WAS it Dorothy Parker who
once said “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy?”
The original source is in dispute. It’s inarguable, however, that the prospect of any kind of brain surgery is enough to drive an Osmond to drink. I myself heartily recommend Californian Cabernets, Argentinean Malbecs, or virtuously buying “local” with Mission Hill’s Pinot Noir.
As I mentioned in last week’s column, I was diagnosed earlier this year with a meningioma, a usually benign tumour on the lining of the brain. My doctor thought it would be fine to leave it alone and monitor it to make sure it wasn’t getting bigger. So three months after our first discussion, I went in to see him again, confident I’d be told that the blob was lying on my arachnoid as lethargically as a tequila-soaked tourist on a Mexican beach.
The second MRI had been uneventful, except it took hours to begin. I was startled to discover that the waiting room in that particular section of the Lions Gate Hospital offered nothing to read but 32-year-old National Geographics. And I’m not exaggerating for effect -- out of sheer desperation, I read an article written in 1976 about the Downtown Eastside (before it was even called the Downtown Eastside), and how it had been a rough neighbourhood but was getting better. Oh, the hilarity.
Anyway, my neurosurgeon was as immaculate and dispassionate as ever. I expected him to say nothing had changed and I was to come back every year or so until this little misunderstanding with my grey matter was put behind us. Instead, he said that although the tumour hadn’t grown, it was causing some inflammation, and was “nudging” my brain to the left. (I was skeptical. If that was the case, why hadn’t I voted Green in the last election?)
“It’s not just sitting there quietly,” said the surgeon. If we continued to ignore my little friend, it might eventually cause some “neurological deficits.” This might include visual impairments and seizures. But they might come anyway, even with the surgery, since the meningioma was close to the visual centres or optic tracks.
“This tilts things more in a surgical direction,” he allowed tactfully.
If I chose to have the micro neurosurgery, two doctors would team up for three to four hours to do the deed. It involved going around the brain “following the dura” -- which sounded to me like a spiritual trek involving Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna -- to reduce the size of the thing.
Since I’m “young” (er, 50) and “healthy” (er, iffy), risks would be on the “relatively low side.” Of course, there was always the possibility of stroke. Recovery would take three to five days in the hospital, then some indeterminate amount of time at home.
Huh.
Alrighty, then.
Apparently sending me away to a farm, like an old dog, to spend my last halcyon days chasing rabbits was not seen as a viable solution. Just the surgery. Or the potential deterioration of my brain, etcetera, at some unexpected but likely inconvenient juncture.
Still, it was totally up to me.
It struck me during this discussion that most professionals couldn’t get away with the kind of position doctors routinely take. I can’t see a Prada saleswoman saying of that $7,000 suit you’re mulling over in front of the mirror, “Every outfit has risks. I can’t guarantee that you’ll knock people out when you put it on. I can only say that if you don’t buy it, eventually you’ll look even worse.”
It didn’t take much internal debate to realize that the meningioma would be best removed. Of course, your own worry is that after brain surgery you won’t be the same, that you’ll be a diminished version of yourself. Suddenly you’ll be Suzy Sobersides, unwelcome at any event -- and by that, I mean even more unwelcome than before.
Others, however, take the opposite view. My faithful pals, for instance, see plenty of room for improvement. They seem to regard brain surgery as tantamount to a computer upgrade -- while part of your skull is cranked open, it’s the ideal opportunity to install, say, spreadsheets, or a new language. One of my snider friends asked about my surgeon, “Does he take requests?”
Another keeps inviting me to be her “date” at various parties in the days right after my surgery. I guess she thinks an “occipital craniotomy” is like a fresh haircut -- what’s the point of doing it if you aren’t going to go out right away and show it off?
All I know is, this is a freaky thing to think about. As I write this column, I am worrying about going in for surgery tomorrow. But while I was at LGH having some tests a few weeks ago, I met a woman who gave me pause. I could tell from what she said to the nurse about how to avoid her scar tissue that she had already struggled with cancer but was back to combat something else.
“What are you in for?” asked this beautiful, elegant woman, probably about my age. I didn’t know you could ask people things like that in hospitals.
“Benign brain tumour,” I said confidently, although the benign part is really just probable, not certain.
“Wow,” she said in a friendly tone. “Lucky. At least you know it’s benign.”
Her comment spoke volumes about her own predicament. I wished her luck.
As for me, so far, so good.
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