My Dumb Brain, Part Three, In Which A Group of People I Barely Know Put A Hole In My Skull And Meddle With My Thinkmeat

Surgery day. I brought my notebook with me. It is a fancy notebook, with a carrying case, and a fancy pen strapped inside so I won’t lose it. Needless to say, I’ve barely written in it. It’s too nice. The morning of the surgery, it occurred to me that I might not, in fact, survive this experience, and so I sat down to jot down a few notes to my loved ones.

A Baronfig notebook with Scribe pen in a protective case. I don’t actually have a ruler in mine.

So there I am, sitting at a desk in my hotel bedroom, trying to write out a meaningful goodbye note to my family in case the worst happens… and the fancy-ass pen ran out of ink. I licked my fingers, rubbing the nib of the pen on them, trying to bring the pen back to life, before giving up and finishing my heartfelt note with another pen. Hopefully that would have made you all laugh had you ever seen it.

While my folks went down to breakfast, I attempted to fix my dad’s ancient Kindle, which had decided he was no longer allowed to read the Carl Hiaasen novel he’d been reading. No dice. At least it kept me occupied while I waited.

Honestly, this entire situation happened so fast, there was never a point where I was seriously worried that I might not survive. If I’d had time to think about it, I probably would have been a cowering mess. Instead, I was just operating on autopilot. We checked out of the hotel and took a ride over to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where I checked in, and we were escorted to a large waiting room.

From there, I was brought downstairs to the surgical equivalent of the on-deck circle, where I had to undress, put on a hospital toga and slipper socks that didn’t fit. There I waited with my dad for a while. At one point, one of the anesthesiologists came in and wrote his initials on the side of my forehead, apparently to indicate this was where to start cutting.

Soon—though it didn’t feel soon—I was wheeled into the operating theater. I don’t remember receiving anesthesia. I remember somebody putting what they said was an oxygen mask on my face and telling me to take deep breaths. I was kind of looking forward to the whole “Count backwards from a hundred” bit that you see on the doctor shows, but I was out before it happened.

And… that was it. Next thing I knew I was awake and was being wheeled into a recovery room. I saw my mom and sister-in-law, who told me it was now 5:30 pm, about six hours after the operation started. My slipper socks were gone. I had a catheter in me. The thing about a catheter is, it makes you feel like you have to piss. But the body resists. I saw my family, made some word-like sounds. At that point, I didn’t know how much of the tumor they’d gotten out, but I gathered it was most of it.

And then I was left alone in my ICU room. There was a TV in the room that was facing a different direction, so I could see an askew version of The Match Game but not really hear it, but frankly that was just as well. Somebody—I assume a nurse—asked me if I wanted something to eat. Hell Yeah, brother. I ordered a burger and chocolate ice cream.

Michael Scott’s Big screen TV. Also visible: my Spicoli Vans.

I don’t remember a lot of pain that first night; everything was just kind of incomprehensible. My nurse was a guy from Salem who kept watch over me. At one point, he removed my catheter. Now, you would think the most uncomfortable part of this would be a complete stranger pulling a tube out of my gentleman area. You would be wrong, because the catheter tube was also taped to my inner thigh. My dude did not believe in just yanking off the band-aid. I may have yelped “Do no harm! Do no harm!”

Here's my first piece of advice for people going into a hospital; If you’re have a fair amount of body hair, shave it. Shave your arms, shave your chest, because you’re gonna have stuff stuck to you, be it an IV port or EKG monitors. I’m still finding patches of adhesive.

I slept. I must have. Around midnight, I was awakened to go get an MRI. I don’t know if you’ve ever been awakened from a solid sleep to be wheeled through a darkened, largely empty hospital. I can’t say I cared for it. Don’t recommend it. It was like being in my own private horror film, like the scene in The Shining where Danny rides his big wheel through the empty halls of the overlook, only to stop at Room 237. If, instead of a rotting ghost, Room 237 contained a magnetic torture tube.

The MRI was a little less awful this time, largely because I was just too tired to be that afraid. They stuffed me in and turned on the noise. Afterwards, I got to stand up and be transferred back to my bed. And back we went to my room.

What followed was an incredibly long day in which I tried to sleep, tried to listen to audiobooks. At some point a nurse gave me a remote control and turned the TV in my direction, but nothing could keep my attention for very long. I was very, very restless.

Two things about the hospital bed. I believe I have mentioned in a previous entry that I am a fat guy with the musculature of a piece of veal. But after 24 hours of microadjustments, my body ached as though I’d been doing crunches all day.

Also: The bed was alarmed.

If I sat up, the alarm would go off. If I stood, the alarm would go off. If I thought about moving, the alarm would go off. I don’t know how it knew.

There was also some kind of medical gadget to which I was wired up that would start scream-beeping if it was in any way displeased. It was displeased often.

At one point during the day, a couple of physical therapists came to test me to make sure my brain was still working. A lot of this boiled down to; can I follow someone’s finger as they move it around. They also asked me to recite the months of the year, backwards, while skipping every other month. I’ve never had one, but it felt like a DWI test.

They also asked me if I had $11.25 in quarters, how many quarters would I have. I failed this test miserably. To be fair, I couldn’t have gotten this before having my head opened.

Late Saturday night, I started to hurt. Not wanting to bother anybody, I waited too long to ask for pain meds.

This is very important: Do Not Try To Tough It Out. Don’t wait to ask for pain meds. You just had somebody cut into your body. You need pain meds. Don’t be shy about asking for them.

Hours passed. I was allowed to sit up, it felt much better than laying down. Nurses came and went, always asking me my name, my birthdate, and where I was. For some reason, I could not remember the phrase “Brigham and Women’s hospital” to save my life. I had “Beth Chalmers” Hospital in its place. Why? I have no idea.

Various personnel had been telling me they were trying to move me out of the ICU into another, less busy room. Honestly, I was fine where I was. But around four o’clock in the morning, I was moved from the ICU into a recovery room on another floor. Time to go through the Overlook again. They pushed me into an elevator and got me loaded into an empty multi-patient room. About five minutes after I was settled in, my roommate was wheeled in. I soon overheard what felt like this guy’s life story, which I will keep to myself.

The room had a bathroom, so I could finally take a leak in a toilet behind a closed door while standing up. As opposed to into a jug while a medical professional watched. At one point the previous day, the nurse asked me if I had to urinate, but I didn’t. Without so much as a by your leave, the nurse rubbed some kind of gel on my whole area and took an ultrasound of my bladder, revealing I only had a few ounces of urine in there. Why would I lie about that?

A few hours later, another physical therapist took me for a walk around the floor. She took me to the stairwell and had me climb to the next landing.

My family came to visit and were kind enough to get me a sandwich from Panera. The hospital cafeteria was not big on flavor. Shortly after they left, a nurse came in and told me I was being discharged. I was so happy at the news I’m surprised the beeping machine didn’t go off. As the nurse unstapled and removed the slimy bandage from my head, I called the folks, who had just gotten back to their AirBNB. A half hour of chaos followed for them as they attempted to pick me up only to find half the hospital closed off for…Reasons? I asked a nurse to walk me to a bathroom because my roommate was right next to the bathroom in the room and he had several family members visiting. In the bathroom, I took care of business and got my first look at my scar.

A man with a gigantic scar on the side of his head, tied up with black nylon thread.

Yeah, ain’t that somethin’.

And with that, I successfully fled the hospital and went home.

To Be Continued