The damage is stable.

But it’s irreversible.

In June 2024, after years of monitoring, my AVM had finally shrunk enough to be surgically removed. The resection was successful, but I temporarily lost left-sided vision, which slowly returned after months of recovery as well as more white matter brain damage.

It felt like every victory came with a loss, although I'd do it all over again, to save my life.

Living With the Aftermath

Today, my daily life is a careful balancing act.

I live with permanent cognitive and sensory deficits — and a long list of conditions tied to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, including:

• POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

• MCAS (Mast Cell Activation Syndrome)

• Chronic dehydration and hypotension

• Gastroparesis and unintentional weight loss

• Chronic pain, fatigue, and insomnia

• Spinal instability with bulging discs and synovial cysts

“Every day is survival disguised as routine.”

I rely on structure and technology to function:

AI tools to help me write and remember,

Shared calendars, reminder apps and detailed notes track my days an responsibilities,

and the unwavering support of my husband and mother to help me stay on track and accomplish what I need to day to day.

I undergo IV hydration therapy multiple times a week to manage chronic dehydration, POTS and hypotension.

I carefully monitor my diet and weight just to maintain enough stability to take my ADHD medication safely.

Every aspect of my existence is managed, measured, and monitored.

The Fight for Answers

I have spent years researching, documenting, and trying to understand how my brain — the same one I once trusted to heal and care for others — became the source of my greatest challenges.

When I reached out in 2019, I wasn’t looking to blame anyone. I was scared. I just wanted to understand.

But my questions were dismissed and I was denied timely and thorough diagnosis, treatment and resources that could have made the transition from able to disabled a lot less traumatic. I was made to feel it was “all in my head”, that I was creating stories.

Now, after years of rehabilitation following the triggering of my chronic illnesses, I’m finally strong enough. mentally and physically to ask again and to fight for the truth.

In November 2025, I’ll meet with a neurologist who is willing to review my MRIs and explore the possible connection between my Gamma Knife treatment and my neurological and sensory disabilities.

It will be the first time any doctor has truly taken my concerns seriously.

“Healing doesn’t just mean surviving — it means being heard.”

I’m not seeking sympathy — I’m seeking truth and understanding.

Because I believe every patient deserves to know the full range of possible outcomes before consenting to treatment as well as what their resources are for recovery, support and accommodation if the unthinkable were to happen.

I believe every medical record should reflect a patient’s communication attempts, even when the answers are uncomfortable or are the result of care that was meant to save their life.

And I believe that “rare complications” should still be discussed — not dismissed.

What I Want Every Patient to Know

If you’ve ever been dismissed, told “it’s not possible,” or made to feel like your pain is an inconvenience — please hear me: you are not alone.

Document everything.

Ask questions, even when it makes people uncomfortable.

Request copies of your imaging, lab work, and communications.

And if your instincts tell you something is wrong — trust them.

Because you are the one living in your body.

You are the one carrying its history.

“I am not broken — I am disabled. And I am still here.”

I am forever grateful for the surgery that saved my life. But I wish I had been told the whole story — the possibilities, the risks, and the lifelong adjustments that might follow.

I’ve had to grieve the person I was — the Air Force medic, the quick thinker, the multitasker.

Now, I am someone new: slower, softer, but stronger in ways I never expected.

This is my story — not of loss, but of reclamation.

Of finding strength in limitation.

Of turning silence into testimony.

And if you’ve made it this far, please know — your story matters too.

💬 Follow My Journey

If this story resonates with you — if you’ve lived through medical trauma, chronic illness, or the invisible fight to be believed — I invite you to walk this path with me.

You can follow my journey and advocacy work on Facebook and Instagram, where I share updates, insights, and reflections on life after survival.

➡️ @thechronicallyresilient

And as always, Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹

Navigating a Complex Diagnosis: My Journey Through Rare Disease, Chronic Illness, and Advocacy

By Frankie
Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

Hi, I’m Frankie — I’m 33 years old, a disabled Air Force veteran, and someone living with multiple complex medical conditions. I’m sharing my story not for sympathy, but in hopes of helping others feel seen, advocating for change, and holding space for anyone navigating a healthcare system that doesn’t always listen the first time — or even the tenth.

This blog is my way of organizing the chaos. I use tools like AI and technology to help structure my thoughts, because as someone with autism, ADHD, and a major neurocognitive disorder, communicating clearly and logically has become a real challenge. Masking is something I do well — on the outside, I may look "put together," but beneath that is a network of alarms, calendars, checklists, detailed notes, and the support of my husband.

Today, I want to talk about one of my most urgent health issues — undiagnosed and untreated hyperparathyroidism— and how it slipped through the cracks of the VA system for over two years.

In 2023, the VA flagged elevated calcium levels in my labs and entered a referral for Endocrinology. I had no idea. No call. No message. No follow-up. Nothing. I didn't find out until nearly a year later, when Care in the Community called me to ask if I was ready to move forward with my endocrinology appointment — a referral I never knew existed.

This should have never happened.

In August 2024, I finally had my parathyroid hormone (PTH) level checked — and it was elevated at 87, a result that should have immediately prompted further investigation. I was referred again to Endocrinology, but they declined to see me because my calcium levels looked “normal.”

Here’s what they missed: elevated PTH with normal calcium can indicate Normocalcemic Primary Hyperparathyroidism (NPHPT). It’s real, it’s documented, and it’s serious. But it requires a provider who understands the nuance — and who’s willing to dig deeper.

I’ve become symptomatic. Yes, I have fatigue from Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, but this is different. Since August, my energy levels have dropped sharply. My sleep is unpredictable and fragmented. I now wake between 2–4 AM every day, even when I’m completely exhausted. My go-to sleep supports — including THC — have stopped working.

I'm scared that this will lead to another major flare. I’ve worked too hard to stabilize. I can’t afford to lose access to treatments, especially medications like those for ADHD, which my psychiatrist won’t prescribe if I start losing weight again.

From Air Force Medic to Full-Time Patient

Before I became a full-time patient, I was a medic in the Air Force. For seven years, I thrived in high-pressure medical environments, trained and mentored junior medics, and earned the respect of my colleagues. Medicine wasn’t just a job — it became my language, my special interest, and my safe place as an autistic person.

That experience shaped me into the kind of patient I am today — proactive, hyper-organized, and relentless when it comes to advocating for myself. Not because I think I know more than my doctors, but because I’ve learned the hard way that if I don’t stay on top of every detail, I’ll fall through the cracks.

And I already have.

The Day My Instinct Saved My Life

In early 2019, I underwent Gamma Knife radiation surgery to shrink a massive cerebral arteriovenous malformation (AVM) that carried a 78% lifetime risk of rupture. About a week later, I noticed swelling and pain in my right arm where I’d had an IV. The NP said it was probably just phlebitis. My heart rate was elevated, but they weren't concerned.

Still, something didn’t feel right.

I went to the ER. They found a thrombosis in my basilic vein and a highly elevated D-dimer. A chest CT revealed something terrifying: bilateral pulmonary emboli in all four lobes of my lungs. I was completely asymptomatic. No chest pain. No shortness of breath. Just a gut feeling and a racing heart.

If I had gone home instead of trusting my instinct, I might not be here writing this.

AVM Diagnosis: Another Case of “It’s Probably Nothing”

Backtracking a few months — in late 2018, I began experiencing pulsatile tinnitus, dizziness, and vertigo. It could have been anything. Still, I mentioned to a trusted physician mentor that I’d done some research and wondered about an AVM. He agreed it was worth looking into. He ordered the MRI.

That scan revealed a Spetzler-Martin Grade 5 AVM in my posterior corpus callosum — one of the rarest and most dangerous types. Most people don’t know they have an AVM until it ruptures. Mine didn’t. That MRI may have saved my life.

The Aftermath: Radiation, Hearing Loss, and Cognitive Decline

Within six months of radiation, I lost hearing in my left ear. Within a year, I lost hearing in my right. By two years post-op, I could no longer work due to memory loss, difficulty with cognition, and executive dysfunction.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with Major Neurocognitive Disorder, Autism, ADHD, and a math disability. I'm now under active neurological evaluation to determine whether the Gamma Knife radiation — which research confirms can cause both cognitive decline and hearing loss — is the root cause.

For years, I begged doctors to help me understand what was happening to my brain. They told me it wasn’t serious. That I was overreacting. That it was stress.

It wasn’t.

Layers of Complexity: A Web of Diagnoses

The deeper you go into my medical history, the more tangled it becomes — but each piece matters. Here’s a brief look at the major players:

• Cerebral AVM (diagnosed 2018, resected 2024)

• Pulmonary Sarcoidosis (diagnosed 2020, in remission with annual PFT follow-ups)

• Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (diagnosed 2022)

• POTS, Dysautonomia, Orthostatic Hypotension

• Gastroparesis, Chronic Nausea

• Mast Cell Activation Syndrome

• Epilepsy Partialis Continua (controlled on Keppra)

• Major Neurocognitive Disorder

• Autism, ADHD (Inattentive Type), PTSD

• Bilateral Sensorineural Hearing Loss

• Military Sexual Trauma Survivor

I use a central port to self-administer fluids twice per week to stay hydrated and prevent fainting. My medications and therapies are tightly coordinated and managed across multiple specialists.

But even with all of this, my recent experience with hyperparathyroidism shows how easy it is for critical care to be missed.

Where I Am Now — And What I Need

Right now, I need a thorough evaluation of my parathyroid function. I want answers, not assumptions. I want an Endocrinologist who understands that normal calcium doesn’t rule out parathyroid disease. I need someone who will look at my full history, not just a snapshot.

This isn’t just about one lab result. It’s about an entire system that repeatedly fails to see the bigger picture — and patients like me, who don’t fit into neat diagnostic boxes.

Thankfully, I’m still fighting. I have providers who listen. I have a neurologist who’s taking my cognitive issues seriously. I’m hopeful. But I also know that without constant advocacy — from me, from my support system, and from people like you — none of this moves forward.

For Anyone Reading This

Whether you're a fellow chronically ill person, a caregiver, a provider, or just someone trying to understand — thank you for reading. If you take away one thing from this, let it be this:

🟣 Listen to your body.

🟣 Advocate even when you're tired.

🟣 Trust your instincts — they might just save your life.

Stay tuned for a weekly Blog, Mondays at 1500 (3PM MST)

Stay resilient,

Frankie

My Brain Tried to Kill Me: Surviving a Cerebral AVM

By Frankie
Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

Hi, I’m Frankie. I’m a 33-year-old disabled Air Force veteran, and I want to tell you about when I learned I had a cerebral arteriovenous malformation (AVM) — and how it almost killed me before I even knew it was there.

This blog is part of my effort to chronicle my medical history in an honest and empowering way — not just for me, but for anyone living with a complex or rare condition. This is my AVM story, and it starts with a whisper in my ear.

What Is a Cerebral AVM?

A cerebral arteriovenous malformation (AVM) is a rare and potentially life-threatening condition where blood vessels in the brain form an abnormal connection between arteries and veins, bypassing capillaries. This creates a tangle of fragile vessels prone to rupture.

• Occurs in about 0.05% of the population

• Can lead to hemorrhagic stroke if ruptured

• Often goes undetected until it bleeds

In my case, I was lucky. My AVM was found before it ruptured — but only because I trusted my instincts and had a provider who listened.

Early Symptoms: When Something Feels Off

In 2018, I started noticing subtle but unusual symptoms:

• Pulsatile tinnitus in my right ear (a whooshing sound in rhythm with my heartbeat)

• Dizziness and episodes of vertigo

• A strange sense that something neurologically wasn’t quite right

These symptoms weren’t severe enough to stop me from functioning, but they persisted — and I couldn’t ignore them.

As a trained Air Force medic, I’d developed a habit of digging deeper into symptoms. I started researching differentials, and one condition kept resurfacing: cerebral AVM. It felt unlikely, but my gut told me not to brush it off.

The MRI That Changed My Life

I confided in a physician I respected deeply — a mentor and colleague. I told him about the symptoms and the concerns I had based on my research.

Instead of dismissing me, he listened.

He ordered an MRI.

I went on a family trip to Hawaii shortly after the scan. When I returned, I hadn’t heard anything, so I checked the results myself at work (as I was authorized to do).

And there it was:
“Cerebral arteriovenous malformation.”

I felt the ground shift beneath me.

A Life-Threatening Diagnosis: Grade 5 AVM

Further evaluation revealed the full picture:

• Spetzler-Martin Grade 5 AVM (the highest severity level)

• Located in the posterior corpus callosum, deep within the brain

• Considered inoperable at the time due to size and location

Here’s the part that really drove it home:

The AVM carried an estimated 3% risk of rupture per year, compounded annually since birth — which translated to a 78% lifetime risk of rupture by the time I was diagnosed.

This wasn’t just serious — it was potentially fatal. But I had options.

My team recommended a non-invasive approach first:
Gamma Knife radiation.

Gamma Knife Radiation: Hope and Risk

In January 2019, I underwent Gamma Knife radiosurgery — a focused radiation treatment designed to gradually shrink the AVM and reduce the risk of rupture.

The procedure itself went well, but soon after, I experienced complications that taught me just how fragile the balance was in my body. Despite the challenges, Gamma Knife was the safest option to treat something inoperable — at least initially.

Why Sharing My Story Matters

Living with a cerebral AVM is a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the power of persistence. Early symptoms can be subtle, and the diagnosis can come as a shock — but timely detection and treatment can save lives.

And if you’re dealing with an AVM, know that you’re not alone. Medical advances and supportive care can make a difference.

Thank you for reading my story. If you found this helpful, please share to raise awareness about cerebral AVMs and the importance of listening to your body.

—
And as always, Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹