An Anniversary of a Tiny Bucket of Blood

Not much occurred to me when I woke up from brain surgery. In fact, I had a hard time conceiving any thoughts at all. I couldn't say a single word, nor could I lift a finger. Let me say this again . . . because this is important to understand. Imagine for a second that you’re able to take in information, but you are completely unable to do anything with it. I couldn't produce action, let alone create an original, meaningful thought. I was just an observation machine, assaulted by stimuli without a single shred of ability to process it.

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?"

An Anniversary of a Suicide Watch

On this day, nine years ago, I had brain surgery.

For those of you who don't know the story or those of you who might need a refresher, I found myself at the age of 28 thrust in a book of medical anomalies with the unhappy diagnosis of brain bacterial abscess caused by unknown infection. It took me two years to fully recover and I was on anti-convulsive medication for nearly six years after that. Today, I'm fine . . . except for all the other dumb stuff I do.

When I mention my brain trauma most folks react strongly. Many are prompted to tell their own stories of nerve-wracking surgeries, unbelievable accidents, and other near-miss encounters with death.

I-absolutely-love-these-stories.

A moral compass given to me by my father
several years ago. I have many that stem from
other sources. Some are made of diamonds.

Sometimes, I'll even make mention of my history randomly just so I can hear people spin their own tales. These stories are the stuff of champions; they have a tendency to breed humility. For me, it's sort of like going to a miniature boot camp that teaches good morals.

Moral compass training. We need more of it in this world.

At any rate, this is how I see it, but you get to decide what you glean from the words that follow. That's the point . . . you decide for yourself.

I'm not exactly sure how long I stayed in the intensive care unit after I got out of surgery. I think it was a day . . . well, maybe it was two. I don't know. Between the anesthesia and the morphine, I couldn't make sense of much at all. As I write this, I recall the fragrance of morphine; it's something like a slow burn of sweet-smelling plastic and it has a strange, subtle allure like the scent of gasoline. Not that I've ever huffed gasoline, mind you, but I've refueled enough lawn mowers in my teenage years to get the gist.

Anyway, after some time, the drugs wore off and my head throbbed with each beat of my heart. Humph . . . my heart was in my head, which always seems to happen when a person observes and accepts their mortality. Inexplicably, our brains seem to fuse with our hearts and we suddenly develop an exceptionally clear and super-human wisdom. Although, this intensified wisdom only lasts for as long as we can keep the wild, degenerative components of our egos at bay. And, the better we do this, the more we learn from our mortality.

So, head throbbing with heart, they wheeled me into a dimly lit room. I remember being severely exhausted and hungry. I hadn't eaten for quite some time because they didn't want me to blow chunks all over the operating equipment and . . . well . . . when you get a window cut in your head you're kind of tired afterwards. It was difficult to completely understand my surroundings. I knew I was in a room. There was a TV. A skinny, old man was sleeping in a bed next to mine. And my girlfriend was around somewhere. After a simple meal, I fell asleep.

And then . . . sucking. LOUD sucking.

The window in my head.

It was the middle of the night and I awoke to find a handful of nurses hovering over the old man. They were trying to comfort him while shoving a huge, plastic tube down his throat. He coughed uncontrollably and they pushed the tube deeper and deeper. When it got deep enough, flecks and chunks of thick sputum floated up the tube into a machine. The man wailed as best he could, but it sounded more like an agonizing moan. One nurse directed the tube and other two held the man down. He tried to push them away, but his weak, semi-flailing arms were no match for the sturdy, young nurses. I watched in horror as they emptied his lungs of fluid. For a split second I had half a fear that I was going to be next and they wouldn't even bother to clean off the tube.

The old man had pneumonia . . . bad.

The next day, when I told my girlfriend about the suck-fest, she had a hissy-fit and marched out to the nurses' station to demand I immediately get a different room. I don't know the science behind pneumonia, but last time I checked it's kind of contagious . . . especially for someone taking boat-loads of anti-biotics, just out of brain surgery. My girlfriend then was, to her credit, my strongest advocate. She raised hell to get me a new room. I'm still very thankful for her effort and care during that time of recovery, despite the fact that, at a previous time, she once kicked me in the back while laying in bed with her and also put her hands down another man's pants before the end of our relationship.

Yeah, I'm not making this shit up.

My girlfriend triumphed. I was wheeled to another room.

I shared this room with another old man, but only for a brief time . . . until he started hacking all over the place. He also had pneumonia.

I'm still not making this up.

My girlfriend didn't just stop at raising hell that time; I'm pretty certain she summoned a few demons as well. I think some nurses lost their souls that day and my girlfriend probably took one or two for herself. Occasionally, she was awesome and scary at the same time.

Anyway, I finally got wheeled to another room with the assurances my new roommate would not have pneumonia. When I arrived, the man in the bed next to mine seemed quite healthy. He breathed easy and had no bandages and seemed downright calm.

The only problem . . . he was secured to his bed with padded restraints. The poor man was on suicide watch.

NOT-MAKING-THIS-UP.

As I said, the man was strapped to his bed. A nurse briefly explained the situation, leaving out the details for the sake of confidentiality. The man had brown skin, dark course hair, and the features of a Hispanic American, although I was unsure from what ethnicity he actually hailed. He had a slightly rotund body and I could tell he was kind of short even though he was laying down.

At first, he was a sight to behold. He exuded complete listlessness and barely moved. For hours he stared at the ceiling. The nurses had to clean him occasionally because he would shit and piss himself. I felt bad for the man and for a while I couldn't shake the question of what could have possibly caused him to be that way. He gave me no clue at all. He remained expressionless. A mental health worker even arrived one day to speak with him, but he got nothing out of him except a heart rate and blood pressure reading.

From heart to head, it's not that far.

Eventually, I decided the man's plight was none of my business and I clearly had to focus on my own recovery. But his hopeless demeanor didn't sway my girlfriend from trying to reach him. She made a valiant effort, speaking to him with a compassionate, soft voice. Unfortunately, she failed as well. I spent the rest of my initial recovery from brain surgery in that room, next to a man who, literally, did almost nothing. About four days later, I had enough strength to walk out of there. I can't remember for sure, but I wanna say I looked at the man as I left. I'd like to say I mumbled something profound to him as I shuffled my weak ass out the door. I know I didn't. Whatever plagued him was beyond me.

From time to time, I think about suicide-watch man. I sometimes wonder if he ever uttered another word, if he ever eventually rose up out of his mysterious despondency.

And, because I managed to recover from a  random brain infection, I celebrate the notion that I can wonder anything at all . . . which gave rise to a greater self-awareness, a knowledge that helps me to accurately know which thoughts I should abandon and which thoughts should be carried to my heart.