Unfortunately, my condition took a turn for the worse. The dizziness escalated into the most excruciating migraine I had ever experienced. My friends rushed to help, keeping a close eye on my condition and administering medication.

I began to vomit and lost control over my left arm and leg, slipping in and out of consciousness. After performing a stroke test, my friends decided to call for a helicopter rescue. Thankfully, we were in a spot accessible by air support.

When I woke up in the ICU, I felt relatively fine initially. However, the next morning, the surgeon delivered shocking news: “Mr. Stewart, we’ve found a mass at the back of your brain. It appears to be cancerous, and we recommend surgery tomorrow.”

I was taken aback—here I was, young, active, and health-conscious. The last thing I wanted was to be far from my loved ones, but the medical team felt that flying could worsen the tumor due to the altitude. (The elevation in Yosemite might have intensified my symptoms compared to the sea level back home.)

I insisted on being transferred to Johns Hopkins Hospital, a prestigious facility known for its neurological care, which was just a few hours from home. After a thorough examination, the doctors there cleared me for the flight.

In disbelief, I focused on taking things one step at a time. I reminded myself that many cancers are manageable today. The specialists at Johns Hopkins suspected glioblastoma, a particularly aggressive type of brain cancer with a limited life expectancy. They recommended surgery to remove the tumors, with the understanding that they might recur. Although there was a slight possibility of it being a less severe form, the outlook was grim.

My surgery was scheduled for two weeks later. The aim was to remove as much of the tumor as possible and potentially place a chemotherapy wafer in the resulting cavity.

During this tough time, I felt as though all my hopes and dreams were overshadowed by the harsh reality of my diagnosis. Chemotherapy and radiation treatments weighed heavily on my body. Yet, my faith gave me an unfathomable sense of peace. I concentrated on getting through the surgery without dwelling on the uncertainties of the future.

On July 5th, 2023, I had a four-hour surgery that turned into a six-hour procedure. When I regained consciousness, the doctors informed me that they had managed to remove the entire tumor against all odds. There was no need for the chemotherapy wafer. Although the tumor’s location caused some initial vision issues, I was elated by the positive outcome. While the threat of cancer remained, it was not the aggressive glioblastoma.

A week and a half later, the surgeon shared unexpected news: “You don’t need further treatment at this time.” While the exact nature of the tumor was still uncertain, it was suspected to be low-grade cancer.

Over a month later, I discovered that it was a rare, non-cancerous tumor that had likely been present since my middle school days. Its slow growth had gone unnoticed until the recent altitude-induced symptoms.

I underwent a gross removal procedure to reduce the risk of recurrence and now have regular MRIs for monitoring. In the event of a relapse, newly approved medications are available to manage and eliminate this type of tumor.

The recovery process was grueling and lengthy. Everyday tasks like reading or cooking became challenging at first. Adjusting to a blind spot in my vision proved difficult, especially since I couldn’t drive initially.

Two weeks after surgery, I gradually eased back into exercising. I started with running, then cycling, and finally incorporated strength training with light weights. As my strength improved, I began strength training five to six days a week and running about 15 miles weekly. I also engaged in hobbies like playing the guitar to help exercise my eyes.

Once I felt confident in my recovery and readiness to move forward, Tim, Sam, and I decided to return to Yosemite. We secured permits for Half Dome and invited three more friends to join us.

The author (left) with friends Tim (center) and Sam (right), celebrating their successful Half Dome climb.

In September 2024, just over a year after our first attempt, I made my way back to Yosemite. It felt surreal to return to the same campground from which I had been airlifted. Reflecting on the past year and the journey ahead, we, free of the tumor, were ready to conquer what had previously eluded us.

Armed with the necessary gear, including secure gloves and clips, we set out early. The ascent up Half Dome was nerve-wracking for someone like me who isn’t a fan of heights. Nonetheless, I was determined to not let fear impede my progress.

We reached the summit successfully. The tranquility at the peak was indescribable, a moment to relish our victory over the challenges faced. Standing atop the mountain, I reflected on my blessings amid the struggles endured and obstacles overcome. Despite significant improvements in my vision, I still acknowledge a lingering blind spot, likely permanent. Yet, I’ve adapted and resumed my regular activities, including driving during daylight with some restrictions. I also met my now-fiancée during this transformative journey. I am incredibly grateful for the progress made, especially when comparing where I stand today to where I was a year ago.