In most cases, finding out that you don’t have a brain tumor is excellent news and something to be celebrated.
Just a few days ago, I was lucky enough to find out just that: I’m completely healthy and tumor-free. My relief, though, was short-lived — overtaken by confusion after the doctors informed me of a bizarre complication during surgery.
See, it seems they made a crucial error: After my MRI last month, an unusually shaped mass was spotted in the center of my brain, which they labeled a benign tumor, at the time.
Except it turns out there never really was a tumor. The mass that showed up in my scan ended up being something far more strange and unforeseen.
While inspecting the inner workings of my cerebellum, the surgeons stumbled on what can only be described as a living, breathing human being — specifically, the shrunken down version of my very own father.
Once the doctors extracted him from my brain, a team of scientists immediately began work on getting Dad back to normal size.
Everyone involved in the situation seemed to have trouble wrapping their heads around what had happened. They just couldn’t understand why the hell Dad was hanging around inside my head. Of course, it wasn’t something I was expecting either, although I can’t say I was quite as dumbfounded. To be honest, I was more relieved than anything.
When Dad turned up missing five years ago, my family didn’t know what to make of it. Most of us just assumed he’d run off to start a new life — some place where he could get a fresh start. I mean, who could have predicted him shrinking down to Ant-Man size, just to torment me?
I suppose nothing should surprise me though, when it comes to my father. He was always so angry and impossible to please. I remember feeling quite happy when he vanished. It was like a great burden had been lifted.
Yet for some reason, it never seemed like he was truly gone. I still felt his presence there, somehow. And now I finally know why. The old bastard was with me all along, talking shit from his doll-sized sofa, just beside my amygdala. It perfectly explains why that sadistic voice in my head was always so horribly critical:
“You’re such a dumbass,’ it’ would say to me.”
“Everyone around you thinks you’re an idiot.”
“How did you become such a God-damned loser!”
At the time, I assumed those were just my thoughts being overly negative, but it turns out it was actually Dad continuing his long tradition of spewing verbal poison.
Now I know that some people in my position would be feeling sorry for themselves right about now — having much of their life wasted on what they had believed to be normal, garden-variety self-hatred. But I prefer not to think that way. I actually see this as sort of a new lease on life. My story begins today. With my miniature Dad safely out of my head and back to standard human size, I’m free to live a normal existence. In fact, I believe I can accomplish anything now.
Hell, I might even finish that novel.