Seeing St. Neurosurgeon

I went to see the neurosurgeon last week for a year’s follow-up. What a charming man. Quiet, thoughtful, deliberate, compassionate, he always says a prayer. His office is a reflection of the man – the waiting room is comfortable and welcoming, inside a curio cabinet are family pictures and keepsakes. The exam rooms are achingly clean, with nothing out of place. It makes you wonder whether he was this way before he became a neurosurgeon, or did neurosurgery form his personality?

He was delighted with my condition, but shared with me something I hadn’t known: the group of doctors at my original hospital pretty much voted 50/50 as to whether I would survive.

My precious doctor said, “I thought you’d make it – I looked at your brain scans and thought you’d be all right.” Thanks for the vote. Somehow I had thought the margin was higher than that – maybe 70/30. It jolted me, it really did, to realize I had come as close as a coin toss.

He asked about my husband and sons, my family and friends, remembering them all. We talked about how wonderful my support was. I asked, “I wonder what happens to those who don’t have what I had.” “They don’t do as well,” he said.

And there you have it. They don’t do as well. Do you want something to break your heart? Say that sentence, out loud.