My Dumb Brain, Part 2, In Which My Brain Continues To Be Frankly Sub-Par

At this point in the proceedings, the whole thing had an air of adventure about it; yeah, I’m going to have brain surgery, not a lot of people can say that, am I right?

This is where the fun stopped.

The Friday after I was discharged from the hospital, we made an appointment to see A Doctor to whom we will refer to as Doctor X.

Now. Sunday, in the hospital, around 7:00 am. A doctor came in to talk to me. I was on the phone with my mom at the time, so we both know this actually happened. I believed I was talking with the man I would come to know as Doctor X. I thought I met with two neurosurgeons while at the hospital; the second guy we’ll call Doctor Y. Any resemblance between Doctors X and Y and any actual doctor is complete coincidence.

Anyway. Friday at Doctor X’s office. That morning, I baked chocolate chip cookies for him and his staff. Chocolate chip cookie making is one of my few truly developed skills. So when I show you the picture below, understand that I was feeling pretty miserable at that point. I had, so it seemed, forgotten half the flour. I was eventually able to produce a dozen or so normal looking cookies.

So I was not in great spirits when we went to see Doctor X.

The first thing—The VERY FIRST THING—Doctor X tells us is that we’ve never spoken to him before, and at the time I was allegedly speaking to him he was in a hotel pool with a margarita, which, weird flex for 7:00 am on a Sunday, bro. He then described my brain tumor as a jello mold with salt and pepper flakes shaken into it, and no one can ever get all the flakes out. The word non-curative was used. At this point, I did not want to give Doctor X any damn cookies even if they weren’t my best, but I did so nonetheless.

My mom had to leave the room while this was going on. I don’t blame her. I wish I could have left.

We filed out of his office, all of us pretty numb and afraid.

Later that day, I looked some things up and found the following useful page.

https://www.webmd.com/cancer/features/6-ways-to-conquer-a-scary-diagnosis

I got back into contact with friends I hadn’t spoken with in a while and let them know what was up. That helped a bit.

The next step was a referral to Dr. Omar Arnout at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. Him I’ll name. He’s a very good doctor.

https://physiciandirectory.brighamandwomens.org/Details/13474/omar-arnaout-neurosurgery-boston

We went to Boston on a Thursday and met with the Doctor. Dr. Arnaout was very confident about removing the tumor. Not arrogantly so. He just has an air of quiet competence, like he has sized up the problem and can handle it. For some reason, I have no idea why, I became obsessed with his shoes. Like, I literally asked this world-renowned doctor, directly after the discussion of my very serious medical condition, “Where’d you get your shoes,” like I was Columbo trying to annoy Robert Culp.

He and his team made me feel like maybe I wasn’t going to drop dead. And his team took very good care of my mom, who once again had to bail when the MRI pictures came up.

I asked when he wanted to operate, and he named the following Friday. Sounded good to me.

I spent the next few days filling up my tablet with episodes of Taskmaster, The Librarians, etc. If you’ve never seen Taskmaster, I really can’t recommend it enough, it’s a very funny show. Check it out.

My folks rented a couple of rooms at The Inn at Longwood, which is a hotel just down the street from Brigham & Womens’.

However, I had a problem. I had been placed on a clear liquid diet for 24 hours before the operation. As such, the entire day before going in to surgery, I was in a state of hunger-induced rage I have never experienced before in my life. The night before, I had to subsist on a cup of hot chicken broth, half a bottle of Pedialyte and four cups of orange Jello.. Guys getting the chair get a better deal than that.

I was particularly enraged when, after keeping an appointment at the hospital, I tried to get a Lyft home, and the guy just… didn’t show up. Just fucked off. I was Livid. If Lyfty McGee had shown his face, there would have been a scene of ugliness. As it was, me, my dad, and my mom, all of whom are not doing great physically, had to drag ourselves back to the hotel in a city where once you could just lift up your hand and a cab would stop for you. Fuck Ride Sharing Forever.

An aside regarding the hospital visit: I had to go in and get another CAT scan, I guess to make sure there hadn’t been a miracle and my tumor and gone away on its own. No such luck. While I was sitting there, a medical student called my name and asked if he could do… something… with my tumor once it was removed. It is entirely possible I agreed to be cloned. I don’t remember. I signed something. At this point, I was so mentally unsteady that I probably would have given this guy my car if he’d asked for it real nice.

Did I sleep? I don’t really remember. I know at one point, I tried listening to a pre-brain surgery playlist which was not at all restful.

To Be Continued