Stepping Over Myself is the life story of Ayis A. Caperonis. The book recounts how the medical mistakes and judgement errors ultimately almost cost him his life as he was diagnosed with a voluminous Brain Tumor in the cerebellum... With a slight survival chance in the surgery, he was to be the "test" to a new and dangerous surgery technique that would last nine hours and was performed by renowned surgions in Europe. From this sudden tragic turn in his life and the numerous aftermaths Ayis A. Caperonis recounts how he managed to overlook the negative aspects of his life and resume living. Hard work in reeducation, love and God would help him go beyond what doctors ever thought would be possible....

STEPPING OVER MYSELF

FINDING MY WAY AND MY LIFE AFTER A BRAIN TUMORBy AYIS CAPERONIS

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 AYIS CAPERONIS
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-4603-0

Contents

Chapter 1: Baguettes and Big Dreams..........................1Chapter 2: A Growing Concern.................................12Chapter 3: Prognosis: Negative...............................22Chapter 4: Tick Tock ........................................26Chapter 5: Nine Historic Hours...............................32Chapter 6: Bad Medicine......................................44Chapter 7: Finding the Meaning...............................53Chapter 8: Back to School....................................59Chapter 9: A Taste of the States.............................63Chapter 10: Revelations......................................69Chapter 11: Changes..........................................73Chapter 12: The French Connection............................77Chapter 13: A Good Swim......................................82Chapter 14: Relapse..........................................89Chapter 15: Grade Point and Other Scores.....................93Chapter 16: Job One..........................................98Chapter 17: Unlocking the Door...............................103Chapter 18: I Go to Rio......................................109Chapter 19: Taking Action....................................118Chapter 20: Steps Taken, Steps to Take.......................123

Chapter One

Baguettes and Big Dreams

Sometimes I enjoy a bittersweet laugh when I think back to my childhood and remember that my great ambition in life was to be a professional tennis player. This was when I was growing up in Switzerland and France. It was the mid-eighties when dashing, swaggering Europeans such as Bjorn Borg, Ivan Lendl, and Boris Becker were winning tournaments, making millions of dollars, and running around with hot European models-all of which I wanted to do, though probably the last most of all.

I thought I fit the mold. I was, if I may say so, a good-looking boy with thick wavy hair and the gaunt look that all the great tennis players seemed to have. I even fancied myself a bit of a playboy, or at least what I believed a playboy was at a time when I was just coming into puberty. I did play the game, too, and pretty well. I was fast on my feet, lithe, and loose-limbed, with natural hand-eye coordination and balance.

I can't help but regret how life threw me a curveball (to borrow a metaphor from another sport) and took all those wonderful physical traits I took for granted away, making hand-eye coordination something I feared I might never have again. But then, my formative years were filled with irony. For example, though the passing scenery of my first decade makes it seem as though I lived in a travel brochure for the rich and famous, in reality I was neither. But I did have quite a legacy to live up to.

I was born on January 11, 1975, in the skiing paradise of Lausanne, Switzerland, high in the Alps, the oldest of five sons and one daughter of a man of Swiss and Greek descent, Pano Caperonis and his wife Amy. For many in Switzerland with a love of sports and a long enough memory, that name is a source of great national pride. My father, who was born in 1947, grew up in a privileged home where they had the first covered pool in Lausanne. A real go-getter, he took advantage of it, as did his only brother Aris, who was born three years later. Both developed into wonderful swimmers, with Pano becoming a multiple Swiss titleholder, racking up more then forty. In the early 1960s until the early 1970s, he remained dominant in all events except for his weaknesses, long distances and the breaststroke.

An icon at age seventeen, he can say something very few athletes ever can, "I competed in the Olympics"-actually two of them, representing Switzerland in the Summer Games in Tokyo in 1964 and Mexico City in 1968. In the former, he swam in three events, the 100-, 400-, and 1,500-meter freestyle races, making it all the way to the eighth heat of the 100 and seventh of the 400. In Mexico City, he repeated in the same events, adding the 4x100 medley relay and getting to heat five in the 1,500. Considering he was up against the cream of the crop of the world's swimmers, this was nothing to sneeze at, and he was still greeted as a hero when he returned home, as was my uncle Aris, who competed in the butterfly event and teamed up with my dad in the freestyle.

Both continued to compete brilliantly. My father was back on the international stage at the 1970 World Championships in Torino, Italy, where he had his best finish ever at the world level: finishing fifth in the 100-meter freestyle behind two Americans and two Soviets. Meanwhile, my uncle came close to setting a European record in the butterfly at the European championships in Barcelona a few years later.

Admittedly, while I came around long after my father's world-class competition days were over (though he did go on swimming, even recently in the age 50-54 class for the Phoenix team of Montreal), I found it wasn't easy to follow in his footsteps. Having such a figure in one's life can be a blessing or a hurdle-or both. Pano Caperonis beyond doubt inspired me, even though I knew him as a slightly overweight, nonathletic-looking man. In his youth, he was good looking, with a mole on his upper right cheek that we always thought made him look dashing. He played that part well, too. His mannerisms, his walk, his deep baritone voice, and his impeccable style of dress all made for a look of grandeur, like a man who belonged in the upper crust, one a cut above the masses, even though he never made near the kind of money people seemed to think he did.

Amy Caperonis was similarly impressive to the eye, standing a willowy five-foot-seven and being a real head turner. Blonde and blue- eyed with high cheek bones (think Grace Kelly), even today she's a stunning woman; back then, she could have competed in beauty pageants. She too was naturally athletic, having played all manner of sports with her brothers, and I was taken with her broad shoulders. One great sadness for me has been watching this vivacious woman growing old, though she still has the aura of classic European beauty.

Legally, being the son of a Swiss citizen meant that I was one too. I spent part of my childhood living in Lausanne because my father was very close to his father, my grandfather Ayis. Both of them were involved in the real estate business in Switzerland and France and spent a lot of time together.

Who could blame him? My grandfather was the family patriarch, respected by everyone-an imposing person with excellent taste and manners. He was educated in France before World War II and spoke perfect French with not a trace of an accent. Like my father, his voice was a slow, authoritative baritone. From old photographs, I could see he'd been a handsome man in his youth, and traces of those features remained when he became older. He measured only around five foot ten, but seemed taller to me because of his baronial stature, sharp brown eyes, Greek nose, lion-like mane of white hair with protruding sideburns, and full head of hair thinning only in front. He walked straight in an upward and elegant fashion. Having made a good amount of money, he never had to fake having a tan or forego the finer things in life and clothing. Ayis was a man who wore a suit and tie along with expensive, spotless shoes even when merely sitting around the house relaxing.

Ayis also always seemed to have the right advice in business and in life, and it was my grave responsibility to be his legatee. While that was accidental-it was expected, by tradition, that a man would name his first son after his father-this brings up the matter of me and the Spartan kings. No, there is no bloodline I know of linking me with the armored warriors who fought to the death against the Persians in 400 BC. But as I got older, I realized how proudly my grandfather wore his name, the name also worn by perhaps the bravest of the doomed Spartan warriors, King Agis-the Greek spelling of my name, which my grandfather changed to Ayis, the European spelling, when he migrated to Switzerland. I knew I had a responsibility to both my grandfather and the king to also wear the name proudly. So maybe I'm not a descendant of King Ayis, but no one can tell me I can't feel as if I possess the same measure of courage, or even greatness. There have been times in my life when my "inner King Ayis" has been the difference between my giving up or carrying on.

* * *

My family was always on the move. When I was three, my father became more heavily involved with real estate in France, and so our growing family moved to a town in Southern France near the Spanish border called Rivesalt, which is nestled in the French wine belt and home of the popular spirit Muscat Rivesalt. In another bucolic atmosphere, we lived in a beautiful rented house with a big garden, and though it was a bit isolated, that was part of its almost pastoral appeal.

It was in Rivesalt that I really established a bond with my siblings, the brood having been brought to completion by then. The oldest after me, Paul, born in 1976, was rather shy and self- conscious. I believed Paul had an inner strength, but it rarely came out. Paul is probably the strongest in the family and is impressive physically, but he is a lamb by nature. After all these years, he's still self-conscious and a bit timid, setting him apart from the other Caperonis men who can be confident to the point of swaggering.

The next in line, Mike, born in 1978, would grow to be the tallest of us, around six foot one. Like my mother, he had perfect Aryan-like features, which we liked to josh him about because we're a mixture of Swiss and Greek and most of us are dark skinned and dark haired. Mike was golden blond with blue eyes, perfect teeth, and large shoulders like our mom. He was always extremely sure of himself, though he was very generous with us brothers and sister. After he won a swimming meet, he even shared his prize money with us. Mike had his own demons; after a time he became quite heavy, and we ridiculed him for it, doing what kids so thoughtlessly so. But later he went on a crash diet, began swimming again, and completely changed his physique.

My sister Laura also never developed a sense of self. Born in 1980, she always had a weight problem, but later as a teenager she began to shed pounds and look better. She has pretty features: beautiful green eyes, brown curly hair, and the large shoulders that are something of a family signature. Like Paul, Laura was always scared of everything and fatalistic that everything would go wrong, right down to the smallest, trivial things. How trivial? When we went on trips, she looked behind the toilet to see if there was a fire on the floor, fearing that if the house was on fire, she'd be trapped sitting there! Oh, well, we all have our little peculiarities-God knows, I do.

Alexandre, eleven years my junior, was my best buddy for years. By contrast with Laura and Paul, nothing ever seemed to bother him or bring him down. Years later when he lived in Montral, he too had a weight problem, but as did Mike completely changed his physique through playing soccer and adhering to a drastic diet. Alex was puckish, which I found completely ingratiating. With his big brown puppy-dog eyes and devilish dimple, he knew he was cute. It gave him his Peck's Bad Boy demeanor, cocky and able to smile his way out of trouble, but also quite deferential to me-except when we argued, something he liked to do because he always had to be right and would insist on something he knew to be wrong for hours rather than give in. In turn, I admired his kind of stubbornness.

The baby of the brood, Andreas, born in 1987, was very much attached to my mother. He had a thing for cars, building up a collection of miniature autos, each of which he could describe down to the size of the carburetor. He is still for me the ultimate authority on cars. Andreas really should be the one to carry my grandfather's name, as he resembles him most closely with his strong shoulders and Spartan nose. However, I still need the warrior qualities I was invested with, if only in name.

* * *

We used to all frolic in the garden for hours. It almost seemed like a dream to be in the lap of the French countryside. Rivesalt is nothing if not a picture postcard come to life. Small shops dot the hills, as do clean little homes with white picket fences. A quaint schoolhouse sitting on the edge of town would have been a wonderful subject for the brushes of Van Gogh, Edouard Manet, Frederic Bazille, or Bernard Buffet.

And the food! I have vivid, mouthwatering memories of buying long loaves of fresh baguettes at the town bakery, which sat on a hilltop surrounded by Cyprus trees. As I approached, the wafting scent of the artisanal bread just out of the brick oven led me by the nose. I don't think I've ever smelled bread (or, in New York, bagels and bialys) without being transported back in time to Rivesalt-and no baked goods have ever tasted quite as good.

Our house was one of a few on a dirt road that ran atop a hill. The road was lined with tall cypresses, all neat and tall. The sun-filled vineyards along the way were pastoral throwbacks, offering a glimpse into the past. The house was at the junction of three little dirt roads. One led to the vineyards, another to an old abandoned fort observatory or "Mas," and the third to the small town where our neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Deromas lived, a lonely and elderly couple who were so thrilled to have company that they often brought gifts of homemade jam, regional flowers, and herbs such as thyme and romarin. They were naturalists who while roaming the forest with their dogs picked mushrooms that they cooked and served to us on the regular occasions they invited us to dine at their house.

Life was bucolic. My brothers and I liked riding our bicycles during the day. On the weekends, my father and mother took us on excursions in the forest, which were redolent with the pine scents of the trees and the grapes of the vineyards. All around were wild apricot trees, fig trees, olive trees, almond trees-a treasure trove for the senses. We picked and ate nuts and grapes. My brothers and I also plucked nice flowers from the fields enrobed in sweet spices that we gave to our mom.

A couple of times we went up the dirt road leading to the Mas, and the scenery was absolutely breathtaking. The old observatory was decrepit from centuries of abandonment and battering from the weather, yet we could see it had been a magnificent edifice, one now still stately perched atop its rocky hill. Originally built as a tower attached to a little shack, it had a couple of windows with their shutters broken off and still hanging. The cypresses blowing in the wind next to it made me think I was in a Victor Hugo novel set in Provence, the historic region of southeastern France on the Mediterranean Sea adjacent to Italy where the Roman generals made their homes around the time of Christ.

One can be just a little too incautious in an idyllic, oh-so-comfortable environment kissed by nature. One summer when I was around five, I went out to the garden with some matches and started a campfire, intending to cook up an omelet with some ingredients and a pan I'd taken from the kitchen. It didn't seem to matter to me that I actually had no idea how to make a campfire or an omelet, and in no time flames sprang up all around me that leapt onto dry pine needles and began to spread. The bright orange flames lashed angrily at me, and for a split second I felt totally helpless, unable to move as the fire closed in.

Luckily, my mother saved the day, running to the rescue with a fire extinguisher. Amazingly, my father, after the mandatory yelling at me for my carelessness, looked at the pseudo-omelet in the pan and took a nibble. Although I thought it had the texture and taste of an old shoe, he said it wasn't half-bad and complimented me on my cooking ability! Sometimes stupidity and accidents work in your favor. (And don't think I didn't lord it over my siblings.)

That I could escape such situations-and there were many other examples of my youthful faux pas-became a regular pattern. I could always put an act on for my parents, playing the role of little angel. I made extra sure that they would see me reading Disney-style books so they'd think I was pure of heart, but behind their backs I often was rebellious and quite annoying to everyone else.

That did not apply, however, to school, which was intimidating to me. I began the first grade knowing only one other kid, my friend Jean-Rene whom I'd met in kindergarten. The kids in my class were so enormous they seemed like giants. The school itself was a throwback to an earlier time. The bathroom, for example, was a room with a hole in the ground you had to stand or squat over, perching yourself so you wouldn't fall in. If that wasn't humiliating enough, I was constantly being bullied. The playground was a gauntlet through which I had to somehow fend off insults and taunts to make my way across.

Worst of all, my teacher was literally from the old school. She thought nothing of slapping a student in the face, and it wasn't a love tap either. If your marks were low, she left a mark on you. That is a measure of how different things are today, as not only were teachers allowed to use corporal punishment, but the parents would encourage it.

Within this crucible, I completely lost my confidence. Here I was, victimized by kids and even my own teacher. Is it any wonder I soon became paranoid, scared to death my schoolwork would be less than perfect? If I made even a tiny mistake on a project, I'd start all over again. Doing calligraphy, I kicked and screamed at the top of my lungs at the slightest imperfection and tore the paper into shreds.

Perhaps then I owe that monster of a teacher for augmenting my stubborn nature. Indeed perfectionism, which is after all a form of stubbornness, is something of which I was always was very proud. Still, I thought it more than prudent to add a little muscle, not on my thin frame but rather in the form of a fifth grader named Jesus who became a companion-okay, my bodyguard. Having him around made me feel much more secure, especially when he scared away the bullies. Now I knew what it was like to be a rock star preening around with my own security personnel. It was a comforting scenario, but only until I learned that life is something I had to control all by myself in order to survive.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from STEPPING OVER MYSELFby AYIS CAPERONIS Copyright © 2009 by AYIS CAPERONIS. Excerpted by permission.
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