“Lots of People Have Brain Surgery”

Just a note: I am currently in the “angry” stage of the stages of grief. I’m sure I’ll get to another stage, soon. But here I am.

“Lots of people have brain surgery.”

This is what my boyfriend tells me with a pained look, like he doesn’t believe it himself, the day before I go out with him to a world I no longer belong to. Brain surgery.

Try to say it out loud, like “I am probably going to have brain surgery soon.” Act like you mean it. Tell it to a friend or a friendly acquaintance. Watch them back away, frightened to hear anything more. Tell them it’s not cancer and there’s a relief but more confusion. Why would you have brain surgery if it’s not cancer? Watch as they change the subject, go get another beer, leave you with your Coke without rum and you’re stuck at a table, alone, stirring ice with your soda.

Oh, look — your once-friend C___ is over there talking with those other people you used to talk to, now. Yeah, well, fuck him. What are they talking about? Music of course. My brain makes music. My brain helps me hear the music. I like music, too. But all I can think of is the brain surgery right now. It’s all I can think of. It’s on my mind. It’s in my mind. It sends me to tears in the middle of the night, and there’s no support group or special class to help you cope. Just doctor after doctor and a few — but shrinking — number of people who want to give a fuck. (ps Thank you my love for giving so many fucks, day after day, no matter what anyone else says or does. But aren’t we both so tired of this journey and wanting our friends to carry our bags, just a bit, nowadays?)

As for the others, why do you give a fuck about Donald Trump axing healthcare, but you don’t give a fuck that somebody you know is having brain surgery? I’m having this surgery not just for me, but for you, too. So I can return to your part of the world again, return to humanity. Maybe I’ll work again and laugh without pain. But I may not step into your corner again, considering how alienated I feel right now.

Take your seat at the bar, or a table, and your stupid annoying painful brain, and swill your cola. Brain surgery. Say it again, to somebody else who is less fragile. Maybe a stranger. Maybe an open mic night. Take your brain surgery story elsewhere, where they will be forced to hear it. Say it again.

Brain surgery. Say it like it’s a dreamy, faraway thing. Think of clouds and afterlife and places where nothing but the silence and brightness — no pain, exist. Find comfort in this sacred space that only you might know and understand. You might go there briefly, during the surgery, or you might end up there for a while, if something goes wrong.

Scream it like you’re an angry child, “I don’t want to have brain surgery!” Pay other people to say it. Yeah, I’m gonna. I’m gonna pay some other person to say it. Loudly. I’ll find them on Fiverr. I’ll put up a project online or up on Craigslist, if Craigslist exists anymore. Maybe if I can find a child to say it, you will be ready to fucking listen. Maybe you will be more comfortable, or freeze in fear long enough to listen, because a child doesn’t know how bad it is and they’re brave enough to say it anyway.

Write it on a note and let the note fly into the wind. Brain surgery. Is it real? Is this really happening? Stare blankly at the business card with the surgeon’s name and a date and time. A week. You meet the surgeon in just a week. Is that real? The pain will tell you how real it is.

Why are all these people afraid to talk to me? The brain is fucking fascinating. Don’t you want to hear about it? Don’t you want to talk to somebody who is going through something you’ll never go through, somebody whose life has been interrupted by a malformation in their brain? Isn’t that supposed to be inspiring or something? Is it because I stumble over my feet? Is it because I have trouble picking my words? That will all be over once I have gotten off the meds and had brain surgery. Or not. There is only a 90% success rate in the first year, that goes to 80% after five. It — that awful, ugly It, that is destroying my entire life might come back.

Don’t you want to be a part of this story of overcoming — won’t you help me overcome? Nah? Well then, fuck you. Eat your fucking cheese fries and talk about beer and post-punk and that concert you went to last week. Tell me how wasted you got and your puking and how shitty you felt when you got a cold. You thought you were gonna die but you dragged your ass out of bed anyway. I am supposed to listen. And I do. I sympathize — I remember those days, just a few years ago. I know those days can hurt even years after they’ve ended. But no, you don’t want to hear about fucking brain surgery. I must be self-centered to think my story is as awesome as yours. God damn it I want a fucking drink.

Sometimes I fake drinking when I go out. I nurse a Coke and chug it way too fast. This fucks with my stomach, but I’m anxious sometimes and if I don’t fake it, people ask what’s up, and I mumble something about medication and drinking don’t mix. They think I’m on Klonopin or some other anxiety drug, or that I’m bipolar or something else and I’m just being uncharacteristically compliant with doctor’s orders. I used to be a rebel, too. I try to tell them — I try to say the thing that’s happened to me, and won’t stop happening to me, but how do you talk about a disease that hurts so much, so often, and the brain surgery that could possibly make you normal again?

Brain surgery. There is no trigger warning. The words trigger me, but how can they not? Why are you men so squeamish and scared? The girls at this bar are unfamiliar, and I am only here as a favor to my boyfriend, he’s DJing tonight. They stick close to each other and play the bar-mating-game. They will leave soon — this place is fucking boring and the only thing good is the music. There are other bars to hop to.

This is no place to make friends and talk about brain surgery. Man, I wish I could drink. Why can’t I drink again? Oh yea, I’ve got a neurological problem. With the meds a good hard drink could fucking send me into a seizure, or some other toxic side effect. It’s time to talk about brain surgery. Surely this music and uplifting atmosphere will take my mind off this shit, anyway, right?

Should I have brought a book? Maybe I should have made some muffins? You all used to love the muffins I took to shows. How long have I been sick? Has it really only been a fucking year? Why don’t you ask how I’m doing? Are you scared I’m going to tell you about my brain problem? Don’t you want to know when I’m having fucking brain surgery?

Go ahead, walk away again. Talk to that other person. There’s only 12 people here that I know tonight. So eventually you might get back to me, right? We’ve known each other on the music scene for what — 5, 6 years? I used to have you in my house. We used to listen to live music in my basement. I bought you good beer and made you space cakes. You owe me nothing, I guess but I am so human I always expected more.

I’m figuring out how to put it in big bright lights, or tattoo it across my forehead, so you can’t walk away and pretend I’m invisible. Jesus, it only takes a few minutes for me to talk about the fucking brain surgery I’m going to have. It hurts me more than it hurts you. But I find a bit of solace when I can speak freely, be heard, be counted in a conversation that so often revolves around long bits of nothing.

Why are there so many people who can’t or won’t listen that long?

Why are you so afraid of what I have to say? Once I’ve talked about brain surgery we can talk about the music. It’s just that this pain is always on the tip of my tongue. It demands recognition. And without that recognition, my brain says no music. No tragic discussions of hangups or hangovers. Just acknowledge me, I’m right fucking here, and the last time I checked I still looked human in the mirror. In fact, I’ve lost some weight, and I really look alright.

I think this might be that “ablism” I’ve heard so much about. But while I can rant about it here, I mostly rant about it here. No where else. I have no idea how to really say what I want to say.

Don’t worry, I probably won’t say it to you in real life. And will it matter?

Will it matter after fucking brain surgery? Of course it will. No matter the outcome. I will never be the same. And my brain will still remember. Brains are fucking fascinating. And I will probably be alright.