XVII
I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of
infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
-William Shakespeare: Hamlet, act 2, scene 2, l. 254-6.
Seventeen days until Brain Surgery. The Day of the Dead seems a good day to begin this journal, an idea I have toyed with for some time. Who would want to read such a thing, I ask myself. But that's not the point, is it.
As a poet I continuously see connections; our connections to each other, the world we are a part of, and the symbols we use to interpret this cacophony. Brain surgery has so many resonances, so many echoing symbols that it is hard to derail the runaway train of fear and anxiety surrounding it. This seventeen day journal is my experiment with untangling my Untethering.
The Procedure [a symbol if I ever saw one...they always call these things Procedures, I would have more respect for them if they called it something honest, like a Fucking Traumatic Event, they could even jargonize it and call it an FTE. Of course, I will experience discomfort during this, not excruciating pain.] is called a posterior fossa decompression, or an Untethering
Basically, and sparing a few details, Dr. Green will remove a portion of the back of my skull, the top of some vertebrae and then open the first cover of my brain, called the dura. The idea is to add a patch of dura (more on this later) to create more space in my cerebellum, to allow for better flow of CSF.
The reason for all of this is a malformation of the brain call Arnold-Chiari. I have been in its grip since May of '05; well, that's when it got bad at least...headaches, vertigo, nausea, ataxia, insomnia...blah blah blah. Seems like that's all I talk about anymore: symptoms, surgery, related whining.
I didn't think of myself as a whiner before this happened. Now I wonder. Maybe? Who knows. we project an image of ourselves onto the screen of the world and believe that everyone else is seeing the same movie that we are. We never question that we are the protagonist and will live to the see the credits roll. Does it make a person better to taste the humility of realizing our place in the Cosmic Cast, of realizing we might be an extra, doomed to die in the second reel.
The hands of my Neurosurgeon are fascinating. Small, completely hairless, appearing almost pudgy at first glance. I confess that I stared at his hands during the first few minutes of our consultation, being concerned with where they might soon be fiddling. Yet when he shook my hand the visual impression of pudginess vanished. His hands are laced with muscles, each seeming to have an intuitive purpose of their own, working together to give him preternatural coordination. At least they better be. Truthfully, they are beautiful hands, graceful and clever. It fills me with quiet awe, and no little fear, to think of what I am putting in those hands.
Once I heard courage defined as being afraid, but doing what you have to do anyway. I'm not sure who wrote this, but it has lingered in the desert of my thoughts, appearing like a mirage now and then to reassure me that all will be well, whispering at me to shut up and do it anyway.
And I will, in seventeen days.
-End Transmission-
Dawn McKenzie
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