Mortality & Morbidity

It had been a week of an excruciating headache that finally ran me from primary care physician to outpatient CT scan of my head to the emergency room, all in a matter of 2 1/2 hours. Diagnosis: subdural hematoma. Cause: indeterminate.

The neurosurgeon in the ER knew my husband. They had worked together twenty-five years ago. Comforting.

Contrary to other neurosurgeons I had met over the years of being married to a physician, he seemed to be “more normal,” exhibiting a good bedside manner. Thankfully. (Each medical specialty seems to attract particular personality types. I’ll leave it at that.)

He asked about trauma, the most likely explanation for the bleed on my brain. I had no memory of any.

He asked what I do, likely as much a test of my word recall as his particular interest in me. That’s always a hard question to answer, even without brain trauma. But, after rattling off a series of activities and accomplishments, I stopped and said, “Honestly, first and foremost, I’m a mother and a caregiver. That’s my most important job.”

He heard “author,” a fact that barely describes my history but, nonetheless, was a snapshot in a scrapbook of my life events. He anticipated I would be potentially hospitalized for days, and down for longer. “You should write,” he said. “Have someone bring your laptop.”

My headache so excruciating, I couldn’t imagine writing, much less articulating anything coherent. But he insisted I could look back on it as “that period of early brain recovery” that might be “interesting to go back and read.”

“Have you read the book My Stroke of Insight?” I had not read the book but had watched her TED Talk more than once. I had shared it with my husband, thinking it might provide some insight into brain recovery following the recent stroke of our oldest daughter just 9 months ago. My husband chimed in about “how fascinating.” And it was!

And then the neurosurgeon said, “I looked up her lesion. Yours is potentially much worse. You should write.”

Much worse, you say? Much worse??

Pause. Bedside manner just jumped the tracks.

A long sustained pause in my painful brain began as my husband and he talked medicine, and they discussed my future.

All I could think: mortality, morbidity.

My God, I hope I continue to have the opportunity to write. That’s all. To create. To breathe. That’s all. Pain free. To think. That’s all. To think.

That’s all.

And then I was admitted to the intensive care unit. And I prayed that my doctor would be treating the whole person.

I am so much more than a brain.

I didn’t ask for my laptop. I wanted the screaming of my brain to be silenced. Calmed. I wasn’t ready to give it a voice. And I had to hang on to the hope that I had time. Time. Time. Time.

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