Ah…Where were we?

What an absurd thing it is to have brain surgery. To have a huge meningioma removed. To have sincere conversations with doctors, then sign consent forms. Really? How do you CONSENT to this? You’ve had unpleasant symptoms, then tests reveal you have something in your brain that clearly should not be there. And then, as calm as can be, everyone checks their schedules. “Does Wednesday work for you?” “Well, that will be fine.”

Wait just a damn minute here! They are about to use a saw to cut into my skull! Does that bother anybody else or am I the only one putting a brave face on this? Well, of course I wasn’t. I know everybody was scared, and wanted to be any other place than this doing anything else.

From Kenny, starting Tuesday, October 23^rd:

Chief Surgeon shaved part of her head tonight and put sensors in place on her noggin. She's resting well. MRI tomorrow and possibly another cat scan. Surgery now scheduled to start at 8 am Wednesday. She is on lots of meds. Groggy, but in good spirits. Surgeon visited this morning. He feels very good about tomorrow's surgery.

This was a very peculiar time. I’m sure they kept me drugged; I don’t remember fainting.  What memories I do have make me laugh. Kenny points out that the surgeon partially shaved my head and attached sensors. What he (Kenny) leaves out is that he (the doctor) shaved my head like a monk, with a fringe all the way ‘round. His notion was that when I got out of the hospital I could wear a hat and no one would know I’d had surgery. I’m sorry, that’s one of the funniest, silliest ideas anyone ever had.

But the best part was when I commented to a nurse, “I look like Martin Luther.” And she said, I swear to God, “Oh no, ma’am, you don’t look anything like Dr. King.”

Oh, oh…don’t do that to me!  You’re killin’ me here. So, I commenced a lecture on Martin Luther and his role in the Protestant Reformation, and how this was called a tonsure, and had nothing to do with Martin Luther King. The poor nurse assured me she would “look it up.” This STILL makes me laugh. I would bet my medical bills that no one ELSE in the hospital was discussing hairstyles of medieval monks. Is it worth noting this is a Catholic hospital?

Wednesday, October 24^th: Prepping for surgery. She had a couple of fainting spells last evening, but Doctor was here and took care of her. She is in positive mood. They will take her to OR around 7am. Surgery starts about 8am.

Update: tears, hugs and bedside prayers and she's off to surgery. Lots of family surrounded her with love. Cynthia was, as always, entertaining and charming everyone as they wheeled her away.

I’m glad I got a good review on my exit. I remember trying to be at least amusing as they rolled me away. I remember asking the neurosurgeon if he felt well and had a good night’s sleep. He said yes.

I’m absolutely sure I had some bad moments but, oddly, I don’t remember them. What I have found is that your brain papers over unpleasantness – like wallpaper over a divot. There seems to be an absolute biological need to make the scary stuff go away – minimize it, change it, forget it.

A theme of these ramblings will be that our minds are not our brains, I don’t think. (Apologies to everyone who actually is an expert on this. I am talking about my own experience. Don’t try this at home. This is a professional driver on a closed course.)

I think our minds use our brains, more like tools or scaffolding or some other kind of infrastructure. I’m sure this is true. I have experienced my mind moving back into an unfamiliar brain – trying to get everything hooked up. It’s like moving into a new apartment – getting the electricity and water hooked up, trying furniture placements. I know I used an analogy something like this yesterday, but this is exactly what it feels like. Your mind wakes up in a new house, and it takes awhile to get things sorted out.

This analogy helps me understand the people I knew in rehab whose Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI) were so much worse than mine. Some of them had very limited awareness, but the friends I ache for are the ones whose minds were moving into very downscale accommodations.

As I spent time with my new friends in neuro rehab, I came to know them well. In their eyes was the absolute awareness of themselves, now constrained by brain injury, suffering limited mobility, loss of speech – all kinds of troubles that are examples of minds trying to use damaged brains.

More on them later, but I want to take this (and every) opportunity to say that the people I’ve met with TBI are the bravest I’ve ever known. To try, every day, to do what you once did without a thought. To walk, to talk, to remember – all the while with the awareness that this was a skill you once had. But now you don’t.