Books
When Liz Holzemer was diagnosed with a baseball-sized meningioma, she quickly learned two things: first, that medical "malesplaining" and being told "it's all in your head" is the modern woman's plague; and second, that a healthy dose of inappropriate humor is the best neurosurgery recovery tool.
In her book, Curveball: When Life Throws You a Brain Tumor, Liz shares the raw, laugh-out-loud true story of surviving a terrifying diagnosis, finding a brand-new creative voice, and discovering that second-chance stories are best told with a wink and a backbone.
But surviving wasn't enough. After attending a national brain tumor conference where meningiomas—the most common primary brain tumors—were shamefully relegated to a generic lunch table for "benign" oddities, Liz did what any self-respecting writer and fired up patient would do: she founded Meningioma Mommas.
Whether you’re navigating your own health crisis, tired of being dismissed by the medical establishment, or looking for a speaker who will make you laugh as hard as she makes you think, Liz is here to remind you of one vital truth: You are your own best advocate.
When you are invited to contribute a patient perspective to a textbook authored entirely by the world’s elite neurosurgeons, the brilliant minds who casually peer into skulls and tinker with human wiring, the proper protocol is probably to sound deeply academic, profoundly measured, and entirely composed.
Too bad a baseball-sized meningioma tends to blow up any expectation of playing it cool.
Most medical texts approach a meningioma with clinical precision: histology, grading scales, vascular supply, and surgical resection margins. But from where I sat, or rather, where my brain was aggressively shoved to one side of my skull, the experience didn’t feel like a neat medical textbook chapter. It felt like an earthquake.
As a born-and-bred Southern California native, I thought I knew a thing or two about tectonic turbulence. I grew up dropping under elementary school desks and riding out tremors with a yawn. But this was unlike any earthquake drill or actual earthquake I had ever felt.
One day you are walking around thinking you are just stressed, hormonal, or uniquely terrible at life, thanks to a delightful cocktail of medical dismissiveness and good old-fashioned malesplaining. The next day, the tectonic plates of your existence shift violently beneath your feet in a way no Richter scale can measure. The ground opens up, everything you thought was stable crumbles, and you find yourself blankly staring at a newly-appointed neurosurgeon who is genuinely stunned you haven't slipped into a coma yet.
This chapter isn’t about charts or MRI mechanics. It’s about the aftershocks. It’s about what happens when the surgeons put down their tools and the patient is left to rebuild. Because while the elite specialists master the mechanics of the brain, living through the seismic event teaches you something equally vital: when the dust settles, you learn how to pick up the pieces, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and become the fiercest advocate your own brain has ever had.
Medical Disclaimer: Information on this website is for educational and informational purposes only and is not intended as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult a qualified healthcare professional regarding your health or medical concerns.