A Cruise, Dizziness, and a Hidden Brain Tumor: One Nurse’s Unfolding Story

March 2020 feels like the first page of a new chapter for most of us. For me, it was the day I stepped onto the top deck of a cruise ship, watched the sunrise over Lifou Island, and felt a wave of nausea that I blamed on ‘sea legs.’ I was 25, a registered nurse from Brisbane, and I thought the trip to New Caledonia and Vanuatu would be the adventure of a lifetime.

That morning, around 6 a.m., the deck was empty, the ocean calm, and yet my head spun like a carousel. I tried to shake it off, convinced it would pass once I set foot on solid ground. I returned home, went back to work, and the dizziness clung to me like a persistent fog.

Within weeks the fog thickened. I started to gag at food and water, my cough deepened, and walking became a gamble—my balance was gone. Colleagues whispered about COVID, the new, invisible enemy, and my boss ordered a test. The swab was negative, but the illness stayed, stubborn as ever.

Friday found me in the emergency department, IV drip humming, blood drawn, a CT scan completed. The doctors put me in a COVID isolation ward until the lab results cleared. When they finally did, I was transferred to a regular ward, only to meet a speech‑pathologist who told me I needed a modified diet because I couldn’t swallow safely.

Later that day, an ENT specialist slipped a tiny scope up my nose and, after a quick glance, said it was likely a neurological issue. An MRI was ordered. When the images came back, the radiology report read—small tumor on the brainstem, probably a hemangioblastoma. The words hit me like a punch: “small,” “benign,” “inoperable.” I tried to convince myself it was nothing life‑altering, a minor bump on the road.

Within a week my symptoms exploded. Double vision took over, my legs gave way, and I could no longer stand. A second MRI, performed at a larger hospital, showed the lesion had grown by roughly a third in just seven days. The “slow‑growing” label vanished. Surgeons scheduled a craniotomy for April 9, 2020.

The operation gave me a sliver of hope. The day after, another MRI showed most of the mass removed, leaving only a residual piece. I walked, assisted, with a cane just four days post‑op. It felt like a miracle—until the dizziness returned, stronger than before.

By April 29 I was back in the ICU, tracheostomy tube in place, feeding tube digging into my stomach. A third MRI on April 30 revealed the tumor had regrown to its original size. The fight that had seemed almost won was reset, and the months that followed became a blur of hospital corridors, rehab sessions, and endless scans.

For seven months I lived on a regular ward, then another seven in a brain‑injury rehabilitation unit. Serial MRIs tracked the lesion’s size: May 8, 2020—16 × 13 × 40 mm; a week later it began shrinking; by June 26 it measured a mere 5 × 3 mm. The doctors eventually labeled it an “undifferentiated brainstem lesion”—damage whose exact cause remains a mystery.

Recovery was harsher than any textbook could describe. I went from a fitness‑obsessed nurse who loved her job to someone who could barely lift a fork without assistance. Facial nerve palsy left half my face drooping, a left vocal‑cord palsy robbed me of my normal voice, and I now rely on a walking aid for stability. Yet, oddly enough, I discovered a new kind of strength while seated, balanced, and focused on breath work.

Today, at 31, I consider myself physically disabled, but not defeated. I still hit the gym, adapting my workouts to my limitations. I share my progress on TikTok (@torijeandent) and Instagram (@tori.jean.dent) to shine a light on undifferentiated brainstem lesions—a condition most people have never heard of.

The biggest lesson? Set goals that matter to you, even if others call them unrealistic. Adjust them when you need to, but never stop moving forward. My story isn’t just about illness; it’s about the stubborn persistence of the human spirit when the world feels upside‑down.