This happened

January 31, 2013 by Samira

It’s been 6 weeks since my surgery, 6 weeks from the day that would seal my fate. 6 weeks. 42 days. 1008 hours. And sometimes I even counted down the minutes. Lying there, clutching my head, or the moments, seconds before a sneeze and a laugh, the moment where you can choose to fear, or just hold on. I suppose now is when I stop counting. I suppose it’s back in the saddle I go. I suppose things go back to the way they were. I keep telling myself that the real recovery starts tomorrow. That I can’t make those you’re in your 6 weeks of recovery, so go on eat that pop tart, take that nap excuses to myself anymore.

I have no excuses anymore. I wanted an epiphany. I wanted change. I wanted certainty and blindly I believed the surgery would give me that. I thought that all those things that bugged me before, well this momentous event would cause them to pass. I somehow thought in relinquishing control of my life for those long hours, I would gain certainty. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m completely uncertain. The only thing I know is that I love my work and I love my family and family of choice. I don’t know or understand anything else. Everything I thought I knew, it’s all gone. All I have is a scar, barely visible and the nape of my neck reminding me that something happened. Something I don’t really seem to be able to understand.

I don’t get why I can’t quite make sense of the intersection of my identity and my disability. Or different ability. “You’re ear is not quite dead” the doctor said to me today. It took everything in me not to mumble the word decorative, knowing my reclamation of my body would only make me seem strange. I scoffed at the audiologist as she handed me brochures for hearing aids. I asked her for an invisible solution and she only looked at me, puzzled and stern. When I asked the doctor for the invisible solution she said the option would be to “live with things as they are.” I could live with myself as I am. Slightly softer than normal, differently abled and frustrated that I am not hearing what I want to. For fear of going in circles with myself I will only briefly mention my all too common fear that physical hearing may not make it so I hear what I want from the people in my life.

Ugh, live with myself as I am. Well what the hell does that even mean? I’m confused, slightly ungrateful, kind of annoyed. Yet, at the same time I’m endlessly loved and loving, eternally grateful and not really afraid. I can’t hide behind the shadow of recovery anymore. It’s now or never that I choose to be something, some one. Not that old me who sat there waiting for fate to lead her somewhere, because fate led me here. I’ll be a new me, a vestige of my old self. Or perhaps, I won’t be. My declaration seems to fall flat, I know.

The thing is, I don’t quite know how my life took this path and I’m not quite sure where this path is meant to lead. I feel like a crazy lady sitting in the middle of a trail just waiting for a map to fall in her lap. The thing is, I’ve always been terrible with maps. Even GPS, even the kinds that talk to you and tell you exactly what to do in real time, I can’t figure them out. So what would happen even if I had had some kind of epiphany? I’m pretty sure nothing, nothing at all.

All I can think when I think of my surgery is “welp, that happened.” Then I go on with my day. It’s like the same reaction you’d have if you flipped your plate of spaghetti in your lap, “welp, that happened.” Or when you trip and catch yourself in a hilarious way, “welp that happened.” Or when you laugh until the milk you drank comes out your nose, “welp, that happened.” They are just moments, they happen, you laugh, you cry, whatever, you move on. I spent 3 or 4 arduous minutes holding mirrors up to each other to catch a glimpse of my scar, and when I finally saw it, saw the reflections of my fingers grazing over the red indentation all I could think was how different it looked than what it felt like. And it dawned on me that that was a part of me, that happened. Now I have to figure out how to move on.

The real recovery starts tomorrow. What that means? Well your guess is as good as mine, but it’s going to happen. I’m working hard to find a new path to walk on, one that bridges where I was and where I am going, and I’m hopeful that as we all shift our paths to find what best suits us we can walk along side each other.

Peace and love,

Samira

Update schmupdate

January 29, 2013 by Samira

I haven’t posted in a while and I’ll post a real update later but I figured I’d give the quick and dirty for anyone who’s still listening and interested.

Since surgery I have had many ups and downs. On the whole I’d say more ups but in general I am uncomfortable with myself in a way I have rarely experienced. Since surgery impedes my energy levels and ability to work out, I’ve gained weight (turns out my fitness was from all the hard work and not a naturally un-aging metabolism), it hurts to comb my hair so most days I feel the agitation caused by the lingering bristles of the hairbrush at best or if I was too cowardly to try to comb it, I feel unkempt. I wore the same outfit today as yesterday and i am not sure it really even qualifies as an outfit if 90% of what you have on is stretchy. I feel a bit blah. I have generally been able to keep pace with school but have limited social activities to my family and only those very aggressive friends who are close by and on my way places. My pain, on average is more manageable, but seems to rear it’s ugly head just as I get comfortable. I fatigue easy, the cold gives me headaches, the ringing in my ears is loud. Given that I feel sluggish from not working out instead of eating right to counter act it I was eating nothing but crap for a time but am attempting to remedy that every day. I mean, what’s the point in eating Oreos when everything tastes like metal anyway.

I am finally getting the hang of my Nespresso machine, I even managed to make a few lattes without flooding the kitchen with milk. I am falling back into a routine and my life has felt pretty mundane. That is if you don’t count the deep examination of almost every personal relationship in my life given my encounter with mortality. I’ve had a hard time communicating my feelings and feel somehow lost that my surgery didn’t cause some grand epiphany. Rather it seems it has created a slow moving, thoughtful, introspective turn in me where I weigh people’s words and patiently await my natural responses. I have become overly analytical. I talk less but when I talk I talk really loud so I can hear myself over both the buzzing in my ears and the convolution of my thoughts. Today a friend told me I was their hero for getting through this. I was taken aback, I’m not particularly heroic and I feel my only revolutionary, brave or heroic act right now is to care for myself. In reality she is my hero, one of many. Loyal, caring, compassionate – that’s heroic. And anyone who isn’t doesn’t have a clear place in this life with me.

I’m practicing patience and each day I get closer to finding my new normal, though the ground beneath me still seems shaky (both literally and emotionally). Thursday I go see Dr. Aberle, the ENT with enough foresight to push for an MRI, I’ll go over scans with her and get a hearing test so I’ll know the true damage that this Herbert fella has done. Almost 6 weeks and I’m still here, still muddling through the strange waters of recovery. And though I may not think so tomorrow, right now I’m going to pat myself on the back and think, so far so good.

Peace and love-

Samira

Backslide

January 21, 2013 by Samira

I started this blog to chronicle a journey that I didn’t understand so that when i am on the other side of it I can look back and remember where I’ve been and then move on. I fear today, just one day past my one month anniversary I have slid backwards in my recovery. It’s my mom’s birthday, it’s Inauguration Day, MLK day, by all accounts it should be a good day. And, after a rather successful Sunday of completing an assignment on time, reading tons on global feminism and even watching my favorite new TV show, I went to bed refusing to let the melancholy tiptoeing around my house in the front door. It’s hard being back at my house alone. Jason visits, my mom stayed a night and while I like my space and I want to be here and I don’t particularly want a ton of visitors so I can focus on work there is a sense of loneliness in being here, not just when in recovery though it seems particularly present then. So I sit with this loneliness and see what it teaches me. But last night? No dice. I wouldn’t let it in. So I went to bed and rather carelessly woke up, of course after snoozing my alarm about 50 times. Checked Facebook and twitter (@srajabi) as is my habit and then leapt out of bed to go see my mom on my birthday. I didn’t feel in any immediate pain waking up and was only reminded I’m in recovery by my Facebook friends sending me one month love. Well, in all my excitement to spend a day with my family I got up too fast, got to the bathroom too fast, took a shower leaned up against the wall waiting for the pounding to stop while water drizzled past me. Blah. I was in more physical pain then I have been in a few days.

Perhaps it was that I had nothing to distract me. Perhaps it is that I am now alone with my pain. Jason has gone to work, I have no school today, work is handled so it’s just me and my pain. Hoping quietly as we figure out why the universe thinks this is so funny. I’ll get the last laugh though, I know I will.

So well I thought I’d wake up at 7:30 and race to my mom with birthday breakfast in bed I lay here, in a towel, soaking wet, in my bed. The Nespresso induced alertness kept me up all night (Yes! I bought a Nespresso, it’s a medical expense, the doctor told me to drink caffeine!!!! So just be quiet about it, it’s totally economical over time…) and then my pain sent me back to bed. I sit here, with nothing but my writing to distract me from my pain until I am ready to let it go. It’s a sign that I still have healing to do before this part of life’s journey becomes a distant memory, just a trace of life in brief conversations. We’re not there yet, but we will be. In the meantime, I’ll write and I’ll patiently wait, for the pain to release me, so I can go home.

Peace and love-

Samira

Counting

January 20, 2013 by Samira

Anyone who has kept up with this blog regularly knows that my life is in a perpetual countdown mode. A countdown to surgery, a countdown to recovery, waiting for appointments, counting how many hearing tests, counting how many MRIs, counting stitches, counting inches of the scar, counting hours until my next pain killer dose, counting the amount of money I have spent in some kind of lame attempt to address my anger, counting, counting, counting. It’s easy to countdown, as a perpetual student, I am always counting, from the first day of the semester, this past Monday, I counted the number of weeks left, one down 15 to go. I counted the number of weeks I would have to write essays, I counted the number of pages I would write, the pages I would read. Count, count count. It adds order to things, it adds structure to a life that can be horribly messy and unstructured. It makes it manageable. If I can count it I can do it right? It’s the future that I am afraid of, how do you count down to the unknown?

I can countdown to May when I’ll get my 6 month MRI. I can countdown to December when I’ll get my one year MRI, but the thing is, the results are unknown. How will I know what to prepare for? At least when I knew Herbert was just hanging out in my head, I could control him, I had him right where I wanted him (or more accurately where I never wanted him but at least I knew he was up to no good). Now? I don’t know if he is growing, swelling, shrinking, sitting, standing, lunging. What the heck is he doing in there? The other night I squealed out to Jason, “Something is happening to my face!” He grumbled something, I have no idea, my good ear was pushed against one of my homemade decorative pillows, thus muffling his voice and making him sound like that muppet, Beaker.

This is what I imagine people as any time my good ear is covered up…

It felt like there were Rice Krispies in my face, all over my face, and in my head, on the right side, and apparently Herbert was hungry (fatass) and was pouring milk all over them and you know… Snap, crackle, pop!

Herbert’s only friends.

It was a strange sensation and one that I didn’t quite understand. It made me realize, I can’t count that, it doesn’t fit in anywhere. It makes no sense. It might happen again, it might not, I can count that it has happened one time, but what good does that do me? So I count other things, real life things – because after all, Herbert is fake life, part of some weird joke on behalf of the universe, well HAHA Herbert, who is laughing now?!?!!?

I count my age. 27. Closer to 30 than to 20. I count the years I’ve been in phd school, almost 2. I count the time in my relationship, 5 of his birthdays, 6 of mine, 5 Christmases, 5 Thanksgivings, 3 accidents, countless moments of laughter, countless. Drat, I lost count again. So I count other things, my weight, no comment. My desired weight, no comment. My stuff, too much too count. My friends, too many to count. My family, too bountiful to count. Shit, I lost count of what I was counting. I keep trying to quantify everything, so that somehow, when reduced to facts and figures it stops being hard. It stops hurting, it stops being so consuming. There have been moments, where I stop. I stop thinking, I stop acting like I’m fine and I just be and I forget. I forget my battle with the notion of disability. I forget that I had brain surgery. I see myself as a stranger on the street would, just another frizzy haired girl that has lost her will to comb her hair. So they don’t know why, who cares? I forgot why. I engage with my reading, my work (though I am in a slow crawl back into school and work) and I forget that I even matter in the large context of women, violence and the world. I forget. I think my bad memory is my savior, oh but my conscience, she’s a bitch. She dives in when I need to forget most. She dives in and reminds me, consumes me, and I am pretty sure she gets together with Herbert and they take turns practicing drum solos. Because there is a lot of pounding in my head. My conscience, she kicks in as I am becoming complacent, getting too comfortable, she prevents me from bounding out of my chair and bouncing my head around. She tells me that I must keep count so I acn stay grateful, so I can stay strong, so I can survive the worst. So I count. The time until my papers are due 15 weeks. The time until my mom’s birthday, 1 day. The episodes of Downton Abbey I have yet to watch 0. The counting lulls me back into my forgetfulness. Then, just as Lady Mary Crawley walks down the aisle to her wedding, that bitch in my head wakes up and says, HEY! Don’t be complacent! Be grateful, go live! Make things happen. So I stop counting and I sob (just momentarily) then I stand, I shake it off and with all the old English flair of my new favorite TV show, I set out to make my life everything I know it can be. I stop counting. Because who knows what will interrupt my count next time. Once upon a time it was Herbert, it may be him again. It may be grief, it may be joy. But I can’t count on it. So I seek to release the little things, the things that throw my into an angry rage but don’t make me any better. I seek to be grateful, to embrace the opportunity to live in a world of beautiful unknowns. I try to stop counting. I try to just be.

That being said, I’m 4 weeks after surgery, 2 weeks until I can work out, 2 weeks to my hearing test, 2 weeks until…. Oh crap, I’m doing it again. Letting go of control, relinquishing yourself to the fates set forth by the universe, it’s not easy, but I can promise you and myself, it will be worth it, if and only if, we can make the most of what we’re handed.

I’ve been back in school for just a matter of days (but whose counting??) and though I struggled through heartache, exhaustion, frustration and anger in this first week at the ignorance of others and at the inability for my body to keep pace, I’m still here. I’m doing this, all of this, and I’m going to enjoy it, no matter what this may be.

Peace and Love –

Samira

Pain

January 13, 2013 by Samira

My mom has had back pain for a long time. It’s caused by a horrible car accident years ago. Someone’s carelessness caused her pain. I know it hurts her each day, but she gets up, grits her teeth and goes on. You can’t discern that she is in pain, not really. Aside from a tense hand, or a momentary gritting of her teeth, she is a pillar of strength. I always thought that by being there with her or with my Dad I could stop their pain in the event they would ever experience it. I thought that pain was something you could see but you could not touch, something curable, something love could take away. But you can’t see pain. You can’t understand it. You can’t be a part of it. Pain is fleeting, it is easily masked, it is incurable in many ways. It’s hard to pin down, it’s hard to explain and most of all it is hard to endure.

I fear sleep because it ends in pain. I fear activity because it ends in pain. I fear sounds because they end in pain. I fear confrontation because it ends in pain. I fear brain surgery because it ends in pain. I fear everything because I fear pain. But despite my fear, physical and emotional, I endure. I endure pain. Under a veneer of a smile I endure. As my mother does, as my father has, as my siblings have, as my friends have. As you have. We’ve all endured some kind of pain afterall that’s life right? Under our appearances, our clothes, our cars, our jokes, and our jobs are the things we cover over, the emotions we blow by, the moments we can’t face. The demons we face when alone, naked in a mirror. (Or not naked, or metaphorically naked, whatever floats your boat). The point is, life is a series of successes and disappointments. Trials and celebrations. No one is immune, not even the fabulous. I would know, I consider myself fabulous. I have words on my wrist, meant to propel me forward, meant to guide my heart. Laughter flowing endlessly from my heart, being my cure. Fearlessness flowing endlessly into my heart. To be fearless does not to me mean to be without fear, but to be able to conquer it, to endure it. To stand in the face of it and say, “yes, I am scared shitless, I may even pee my pants, but I’ll still do this. I, an anxiety ridden, terrified baby, will do this, and to shove it in your face fear? I’ll do it well.” So when I wake up, hands shaking, soaked in sweat, the sheer physical pain overtaking me, I only cower for a moment, then I face it. I endure it. I have no choice but to face it. Giving up would be reckless at this point. Then, when the pain in my body becomes more manageable, I face the fear in my heart. The fear of going back to school, learning, reading, facing, explaining, conquering. I feel as though I am re-entering the world, with no visible scars to serve as my excuse, I must stand on my own two feet. I have to be me, 2.0, bionic woman with the steel screws in her head, ready for business. It should actually be pretty funny because I find reading a breakfast menu taxing at this point. I’ll do it though, and three weeks ahead of doctors orders… That’s right, I’m a fool, but I got this.

I watched so many people struggle with so much in this life, and I always took care of them in whatever way I could. In taking care of them I thought I had somehow built an immunity to what happens to so many. It couldn’t happen to me, right? Now, the tables have turned, the roles have shifted and I am totally uneasy accepting the love and care. I don’t know how. As one friend told me, I don’t forgive myself any weakness or allow room for mistakes. I sit with myself, present with my emotions, but I expect a degree of perfection from myself that I would never dream possible in others. I cut them slack, I forgive them, why can I not forgive myself? I don’t understand how to accept that this has happened to me. I don’t know how to accept that this is my life. Even when I yell, “this is our life now!” through my laughter as I shake my head side to side doing vestibular exercises in a grocery store I don’t see it as me, I’m watching it from far away, at least sometimes. I look in the mirror and I see me, but I see me before I knew, before I saw it, before I recognized a reality in myself that I didn’t understand. I resented being the girl with the brain tumor but is that not who I am? Is it not a part of me? I see my reflection and I forget, I see my face and I forget. I see surreal images of myself in the hospital, unconscious from the drugs and I think, “who is that? how did she get here?” How on earth? I just don’t get it. It’s the universe playing a joke on me and I am laughing in its face. I wonder when I will stop thinking of this, when will this stop being a part of my everyday? When will I have something more interesting to talk about? I mean frankly, I’m bored of it, if I’m being honest; yet, it consumes me. My pain won’t let me forget. Ughhh, are you confused yet? I am.

Tomorrow I start school. My professors and my program have been incredibly compassionate and understanding, even as I skirt deadlines and act totally lame. I couldn’t have been luckier with my situation going into this semester. I’m excited to go back, hoping a routine will let Herbert know that he didn’t win this round. I did. We did. My whole family, because I did not do this alone. My whole family did this and continues to do it. Whether it is my Dad shouting out that he loves me, or my mom, slowly walking alongside me in the freezing cold. Or my siblings taking on my complainy, crude, off color text messages. We did this, we continue to do this, just as we might with each struggle our family endures. We all endure. Under every smile are experiences, good and bad. Beneath my hair is a scar, beneath my skin, under this vessel of my body is a story, pain, hope, love, life, celebration, beauty, ugly – all in one. We did this, all of us, did all of this. And we’ll keep going, all of us, forward on our journeys.

I don’t think I make any sense tonight, but hey, at least I’m not Jodie Foster, at the Golden Globes, talking about privacy…on TV…

Does anyone know what she was talking about???

With that – peace and love –

Samira

Three weeks out, living without Herbert?

January 10, 2013 by Samira

I’m three weeks out from my surgery. It’s funny, I thought once I had surgery the counting would stop. I was attached to a calendar leading up to surgery, I counted down until the moment I was sitting all alone in that hospital gown in that cold pre-surgical bed. Now I count the days of healing, thinking when I hit that 6 week mark normalcy will somehow return. I think when I hit 6 weeks I can have my life back. My days will no longer be consumed by concerns of cerebral spinal fluid leaks and pain management. At 6 weeks I won’t have to wonder if I’ll need steroids for swelling. At 6 weeks I can work out again. At 6 weeks I’ll feel normal. At 6 weeks I can be fearless. At 6 weeks I will stop being in convalescence. At 6 weeks I’ll be Samira again, not just a walking brain surgery recovery. I know that I’m wrong. At 6 weeks what will really happen is that I’ll find out how much hearing is gone, if I’m recovering normally and what to do next. At 6 weeks I have to retrain my body to be strong. At 6 weeks I have to figure out how to shift from being in recovery to being someone who lived and will always live with a brain tumor. Herbert is, for all intensive purposes, a stubborn ass.

Alas, what can I do? This is my life now. That’s what I tell my family when they are embarrassed of me doing my vestibular exercises as I walk the mall like a senior citizen out on their weekly field trip. They can get embarrassed all they want. I don’t have a choice but to wear my Herbert on my sleeve and make a big joke out of him. If I didn’t? I’d crumble under his weight. I’d crumble under the pain.

You see, each morning I wake up in the bed saved for me and my family’s home. I’m taking advantage of my last week of winter break before I gave the terrifying truth of going to school while still “recovering.” Each morning I think it will be different. Every evening I go to bed thinking, tomorrow will be better, I’ll get up, walk for an hour, shower, get dressed, write that lingering paper and get out of the house, maybe sit in my favorite coffee shop. But each morning I wake up, not to my alarm, not to my loving mom and dad offering me pancakes and tea, but to pain. Throbbing, aching, every muscle engaged pain. I wake up in pain. My jaw clenched. My body is bracing itself against the pain. Preparing for an even worse attack. It’s like seeing the shadow of an attacker in the moment before an attack. It’s too late to escape so you tense up, you brace, preparing for impact. Danger is imminent. Then, it’s happening. All you can do is fight for your focus. All you can do is breathe.

So, to avoid getting bogged down by that and the ever present fear of a csf leak, the incessant taste of metal in my throat and the dear creeping in that I’m going to look like a fool come spring semester when I cringe in pain randomly in a room full of my peers? I joke. I wave my freak flag higher than it has ever waved. I shop. I shop online. I focus on work. Applying to conference after conference trying to give myself something to look forward to. I dream, of Hawaii. In reality I’ve given up all pretense of working towards some kind of ideal future. I used to think of marriage and family, career and volunteering, staring my photo advocacy L3C business. Now? I dream, but I don’t expect those things to happen. Instead I focus on each day in minute baby steps.

I look not to all my tomorrows but to just tomorrow. If I can do today I can do tomorrow. I can even dream of success and happiness. I can dream it but I don’t expect it. Because I don’t know what will happen. In 6 months, I’ll get Herbert checked. I’ll see how he likes his remodeled home. And maybe he’ll have tried to expand, maybe not. Maybe he’ll have withered, I just won’t know. He’ll be hanging over my head forever through. I can hear him, right now, ringing in my ear. Ass.

It’s like there is a shadow hanging over me. Like everytime someone says , “I’m so glad you feel better” I think great, good for you, you don’t have a big tumor shell sitting on your nerves. You don’t have to worry about this FOREVER. I do. And honestly I feel worse from the wear. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for you, being happy, celebrating my success with me this far. It just means I’ve tempered my expectations of what feeling better means to me. Keep cheering for me though, I don’t even want to think about where I would be without all of you.

It’s been three weeks, and yea I feel better today than I have so far. And yea I see light at the end of the long long long tunnel. And yea, I do think this whole mess is kind of a big prank on the part of the universe. But sometimes, just sometimes – not often and it passes quickly- I’m angry. So pissed. I cry out to the Heavens, why me???? I have heard from several people something to the effect of For whatever reason God chose you to give this challenge to, because he knew you could do it. While I can sort of understand that logic, it really does very little to make me feel better. God chose this? God chose for a cell in my body to mutate incorrectly? Frankly it just seems more like a mistake, an over sight. If it was purposeful, pardon my being blasphemous, it just seems kind of rude. It would actually make me feel better if instead of thinking God did this purposefully, we think that perhaps God just got tired and made a mistake. If God is created in our image and we are capable of mistakes, shouldn’t God be? I don’t know. It seems like a bad justification to explain away the ugly in the world. I work on issues of rape and violence around the world, I’ve devoted my life to understanding it. It doesn’t seem right to simply say, God chose those women to have a challenge. It’s not a challenge, it’s a mistake. That doesn’t mean that I won’t rise up and try to learn whatever lessons the world or universe or God is trying to teach me with each and every experience good or bad. I will and I am. I am learning. I guess I just don’t understand, I’m not surprised though. Faith really is a strange enigma to me.

Anyway, three weeks and despite the moments of doubting the universe and why me, I’m happy to report I am making progress. My mother helped me get situated at my condo so that when I return to my home at the end of this week to prepare for school and work, I am ready for business. I laugh everyday, I enjoy valuable time with my family and I am fighting this with all the bravery I can muster. I’m grateful, I’m happy to be alive and ready to make the most of this. In the words of myself, “I got this.”

Peace and love –

Samira

Update: Immediately after posting this my phone rang. It was a woman who is a friend of a close family friend who had also had her surgery at Barrow. She was the first person to really level with me about getting brain surgery. At the end of our 38 minute convo I tried to express my profound gratitude. She told me that she is grateful to have found me because it explains to her one reason why she may have had o go trough what she went through. So she could help me. Maybe it is all connected as part of some kind of master plan. Who knows, but thanks to all of the amazing people who reach out, I feel calm and confident as I face my recovery and if you, any of you need help, love, someone to complain to. Just reach out.

Betrayal

January 3, 2013 by Samira

Today’s my birthday and I feel overwhelmed… by love. From the flowers and candies to the immense amounts of outpourings of support and love, I’ve got few words. I am simply in awe of the kindness bestowed upon me. And I made it! I really had no idea what life would be like by this point, would I be able to speak? Would I be trapped in bed? Would I be able to hear you say happy birthday? Would I be here at all? It was scary, and while it’s not over and I struggle each day to understand what normal means and will be like, I’m grateful. I managed to have lunch with a dear friend and I even got to go out, get a birthday dress and wear it!

And yes, it is only 4:50 pm and I am in bed tuckered out but I’m here. I made it.

I made it.

Oh my God, I really made it.

Never in my life did I fathom I would face brain surgery and make it. 27. I’m 27, I still look 12 (bodes well for the future!) and I made it. I’m in awe. Of science, of myself, of my friends, of my family, of you. All of you, near and far who are propelling me forward. What’s more? I can smile an only very slightly asymmetrical smile at you when you share that love with me. I can smile and I can pay it forward. So I can’t hear you. Speak into my good ear and as I get older I’m pretty sure the quirk of having a decorative ear will make me adorable. As my sister says, someday I’ll be “crazy aunt Sami” to her kids and they will always laugh and joke about how I can’t hear. It’s endearing or something. It’s at least something. Again, I’m going to deny it exists for the next little while.

I knew when I got in the MRI machine back in August something was amiss. I knew it, which is why that day was so beautiful. My parents and I got to spend an afternoon avoiding it and having fun, frivolously distracting ourselves in blissful ignorance. But lying in there, loud banging noises clouding my thought, the machine closing in on me, I knew. I felt the betrayal of my body in every fiber of my being. I felt the revolt inside me and I was simultaneously disgusted and angry and I remember begging my body in my mind not to let it be cancer. I was too much of a coward for cancer. And I got lucky, it wasn’t cancer. While Herbert was far from good news, it was a blessing. Perhaps less straightforward than I had hoped but I can navigate this (at least most days). People keep telling me I’m brave and calling me an inspiration. I’m flattered, and honored really. I didn’t have much of a choice really. Bravery has always been my life’s goal. In fact every year except this one my resolution in the new year is to be brave, to face life head on, no giving up. This year, I was too tired for a resolution, I was simply happy to be here. I have faced something huge and scary, and I suppose it’s brave of me, but really there was no other way. And let’s keep in mind, I sobbed like a baby in a dark room to my mother at 4 am the morning of surgery, muttering only the words, “I don’t want to do this” and I did try to make a naked break for it. I was forced to be brave. I think any of you would have faced this with the same resolve I had. The only difference? I think I’m trying to turn this tragic, challenging chapter of life into my life’s biggest comedy. I have little choice but to smile about it. I mean if I wanted to let the weight of it in, well let’s be honest, it would be sobfest 2013. I could sell tickets and people could canoe on a river of tears. But why? To what end? It’s not going to change anything. My body betrayed me but it’s the only one I’ve got and I can’t pay it forward or even pay it back in this life without this body. So today, for my birthday, I’m giving myself the gift of forgiveness. Forgiving my body for its betrayal and instead being thankful to it for pulling me through. For fighting with me, alongside me. Instead of wasting energy nursing pain, I’m going to acknowledge the pain but be present in the moment, with all of you. I can be here, in this life, with you now. And that is a truly beautiful thing.

Thanks for all the love. I hope I can give as much and more than I have received.

Peace and love-

Samira

I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better.

January 1, 2013 by Samira

I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better. I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better. I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better. That’s what I tell myself. Every time the pain gets past the 2/10 level where it normally hovers. I tell myself that over and over again as I take deep inhales that wash over my third eye center, down to my sacram and wave back over my body as I exhale. Concentrating on the words, the breath, it saves me every time. Sometimes the mantra changes, I am strong. I am powerful. I can beat this. Or I am strong. I have strong will. I will master my pain. Despite the minor variations the jist is the same. I am stronger than the pain I am experiencing and I will get better. I seemed to have forgotten what it was like to be in chronic pain from the time I suffered from so-called “migraines” but I trained my body to manage it. I weened my body of of the pills and the narcotics. I mastered my pain. I can do it again. Just 4 days out from surgery I weened myself off the Percocet and though I carry it around with me, it serves only as a reminder of what I won’t do. I won’t take it. I won’t succumb to that pain. I can do this. I will do this.

It sounds really convincing right? Well easier said than done but I will say I am proud of my progress. In order to ween myself off of the Percocet I had to replace it with something more manageable and my zen did not necessarily come as easily as I make it sound. I went from Percocet every four hours to the doctor telling me I could take ibuprofen every 4 to 6 hours, emphasizing the 6 hours. In the night, my body would automatically wake me up at the four-hour mark, without fail, throbbing pain overtaking my body. I would be sweaty, nauseous and uncomfortable. I would take the dose of Advil and try to go back to sleep. Sleep. It wasn’t restful, it still really isn’t. Sleep is my body at its most vulnerable. I can’t master my mind and body if I am at rest. So I resist it. My body hates it. The rest is overwhelming, overbearing almost. I started fudging my Advil dose from 600mg to 800. I took it every four hours and if the pain was bad, every 3. It just hurt. But it never hurt bad enough to want to go back to the way I felt with the more narcotic pain killers. I could feel my joyful self coming back to my body and I wanted that. I had endured a pretty much constant headache since waking from surgery, though and the pain was often well beyond my tolerance level. I was struggling to keep my head up. I would convince myself I was fine, work up my resolve to argue my ability to go to the gym to my family, and step up to get dressed. Shit, I dropped something. I would bend to pick it up, halfway to the ground I would clutch my head. Ow. Shit. That hurts. I would rise up and the room would spin, I’d find my focal point, a drishti, I’d steady out. Okay, we’re good. I’d move my head side to side according to the therapy sheet I’d been given. Side to side and back again. Ugh. Annoying. My neck aches on the right side. It’s like someone cut through all the muscles. Which they did, which is why it is like that. That’s when I remembered the focus I had when I had suffered from headaches that took over my body. I remembered the resolve. I heard my sister’s voice in my head telling me to take “yoga breaths.” I remembered that I am not that woman who gives up, feels pity for herself and let’s the pain be her master. I keep saying, “I got this,” well I damn well better go get it then. So I did. I am down to taking ibuprofen twice a day, morning and night, maybe once in the middle of the night. I am showering regularly with much less fear of washing my hair now that the stitches are out (got them out NYE!) and I even manage the occasionally leg lift while walking so as to ensure my tight ass doesn’t turn into a disgusting pile of cottage cheese while I am on this forced respite from the gym. I have managed to make a habit of full neck rolls which given the dizziness that accompanies them, though only momentarily, is pretty awesome. They provide a tinge of pain and then relief to the sore, knotted muscles in my neck. The pain is becoming more manageable and I think in due time very little medicine will be needed. I haven’t taken Zofran in over 4 days and I am working through the nausea and regaining the ten pounds I lost after surgery. (I was not that upset about the ten pounds but it will give me something to work with once I can finally be fully active again). My family thinks I am nuts about getting better and think that I need to give up my relentless gym habits but I know my body and will test and push my limits (SAFELY) to see how I progress. I am hopeful. I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better.

Better. I will get better. I will heal. I may not get better. Will I be any better at my job? Maybe. Will I excel at helping women around the world more than I did before? Maybe. I don’t know. It’s so unknown. Will I get better? Will I be somehow enlightened? I have no idea. We all get better everyday, we learn, we grow, we become stronger. Isn’t that just life? Then, this, this HERBERT INVASION is just another of life’s lessons. It will make me better. I hope it does. There is a lesson to be learned here, perhaps more than one, and I’ll be damned (perpetual student that I am) if I don’t learn every last one. Here are some I have learned so far.

It’s okay to be imperfect, no one is judging you and if they are, it really doesn’t matter anyway.
Do vestibular therapy no matter who is looking, the crazy lady walking, shaking her head all around will make people laugh, we could all use a bit more crazy.
Family is the most important thing in life, ever. I have learned that mine is relentlessly loving, deeply supportive and fundamentally amazing.
You can’t be mad about what you can’t control.
The future is unknown, so just do your best to be amazing no matter what the circumstance.
Don’t give up on yourself, because no one else has.
Pain is not beauty, pain is pain and it sucks, and it’s okay to admit that.
Brain tumors – not all they are chalked up to be.
Mark Ruffalo had an acoustic neuroma, I’ve learned that I am practically famous by default. I got “Ruffalo-ed.”
Be present now, in this moment. You won’t ever get it back.
Even the awful moments have beauty there, you just have to be looking.
Exist with the people around you. All we have are people at the end of the day.
Be brave into infinity. Don’t let fear blind you. Be the person you dreamed yourself to be.
I’ve learned that lessons learned make you sound like a big, corny, dorky cliche.
I’ve learned that I will never stop learning.
I’ve learned there is more love out there than we could ever harness, so spread it out, share it.
I’ve learned to be grateful.
I’ve learned that, no matter what is going on, in my brothers words – “it’s really not that big of a deal.”
We never know where each other has been so next time you are the nail salon, the store, on the phone, in your car, be patient with the people around you, they may have more in common than you’d think.
We have kindred spirits all around the world.

Through my adventures of learning to leave the house again, driving again (YAY! No more driving restriction!), meeting new people again I’ve learned a lot. Cried a bit, laughed super hard, been a bit snarky, but I’ve survived and I know that I am lucky. I faced death in the nose and walked away. I lived. I get to eat pie, I get to go back to school, I get to work. I get to smile and laugh and eat. I get to have a life. I am so lucky. I get to pay it forward, I get to work towards my goals of fair representations for women around the world. I get so much. It’s like I won the lottery.

Yesterday I went to my appointment at Barrow, and though being completely disappointed at Dr. Spetzler’s casual attitude towards post-surgical care and recovery, I am eternally grateful to that man and his team. Though I can’t hear on the right side and the struggles inherent in that are more exhaustive than I really care to get into at this point in recovery (ex. buying a sandwich at the airport: Server:”Would you like chips or fruit with your sandwich?” Me: “Sami” – he was apparently not asking the name to use on the order? Hmmm. What did he say? Oh was someone speaking to me? I can’t hear you over the hair dryer noise that lives in my right ear, must be one of Herbert’s loud mouthed cousins come to visit him after surgery), I can fully move my face, I can smile at myself in the mirror. I can wink, I can blink, I can wiggle my cheeks. I can swallow. Dr. Spetzler gave me a chance that no single doctor in Colorado would risk. He’s brave, he’s talented and he has some solidly steady hands. Dr. Weiskopf, the delightful neuro-otologist that worked with him was just as phenomenal, if not more, because he engaged me on a more human level. Either way, personality quirks aside – they are both on my list of life’s heroes. I am ETERNALLY GRATEFUL. Not just to them but to every resident (the patient Chief resident in particular), every person who came in and worked on that team, they helped me right a wrong my body had done to itself. At Monday’s appointment I got my stitches removed (super creepy sensation), a few questions answered and most importantly I got cleared to come home. I came home 8 hours early. It was just time to get back. I still have a ton of questions about recovery, I am hopeful that my hearing and taste sensations will return as the recovery continues. It’s been 11 days. I have to remember where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. I have left messages with my doctors here (all wonderful and trustworthy doctors) to follow-up post-operatively and hopefully get my lingering questions answered. I’ll take a hearing test at about 6 weeks and we’ll see how much of a life adjustment Herbert will force me to make then. Until then, DENY, DENY, DENY. In the meantime I am looking forward to a beautiful 2013. My birthday is in a few days so tomorrow I’ll go buy myself a gift. An infinity bracelet, to sit between the words tattooed on my hand. Laugh into infinity. Be fearless into infinity. Live infinitely. I’ve given up on acting casual. Casual is not always my best bet and instead I am just acting like me. Vulnerable, hopeful, funny, cranky, whatever I might be, that is what you will get. I look forward to many more small victories, getting through this week. Reading a book again in preparation for school. Getting back to my house. Learning to live alone again. Each step will be profound and important. Today’s victory? I went to the grocery store and only looked moderately like a jackass. Yesterday’s victory? I made spaghetti and meatballs and only had to take one break laying down on the kitchen floor. Tomorrow’s victory? Well we’ll just have to wait and see. Point is, I’m winning, and not like Charlie Sheen.

To those that have continuously sent me emails, messages, comments, etc. Thank you. I have no words (I know – shocking – my big mouth is at a loss) to express my gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you can ever know.

Mark Ruffalo did it, so I’m going to do it.

I am strong. I will master my pain. I will get better.

Peace and Love –

Samira

Post op update

December 27, 2012 by Samira

So a longer post will be coming soon where I detail what I consider to be the key points of one of life’s more harrowing journeys just so you have it, straight from the horses mouth. But here’s the down and dirty… So I woke up this morning literally to the thought, “welp, I lived to see another day. So far so good.” And that’s about where I’m at. The days are not fun, nor are they easy. The feeling of losing every ounce of independence and needing friends and family to take you for “twice a day walks” is degrading, sad, pathetic. Though the walks are in all respects the better part of each day and I am eternally grateful to each of you who has so graciously walked me. My family has shown their true colors…phenomenal and done a top notch job taking care of me. Barring my twice a day mental break down I’m emotionally stable though be prepared when the nausea and vertigo totally take over my body I am the person yelling shoot to kill in the corner, and I really don’t believe in guns so wrap your head around that one. I warn any prospective shooters that if you shoot to injure I’ve simple got more problems. Also know that I am kidding. I really don’t want to be shot, my sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired. I think I’ve made it through the worst of the pain after a near return to the hospital and a four day Percocet infused blur. The dizziness, nausea and vertigo continue to be the most pressing symptom as well as the mostly deafness discovered post surgery on my right side by a doctor that looked like jack from lost. That and a tinny sweet taste in my mouth all the time, likely from the manipulation of my facial nerve. I’m pissy a lot asking why me or silently doing an ugly cry in the corner but I have discovered the latest way to lose ten pounds and render me, what I am pretty sure my best friend would tell me is, skinny fat. So at least I have that. I do feel minuscule improvements each day and everyone seems to be falling over me wishing me success. I’m glad they are so happy and appreciate the well wishes but know for me this life is not good enough. I am fighting to see more progress as fast as possible so that I too can see hope in myself in the way you have all seen hope in me. Currently it is a day to say struggle which to me doesn’t have an easy horizon. There are too many unknowns but I do see improvements and am counting on those to push me. I don’t feel particularly pretty anymore and I am not fully myself in heart and humor yet but seeing my family all decked out in the t-Rex t shirts Jason and I gave them for Christmas and seeing them all laugh at our idiocy made me know I’m still in here. Under this wobbly mess of a human being with horrible flipped out and hair and 90s hobo attire is me. A little more unkempt than usual but still fighting. As my sister says, it was a line from one of my favorite songs in high school, “I gotta get thru this, gotta make gotta make it throughhh…” She’s right and I have all these wonderful weirdos in my family here at the ready to make me laugh.

I got this. In the meantime thank you for the love, the prayers, comments, likes, it has all meant so much especially at my loneliest hours. If you haven’t received a reply I’m working on it, pretty much everything gives me a headaches these days so I leave my phone and laptop in the corner on the floor powered off most days. Just know that I couldn’t get through this without you. All of you.

Peace and love

Samira

Mother f@$;ing, ow!

December 26, 2012 by Samira

Note: it’s. 4:50 am. my trusty leak proof ice pack has fully soaked me in the middle of the night and my pain is just sharp enough to keep me up so why not crank the second half of this sucker out. I started it a few nights ago…I apologize for anything asenine I say, can you blame me? I mean c’mon, I got a mother f$&@-ing brain tumor!…

I’m laying in bed, it’s been 5 days since surgery. I’m happy to report I’m home from the hospital but unhappy to report that this recovery is a real bitch to get through. The sharp and throbbing pain through my head and neck has relented to a dull ache that, though keeping me half awake at all hours appears to be in the range of what most would termtolerable so I’m counting my blessings. The day after surgery in the hospital was a blur of me asking for pain meds and getting knocked out by them with intermittent but totally lame attempts by me to see the “great Dr. Spetzler” who apparently only goes to see any body according to his own whims and literally is able to examine you and assess that you are “looking great” with half of his body firmly planted in the hallway.. Though I can’t say I’m a fan of his attitude I am a fan of his work. I did not pick him got his genius conversation skills, the guy knows his way around a brain, and those teeth do sparkle like the end of an Orbits gum commercial. Though the days in the hospital are tough to differentiate they were each marked by notable moments.

Day one- the terror. Someone really should have warned me that you go into surgery prep alone. I had not hugged anyone long enough to be prepared to sit in a room with confusing cable on a TV that was too high to see. I had no idea if my gown was on right and between that, my nervousness induced IBS( oh shut up, we’re all grown ups here- you get brain surgery- see what a number it does on your bathroom habits….), and an actual attempt to find an escape from worlds most windy pre-surgical ward, I was a mess. A poopy, scared, quaking, bare assed excuse for a brave woman. I asked the doctor that came in, a delightful Chief Resident with a name I wish someone would have written down for me, a few important questions.

“Did you go to bed early enough?” I asked through a mumble of nervous laughs…

” I assure you I and, we all really, are quite rested and ready, and good at this.”

“Phew!” I replied, ” and um… Steady hands?”

He at this point was casually leaned forward on the table at my feet, his hands in a comfortable fist. He separated his hands momentarily then clasped them again. “Steady hands!” He said coolly. “Anything else?”

“Yea, on a scale from one to terrified how close to terrified should I be?”

“Look” he said, closing his binder, my binder, “this is probably the hardest surgery your body will ever have to go through, it wouldn’t make any sense for you not to be terrified. You’re going to do great, and again, you are in very capable hands.”

It was perhaps the perfect answer. He was honest, fully admitted what was about to happen sucked giant elephant balls but he was confident enough that he and the others could do it. Okay I thought as I leaned my head back on the pillow, I can’t escape now anyway, they got me all wired up to machines…the rest of the morning was peppered with my friends and family coming back three and four at a time breaking pretty much every rule of the pre surgical ward to say good bye. The last to leave we’re Jason and my brother. Two of my most ardent protectors. I knew as long as my big brother was in the room he’d watch over me like a hawk and the worse that would happen is he would get gloves stuck somewhere while making latex turkeys, when he finally left and I was passing out I realized, this is really freaking happening. Ugh. God. I didn’t even have a chance to utter a prayer, I was too busy planning my escape.

Fast forward about 8 or 9 hours and I am in a blur of red wires and people in blue talking. Bright blurs of white overtake my line of sight. My body is shaking violently and I hear someone yell,”we’ve got a really bad shaker we need more blankets here ASAP!” Then I felt the warmth of a blanket cover me over and over again as my body shook more fiercely than it ever has. The actual first thought to enter my head? “Ughhhh, Heaven feels awful! I didn’t know you could still get sick in Heaven and it looks just like the hospital.” I thought I had died, was cocky enough to think my forsaking, inability to form a coherent sentence to her God, fat ass had taken the express to Heaven, and I was ungrateful about it. Ha! Classic brain tumor moment…. Then it dawned on me. I’m not dead! I started clawing at my wires. One giving me oxygens as someone above me said, ” her 02 numbers are low, keep her on this.” There was a line in my clavicle area, little nodes all over my chest, two lines and a brace on my arm, some kind of extension cord connecting them all together and they were all attached to various beeping things, there was a cuff that automatically inflated every hour the hour to jar my Bp. There was not a single time it went on that I didn’t get surprised to see it.

Then the nurse got my new bionic chest covered enough to start allowing my family back. I don’t remember who came in what order but they had all stayed. Tried and true, patiently updating loved ones near and far. It was about 4 or 5 in the afternoon. I felt okay. I was shocked. I was a bit dazed. Finally it dawned on me to ask how it went. My dad was the best one to tell me because he was glowing, “it went great honey! Your nerves are great! They for most of it! Your nerves are all in tact, so great!” Okay so, hopefully they left Herbert nothing but his feet and his head so he can look down at them shamefully and think twice about what he’s done to me. So he’s not gone but the rat bastard isn’t killing me. Success! And I was blinking! With both eyes.

The first night was by all accounts the easiest. My mom stayed with me, and she is an excellent caregiver. I was still quite groggy so that and the ivs had me well knocked out. The most painful part? Watching the clock waiting for my sister Farrah to get off her plane and come see me.

Day two- holy crap you guys, this freaking hurts.

Day two started well enough, the family trickled in. Farrah made it and brought a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. My best friend who had come be by my side for surgery came and saw me (between playing go fish with my nephew) and it wasn’t until he started saying nice things as he hugged me goodbye that I realized I could not hear a damn thing out of my right ear. Wtf. I felt immense pressure in that side but no hearing. No words were getting through that Great Barrier Reef. I decided not to panic and like with all awful things, deny it is actually happening. Jason in a feat of actual romance, brought me the sweater he had been wearing the day before so I could sleep with it and that somehow seemed to be the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a long time. And that says a lot because people are super nice to you when you have a brain tumor. Just sayin. It meant a lot. Later that day Farrah and Tatyana, my stern but excellent nurse, helped me put real clothes on and like the family pet, newly minted, took me for my first walk. As I was walking down the hall, flanked on both sides by lovely women my mom was approaching in the distance. She hurried towards us with tears in her eyes exclaiming, “my baby is walking!” She clasped my head in her hands and kissed my face. In all this time my mom had held strong, never wavered, never showed an ounce of anythings but resolve towards my diagnoses, but here she showed the weight of it on her. She was just as devastated by what I was going through as I was. Her tears, wet and salty against my cheek were nothing compared to the joy she was expressing at that moment. The look in her eyes was stunning. Proving once again that my heart and hers are inexplicably and inextricably linked to one another. That her love was enough to see me through. It was one the week’s monumental moments. Hell, it was one of life’s monumental moments. (Please note here my unending desire to call it MOM umental, but it seems to detract from the sheer power of my love for my mom).

The rest of the hospital stay was a lot the same, the doctors seemed genuinely shocked that I couldn’t hear out of that ear. Apparently “hear what?” Is not the right answer to a doctor rubbing his fingers together next to your ear asking if you can hear it. But I couldn’t see his fingers and I couldn’t hear anything. I was discharged straight out of the icu after 2 days. The day I got home I carefully followed the instructions on my Percocet and woke up with my pain at a 10 out of 10. With my whole family gathered at the door of the bedroom I am calling mine here in AZ they called the on call doctor for advice debating quietly if I could even stand the ride back to the hospital. That night was horrifying. Farrah slept next to bed on the floor as not to jostle me and Jason came in every 3 or so hours to check on me. It was genuinely sweet and their love is truly heartwarming. The night still sucked though. As did the next day, as have the ones after that.

I am now seven days out from surgery. There is a crazy loud sound in my ear. It alternates between various tinny noises like electronic chirping crickets. The louder the noise around me the louder my ear noise. The pressure too seems loud and turns out, from my failed attempts as using a bobby pin that my head is still numb. My head aches in more than just the cut zone, as they screwed my head into a vice to keep me still and apparently could find no better place than the center of my forehead for one of their screws and I feel at least 2 swollen spots under my hair that appear to be the product of the same culprits handy work. The surgeons did a lively job leaving my hair mostly in tact. My mouth tastes like what I imagine to be the taste of the icu floor. Overly sweetened apple juice covered in steel. The taste will not go away. I chew a lot of gum to both rid me of that and help my facial nerve tell up from down and good from bad. I have a lot of pain, I am afraid to sneeze, cough or poop, in general. The dizziness and nausea have been most crippling but I am, as of yesterday determined to defeat them. Now that I am on Advil over Percocet my impetus to give up (which was pretty strong) has been slowly replaced by one to survive. Though I’ve already thought about ways to avoid hospital visits ever again. Even for kids. There has to be a better way. I do bust into spontaneous tears every once in a while but have decided to forgive myself for it and sometimes I even feel funny again. I see my siblings and nieces and nephews goofing off around me and I can still laugh. Brayden and Suesie are protecting me and when dad or Jason is tired, Brayden is always up to walk me. He’s the leader.

Jason encouraged me to write again. I’d pretty mush lost all will to do anything accept watch The Office on Netflix but it wasn’t until he whispered to me about writing that I realized it would be my saving grace. Underneath this shell of a weird, awkward, weak, woman forced to wear knit hats to cover her scars to the world is the beautiful gazelle of a woman I was before (yes I was a gazelle – fast and tall is my self image? No???). Writing, knowing at least how to say some of what is happening let’s me know I’m still in here. Having a way to phrase things that makes them sound more palatable, less awful, maybe even funny lets me know I’m still under here. I haven’t felt very womanly this whole time, not really beautiful or smart, not even witty but I know I’m under here somewhere. Herbert didn’t take me over. I’m still here. And even though it sucks ass and really hurts like hell and is likely the scariest, hardest 7 days of life I’ve ever passed or will have to fight with my body, I’m here and I cannot upgrade this body for a newer model just yet so I’m going to figure this out. This is it, my fight. Thanks for standing behind me.

Peace and love-

Samira