BST 25: Remember me?

Allright, one last time into the breach, Mr. LaForge.

Ok - you never heard that, right?

So picking up on where I left off, around the end of August, 2002. Hold on, were gonna fast forward a bit here.. well.. a whole year. Recovery, recovery, Thanksgiving, NYC, Christmas, Cooking School, cooking school, MRI, graduate, externship, Halloween, MRI.

MRI?

MRI.... no change.

Suggested course of action: removal.

Scheduled time: 1st week of December, 2003.

Well, there was what they call a trace amount - a gloopy chunk they didn't want to remove originally due to its location and the fact that it was apparently quite happy where it was, holding a few neurons hostage. It was not quite invasive, just kind of cuddly with the grey matter surrounding it. But it was pretty important grey matter, so they left it alone - wondering if it would just get the message when the rest of it was removed and leave.

Well it was apparently very comfy there. It did not grow, it did not shrink. It just kind of hung out, like teenagers at the mall. Generally useless, and bound for trouble eventually, but brooding and surly none the less.

Well, theres a cure for that, although not for teenagers unfortunately. Its called *cue dramatic music* the Gamma Knife *orchestra hit*!

Ok, so I go meet the guy who will be guiding the fingers of radiation towards that spot in my head which needs some juice. Dr. Ladislau Steiner.

Dr. Steiner is a old school doctor, and when I say that - I mean office with huge desk and tons of books and displays and all the sort of things you expect to find in the office of a highly-respected groundbreaking neurosurgeon. Oh, did I mention he is also in his 80's? And Romanian? All this adds up to the feeling of greatness you get when you hear of this man, and when you see him. He explained things in detail, putting all our concerns to rest. Which is nice to have done right after your told the story of a man who had a similar situation, they gamma knifed him, and it went away - only to have it spring up like mushrooms all over the place. Gamma got them too.

So I was handed off to his staff, who arranged for everything to go down like clockwork. Me, being the info-freak I am, of course did too much research into the Gamma Knife. Thats when I found out about the headframe.

Just remember those words: headframe.

Allright, so everything was set and a go. Then, that night, it snowed. 4-5 inches or so. This threw the entire staff at UVA into disarray, but they acclimated without a problem. I was accompanied by my mother on this trip, which was a short one. So the two of us sat in the OR waiting area, waiting for our slot to be called. The whole place was on a delay.. an hour or so.. So an hour of waiting, overheard conversations, brief glimpses of my former surgical crew. Nice to see them working together after the trauma I caused.

So we are taken back, and I am told to get into the gown. What is with these gowns? As I change, Im looking around the small space I am slotted into.. theres no bed, just one of those chairs. You know those chairs. The "No really, Im fine without perforations" chairs.

The one who is guiding me through this step of the procedure is a nice lady, whose name and rank I do not recall for reasons that will become obvious in a moment. She sits me in the chair, pops in a IV line, and then asks the million questions they all ask. She describes to me what is going to happen when I leave the room. They will insert small screws into my forehead and the back of my head, which will root in the skull. To this will be attached the headframe.

I tell her in no uncertain terms I would very much appreciate not remembering any of this. She tells me not to worry, because in a few moments she is going to hit me with what she called "a six pack". After she injected it into my IV line, she told me she was going to be asking me questions to gauge how effective it would be, it would only last 20 mins or so, and when I came to the frame would be on.

Next thing I remember was being in that chair, rolling away from the OR. She asked me if I remember any of the questions. I say "you asked them?" Laughter ensued.

Off to the MRI for alignment purposes (cuz I had not had enough of them), and now Im on a bed. Reclining comfortably, my head numbed to the frame on it. I actually never realized I even had the frame on until passing a mirrored window. Oh what a sight, what a tragic figure wears the mantle of aluminum.

Gamma time: into the room with the knife, which I assumed (based on my apparently flawed research) would be larger than an MRI machine. They slid me onto the table for the gamma knife, and cranked the headframe down to the machine. I slid into the machine, and from there out it was endless miniature adjustments to get the focal point of the beam exactly where they wanted it. Finally, after 45 minutes of getting a real close up view of this silent machine's inner world, it was over. I was out, and rolled out into another room.

They removed the headframe. But the screws were still with me. With a swift and silent determination, the nurse closed in on me, removing them with my eyes wide open and memory intact. No 6-pack this time. After some discussion, I was then remanded to the custody of the hospital, I believe it was the 12th floor. I had a private room to overnight in, access to the elevators, a hot meal waiting for me. Not a bad deal. My mother left, seeing as how all was well. I slept for a while, and realized I had purple eyebrows, well marks where they had put the screws. It amused me, and dinner came and went. I had a wonderful view, looking out over Charlottesville in the snow. I had my backpack with books, my walkman, my cellphone, and some candy and smokes. The foor nurse told me there was going to be a snack delivered, and apparently my definition of a snack was horribly wrong.

It was a whole sandwich, cookies, fruit, and a soda. I stashed it for later that night, as my afternoon nap had pushed the likelyhood of my sleeping at night out the window and 12 stories down.

A few times I wandered down to the lobby, to the smoking area. No more than twice to my recollection, as it was still cold and possibly raining. The next morning I was remanded back to the custody of my mother, and all was well.

First follow up MRI 1 month later, and all seemed clear.. and to this day, all clear. With artifacts. Which I assume means one day I might have to watch for an Indiana Jones type who wishes to have at these artifacts.

Another success, thanks to the staff of UVA.

And there ends the BST, for the time being. If the higher powers are with me, there ends the entire BST journey.

Possibly the best early Christmas gift one could ask for. A clear mind.

So clear theres nearly no thoughts. Just an occasional fog of memory, and partly cloudy with a chance of meatballs.

I think back to all those trips between NYC and CVS via Amtrak, and realize I have probably seen that stretch of the journey in all seasons. Been there for moments that no one else could have been there for.

In many ways the BST itself was a blessing. Sometimes one needs something life-altering to provide a new perspective. Or several. I know what could have been, I have seen it with my own eyes, and in my own mind. I understand I am fortunate.

I am still becoming, still changing from the BST. I have gained an appreciation I did not have before for life, I have gained a loving wife and a new home and a future without bounds. I made my own deal with the higher ups back before the initial surgery, let me pull through and I will try. And try I do. The only downside to the whole process is the memories are not what they used to be. There is a disconnect between the past memories and the feelings of those memories. I can tell you the way the sky looked on the day of the "Perfect Storm", how the rain beat down. But I cannot tell you how I felt at the time. All my past memories are filtered through my current emotions. So while I most likely looked upon the windows at Macy's as a child with wide eyes, I now can tell you how it affected me today. I cannot tell you what it meant to me at the time. The surgery changed the way my mind operates, to a certain extent. I was probably what you would call scattered before it, now I run a 24 track mind, and can clearly tell you the exact process of each plan I hatch.

Like the website, I know where I want it to be, and I know what I need to do to get it there. I know what resources I can use, and what ones I need to create.

There is a dream, and this is a dream. To bring about an understanding of place, community, and home. Big concepts, small world.


"For we are all born mortal, like stars and candlelight,
And all that really matters, is what we do before we fall asleep each night."
-tso