 |
| Remembering how I couldn't move or think. |
In the late
1800’s an early psychologist, named Willhelm Wundt, developed a method of observation that he
called introspection. He believed our cognition rooted itself in a finite
number of basic, immediate experiences. He was obsessed with pure observation that
avoided the messiness of the context and metaphors we placed on them. For
instance, if we saw a Granny Smith apple, we wouldn't observe it as an apple,
but rather we would simply say we were experiencing a “sense of green” or
“elements of curves,” or “a shininess with light reflecting off an oblong
shape.”
To be clear,
this was ALL I could do.
I remember laying
on a gurney.
That was clear.
And then, they
wheeled me into the intensive care unit, which was a blurred cacophony. But,
even with all kinds of activity buzzing around, I could only flatly observe. I
couldn't do anything with the information. It would simply enter my brain and
then stop. It felt like my pre-frontal cortex, which is responsible for higher
cognition, was completely detached from my animal brain. But, not even my
animal brain could produce a mere fight or flight response.
For all
intents and purposes, this should have scared the living shit out of me. My
deep fears of paralysis and lobotomization should have swarmed through me, wracking my entire body
with anxiety. But, like I said, I couldn't produce a thought with any real meaning. So, my inability to speak and move had no bearing whatsoever; I couldn't
even attach my observations to emotion.
I don’t
remember how long this disconnect lasted. I DO, however, remember floating in
and out of consciousness. And all of this makes sense, considering the
after-effects of the anesthesia. Oh, and also, I was fucking high as kite from
morphine.
Finally, a
few hours later . . . or a day later . . . or whenever later, my brain switched
from Willhelm Wundt’s introspection to more normal cognition.
It went
something like this:
“Hmm . . .
I’m observing a bunch of long, straight lines, moving in unison with a white
orb. And the lines . . . the lines are kind of brown-ish. Ok. And also, there
are two sort-of bug-like creatures hanging out next to each other on the white
orb. Ok. Good. Got it.”
And, at this
point, I’m still not quite processing all the information.
Clearly.
But,
finally, I remember that I’m in a hospital.
“Riiiiight. Copy
that. I’m in a hospital. Wait a minute? Why am I in a hospital again? Oh yeah!
Brain surgery!”
My
disjointed thinking continued.
“Alright, to
summarize . . . I’m in a hospital. I just had brain surgery. Soooooooo . . .
why is there a white orb flying above me next to my bed? And what are these
strange brown lines? And, even more importantly, WHAT in the flying fuck are two
bugs doing on a floating orb?!”
And then, I
have the clearest and most mind-shattering thought of all . . . it’s abundantly
clear that I am on DRUGS.
. . . and
then . . . without fail . . . of course . . . the ORB starts talking to me!
The orb’s name
was Hannah. I listened to her intently, processing all that she said to me at a
capacity no greater than a jester in a court of dunderheads.
I managed to
say my first words.
“Hello
Hannah. I think . . . I think I’m on drugs.”
She laughed.
And then I
think, “Wait a minute. Orbs don’t laugh. And why was this orb a woman?”
A woman!
Suddenly, my
brain jump-started, kicked into overdrive, and I came to the full realization
that the ORB IS A WOMAN’S FACE!
Of course .
. . leave it up to the presence of a woman to sway ME back into consciousness.
The
amalgamation of straight, brown lines was her beautiful hair, bordering the
white skin of her cheeks and forehead. And what about the two
errant bugs on the orb? They were horn-rimmed glasses perfectly placed over her
eyes.
 |
| The two bug-like creatures just hanging out. |
Hannah, my
ICU nurse, was the first person I really remember after I got a window cut in
my head. I have no clue if I saw members of my family, or my girlfriend, or
anybody else before meeting Hannah. I just don’t remember.
She asked me
a few questions. Ya know, the standard ones to find out if I’m lucid. And then,
I think she asked a few more questions to assess my cognitive functions. She seemed
satisfied.
That was good news. No
brain damage.
“I’m gonna
take care of you,” she said.
“Thanks. I’m
hungry.”
“Nope . . .
no food. Not yet. Not until the morphine and anesthesia wear off. I don’t want
you puking all over my shoes.”
She was
wearing gorgeous, reddish-black clogs.
“Oh, but I’m
starving,” I whined.
“I know,
hun. You can have some Jell-O, here, in a bit. But, for now, just rest.”
“Alright.”
I closed my
eyes and slept.
I hadn't
eaten in nearly 24 hours. You see, as some of you know, patients are often
starved 12 hours before surgery so they don’t end up ralphing in their intubation
tube or all over the operating table. The reason I went 24 hours without food
was credited to a cancellation of my first proposed surgery, which was a half a
day earlier. It was cancelled because the attending brain surgeon had to
suddenly operate on a victim of an awful car accident. When I learned this, I
remember thinking of how lucky I was that my health was stable . . . relatively
speaking. I was still in danger of losing my life because there was there was a
damn lump in my head from a mysterious bacterial infection. But, honestly, in
light of the car accident, it didn't bother me at all that I had just missed my
opportunity to eat more food before I had to wait another 12 hours for my
craniotomy.
 |
| Jell-O brains from my 10-year brainniversary party. |
When I woke up
again, a cup of cool water and a bowl of green Jell-O had appeared at my
bedside. Hannah fed me. I was too weak to lift a damn spoon. I sipped the water
through a straw. I dislike straws. I think they are a COMPLETE waste of
plastic. With that said, it was pretty useful in that moment. On top of it all,
I was deeply grateful to taste anything other than the plastic flavor left in
my mouth from being throat-fucked by an intubator.
I pleaded
for more food, but Hannah asked me to wait. She wanted to see if the water and Jell-O
came back up. Not once, not even then, did I ever feel nauseous from morphine. And,
unfortunately, considering the brain surgery and the five times I've been hit
by cars, I was no stranger to morphine. So, I still have no idea what they were
talking about in terms of these supposed adverse side-effects. But, clearly, my
guts must be made of steel. I could probably eat a pig’s anus and not even
flinch. Well, to be fair, I might have to fry it up first and put mustard on it.
Anyway, throughout
the morning . . . um, afternoon . . . evening, Hannah and I spoke off and on,
between her taking care of other patients. It took me a while, but I realized I
had met her before. She was the sister of a friend’s friend. Actually, I
remember that meeting quite clearly. It was at her house. And . . . I’m pretty
sure I danced in front her solo to that Madonna song “Justify My Love” . . .
but THAT’S another story.
Finally,
Hannah came up to me and said, “Ok, it’s time.”
“Time for real
food!” I said gleefully.
“No, not
quite,” she said. “It’s actually time to pull out your tube.”
“My tube?
What tube?”
“Um . . .
so, they drilled a hole in the crown of your head and then they put a tube in
it.”
“They did?”
I said incredulously. “Why did they do that?”
“Well, your
brain is swollen from the trauma of the operation. They needed to give you a
bit of room. So, they drilled a hole in your head, put a tube in it, and ran
one end of it into to a cup to drain off some brain fluid.”
“A cup? Where?”
“Oh, it’s
over there,” Hannah said, weakly gesturing to somewhere next to my bed.
I tried to
sit up and see it, but I couldn't.
“Are you
ready?” she asked.
“What? No,
hold on a second. Let me get this straight. I-have a tube-IN-MY-HEAD?”
“Yep.”
“And-there’s
a cup-of my brain fluid-right there?”
“Yep,” she
said, nodding cheerfully.
“Let me see
it."
“Oh, I’m not
supposed to show patients their own blood and stuff. It’s not a good idea.”
“The hell it
isn't. It’s MY brain blood. I made it. I wanna see it!”
Hannah
realized right way I wasn't going to budge.
“Ok, but you
have to promise me you won’t vomit.”
“I promise.
I’m good with blood.”
Hannah smiled
and reached down where the tube slithered past one of the pillows supporting
me. When she raised her hand again a plastic cup, a little bigger than a shot
glass, came into view. It was plumb full of the thickest blood I had ever seen.
I won’t soon forget how it cascaded downward in subtle, soft waves, much like a
recently poured Guinness does in a pint glass. The only difference was that it
looked more like a tiny bucket of blood.
“Now are you
ready?” Hannah asked.
 |
| A "brain blood" shot from my 10-year brainniversary party. |
“Yeah,” I
answered.
Hannah put
the cup down and took a position behind my head. She explained how I wouldn't
feel the tube coming out because there are no nerve endings in my head or on my
brain. She said all I might feel is a slight tug as it passes through my skin
where it entered.
I braced
myself for what would probably be one of the weirdest sensations of my life.
And then she
pulled.
I felt the
tug and nothing else.
But I didn't feel just the tug alone. It felt a little bit like something
else. Ya know, a little like how it feels when you’re picking your nose and you
get that one booger that’s connected to a string of snot high up in your nasal
cavity. And then, when you pull it all the way out and your snot is hanging
from the tip of your finger like a suspended drip of swamp water, you get one
of the best feelings of satisfaction!
THAT’S
EXACTLY what it felt like to get that tube pulled out of my head.
A tiny
seepage of blood dribbled down the back of my head and Hannah sopped it up with
a bit of gauze. She plugged the hole with more gauze and a strip of medicine
tape.
“Ok?” she
asked.
“Yup, but
still hungry."
“Ok then,
I’ll take your brain blood away and bring back some food.”
Hannah
gathered up the tube and cup and started to walk away.
“Hold on,” I
said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“I’m
wondering if you could tell me something.”
“What's
that?”
"I'm wondering - well, I think I've come down off the morphine now, but I'm wondering if I'm seeing things clearly. Could you tell me . . . is there any bullshit in that cup?"
