This past Friday I had my brain mapped. The procedure was supposed to take three hours, but wound up lasting nearly seven. Brain mapping, as explained to me, is done by stimulating various parts of the body and recording the magnetic waves generated by the brain in response to the stimuli. (They failed to mention that they repeat the stimuli about 800 times.) One of the tests involved slipping a finger into a little splint with a tiny balloon that could be inflated repeatedly, to gently prod the tip of the finger. After two tests on my left hand failed to produce the desired data, the technician turned to Ellen and said, "Does your husband play guitar?" When Ellen confirmed that I did, the technician muttered, "Those damn musicians. They always give us trouble." Turns out that the callouses on my fingers, from pressing down the guitar strings, was screwing up the test.
All of this is leading up to my biopsy, which sort of became a surgery. Apparently this is standard procedure in cases like mine, but the information sort of snuck up on me. Anyway, I am scheduled for 7:30 a.m. tomorrow (Wednesday) at UCSF, and I will be there for ("three to five days") three days. The thinking with the surgery is to strike a balance between removing as much of the lesion as possible, while preserving any areas that are critical to motor function. (To which I can only add "Please.") There will be a portion of my skull removed, but I was told I could think of it as a cute little hatch cover with titanium screws. And after seeing a wonderful Nigerian highlife band over the weekend (Kotoja, from Oakland) Ellen has promised me I can get one of those cool embroidered Nigerian hats.
As I write these words, I have glued to my head about ten little disks that look like nothing so much as Wint-o-Green Life Savers. These were applied today prior to an MRI, as they are to be used as reference points in the surgery...as long as they don’t move. Which means they have to stay put until tomorrow morning, so I can’t shower, or pull them all off in my sleep. ("No! They’re aliens! Get out of here!") I feel good about my doctors and about my chances to get through this without any problems. And I had a truly great Labor Day weekend and hope you did too.
After the surgery, I’ll let you know how it went. I continue to bask in the warmth of all your love and good wishes. I’m reminded of the famous footage of Lou Gehrig being honored at Yankee Stadium as he was dying of the disease that now bears his name, as he says into the microphone "I’m the luckiest man in the world." (Actually, over the stadium loudspeakers it came out more like "I’m I’m I’m the luckiest man man man on the face of the earth earth earth.") I always thought it was very inspirational and all, but there used to be part of me that said "Oh, come on." But now I think I know what he means. Because I feel the same way.
Peace and love,
Dan
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