A Walking Miracle: My Journey Through an AVM
The Explosion
Charlotte, NC | February 2000 It began as an ordinary day. I arrived at the office early to prepare for a busy schedule, but shortly after arriving, I developed an incapacitating headache. Despite taking medication, the pain intensified. As I bent over a fling cabinet, I felt what can only be described as a massive explosion inside my head.
Sensing the gravity of the situation, I informed my supervisor that I needed to see a doctor immediately. I called my husband and mother, then drove myself to the clinic, unaware that my life was about to change forever.
The Diagnosis
Upon examination, my physician asked if I had a history of migraines. When I replied that I did not, she offered a choice: attempt to manage the pain symptomatically or undergo a CT scan. To save time and find answers, I opted for the scan.
I drove to the imaging center, and after the initial procedure, the technician informed me they needed to repeat the scan with contrast. By the time I emerged from the second scan, the atmosphere had shifted. The room was crowded with medical personnel. As I tried to sit up, a technician gently held my shoulders, explaining that I needed to remain still. They had found an abnormality; a trauma room was already being prepared.
In the trauma unit, doctors delivered a staggering diagnosis: I had an Arteriovenous Malformation (AVM). This was congenital birth defect—an abnormal connection between the arteries and veins in my brain. The "explosion" I felt was the AVM tearing loose. While it had not yet fully ruptured, the situation was dire.
Fighting for a Future
The local neurologists delivered a grim prognosis. Due to the size and location of the AVM, they believed it was inoperable. At thirty-one years old, I was essentially told to go home and prepare for the end.
As a mother of two young children, I refused to accept that sentence. We tasked the neurologists with finding a specialist—anywhere in the country willing to attempt the surgery. Eventually, I was given two options: the Mayo Clinic or Duke University Hospital. I chose Duke, driven by the desire to be close enough for my children to visit.
Getting into Duke required significant advocacy, but eventually, the Chief of Neurosurgery, Dr. Allan Friedman, agreed to take my case. Upon my arrival at the Duke ER via ambulance, Dr. Friedman met me personally—a gesture that immediately instilled a sense of hope.
The Risks and the "Torture"
Following several days of intensive testing, Dr. Friedman confirmed he could remove the AVM, but the risks were staggering: a less than 5% survival rate, a 50% chance of significant brain damage, and the potential loss of speech, motor skills, or memory. Faced with the choice of waiting for an inevitable rupture or fighting for my life, I chose to fight.
Before the primary surgery, I underwent a two-day procedure called Endovascular Embolization. This involved threading a catheter from my groin to my brain to "plug" vessels with a substance to reduce surgical bleeding. Because the doctors needed to monitor my brain function in real-time, I had to remain awake and lucid. The pain was excruciating --- a 12-hour ordeal on the first day and six hours on the second.
Teri Hart, Founder & Survivor
Survival and Recovery
On February 19, 2000, I underwent a six-hour surgery to remove the AVM. When I woke up in recovery, I saw my husband. We had established a hand signal before surgery to confirm my cognitive function; when I gave him the signal, the relief on his face gave me the strength to begin the long road back.
My recovery in the ICU was a blur of memory tests and milestones. My father, who had survived his own brain tumor years prior, visited me and joked that my story had finally "beaten" his—a precious memory, as he passed away from an aneurysm just weeks later.
Learning to walk again was a grueling process of "one foot in front of the other," but my determination to return to my children fueled every step. After two weeks, I was finally discharged.
The New Normal
The transition home revealed the hidden costs of the trauma. I struggled with significant memory loss, eventually realizing I had no recollection of my children’s early years or my pregnancies. My personality also shifted; the once passive, soft-spoken woman was replaced by someone far more blunt and unfiltered—a change that required immense patience and grace from my family.
The year 2000 remained difficult, marked by the loss of my father and grandmother, my son’s cancer diagnosis, and the end of my marriage. Yet, amidst the "mess," there was a message. On the final day of that year, a boy was born who would later become my third child when I remarried years later.
Reflection
Today, I live with a titanium plate in my head, chronic migraines, and memory challenges. However, when I look at my life, I don't see the deficits—I see the miracles. I have watched my children grow, welcomed grandchildren into the world, and found a deep, sustaining faith.
I am not just a survivor; as my mother says, I am a walking miracle!
Teri Hart, Survivor
