Part IV: Click

On brain tumor forums, it's common to hear people asking and fretting about clicks, as well as other noises, after a craniotomy. I had the click for quite a while early on and it also returned at several phases in my healing. This is my ode to The Click.

Hearing the click after brain surgery
is common from what I have found.
Resettling bones and migrating fluids
are just a few accounts for this sound.
So worry I didn't when my head did produce
a distinct cacaphony of this sort of clatter.
I figure'd that things were just shifting around
a tad in the old gray matter.

To my great dismay I discovered by chance
that this sound I could create on demand.
Quite by accident while cleaning my wound
did my hand on this special spot land.
I happened to mention to a young nurse at the doc's
about how that spot made it go click.
Not a moment was wasted before she responded,
"Ooh, what a cool party trick!"

Now my friends they are a quite motley bunch
ranging in shades from outdoorsy to profane.
Sometimes pretending to be otherwise,
they are generally sincere, witty and sane.
As most are now of the age and persuasion
that this feature would not tend to impress,
I decided that this special trick
would not be flaunted at any future social fest!

Part III: Lisa

Lisa. Lisa was a force of nature. It appeared that most thoughts that passed her mind needed to be shared. A steady stream of words about her task of the moment rushed forth. Sometimes in direct conversation style. Other times in a mumbling, thinking-out-loud style. No detail was too small for mention.

The transition from recovery to ICU felt hectic from my horizontal looking-upward perspective. There were many bodies rushing around and leaning over me as they connected various devices. At one point I feared that something was wrong as everyone was moving so quickly. Well, more wrong than having just had your skull drilled open. I looked forward to the quiet and calm I presumed would be coming. The speed of these events was hard to integrate. It was overwhelming to the senses. Almost painful.

One of the recovery room escorts wished me well on her exit and introduced me to Lisa, "She's one of the best ICU nurses. You'll be in good hands." Lisa wasted no time and jumped right in...We'll be giving you dilaudid for pain control. It's a derivative of morphine but differs in that blah, blah, blah, side effect profile, blah, blah, blah. The recitation of dilaudid was delivered at a breath-taking pace that would make an auctioneer envious. She continued now leaning over me...oh, these IV's...they're so large for you...I hate it when they do that...it must have hurt...now this one on your right hand is for blah, blah, blah..it differs from the two on your left in that blah, blah, blah...oh, they didn't do that right either...I wonder if I should redo it or leave it be?

Holy smokes did she not get the email?! I just had brain surgery. Was I supposed to be following this all? Should I be worried about my IV's? Would there be a test on dilaudid and how it differed biochemically from morphine? I stared vacantly at my hands, arms, and tubes pondering these questions. I ached for calm words and a grounded presence next to my being.

A few times I took the bait and began to formulate an answer. However, soon I'd realize that she was several new topics ahead of me and that the questions had likely been rhetorical anyway. And, I'd only look slow and dim, um, like I was at that point. I glanced at my friend Betty who had been a medical-surgical nurse to get a perspective on this circus. Her eyes radiated displeasure at the situation. After an hour or so, I motioned her in close and pleaded in a whisper, “Make her shut the f#$% up!”

I mentioned to Lisa that I was quite sensitive to meds; an outlier on the bell curve. I requested the smallest dose of whatever was necessary. At one point in this whole affair, I gazed down at my IV's that Lisa disapproved of so and watched her inject something into them for what seemed like the umpteenth time. As the substance flowed into my vein a corresponding explanation of it flowed from Lisa. Soon I felt the uncomfortable sensations and the waves of nausea. The pink kidney-shaped thing was thrust at me by someone. I wondered, “Do most people actually hit this thing in their moment of need?” Once I was sick, Lisa went into serious high-gear banging away at the computer, administering more of whatever, and emphatically declaring, “Wow, you’re really sensitive!” Sigh. Yes, I think I mentioned that.

Somewhere in this all I thought to myself, "This is the ultimate loss of control." Having reflected on these moments many times since, I realize that it was far from it. It's just how it felt in the moment. It would have been a much greater loss of control if I’d been incapacitated and in the care of someone unfeeling, or worse. No, Lisa cared. It’s just that her style was, uh, a bit rambunctious and verbose for the occasion.

The next morning I woke feeling better and clearer in the head. Although I recall a visit from my surgeon sporting a navy suit jacket over his scrubs, my first meal of cooked rice cereal, and a wee stroll I took, I have no recollection of the ICU nurse that day. Once on the neuro ward, the nurses seemed to be mostly a blur of benign middle-aged women of varying proportions who appeared decidedly detached about it all. I recall a sweet voice one night administering meds, another slightly crunchy nurse at discharge, and another one who took out my catheter. But nobody really memorable. Definitely no one like Lisa.

Lisa. Yeah, Lisa was a force of nature.

Part IV: The Click

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Part II: Home Improvements

The clock on the wall took on a larger than life presence as I started gaining consciousness. It read 1:00. My head sported a dull ache but not as bad as expected. It was as heavy as a boulder. Moving it didn't seem to be an option yet. In the forefront of my attention was another body part burning with a fiery pain. I figured it was from the drugs. The pain became more and more prominent. I wanted to get someone's attention; they would help me.

I heard a man and woman talking somewhere out of view to my right. As the strains of conversation became clearer, it was apparent that home improvement was the subject. I opened my mouth to utter something. Nothing came out but a couple of odd squeaks. I tried again. Not much better. I envisioned myself as a baby bird emitting little croaks and peeps. After some time I could whisper hello but it was too quiet to get attention. At one point I uttered, "help." I immediately chastised myself for being too dramatic and returned to voicing an occasional hello. I looked at the clock again and began calculating the time from the scheduled events of the morning. It hit me that I was reasoning with myself and doing simple arithmetic. That was a good sign.

The fiery pain began to take on a life of its own. I figured I was still groggy enough that I could check out -- I consciously decided to drift. When I awoke again the clock read 1:10. Only ten minutes? The man and woman were still there. I assumed it was the same two as they were now discussing deck stains. Perhaps I should have attempted squeaking out, "Home Depot"! Eventually one of my hellos was heard. A woman appeared at my feet. In a voice that was friendly but seemed too loud and perky for the occasion, she asked how I was doing. I’m not sure exactly what I said. But as I started primitive conversing, I realized that I had made it through brain surgery.

Part III: Lisa (ICU)

Time article on what to say upon awakening from brain surgery

Part I: Arranging Shoes

The rhyming verse used to tell this story was definitely not planned. I set out aiming for a whimsical style to relate the events of a morning in October of 2008.

Somehow I found myself wanting to make things rhyme. Soon I recognized a tone similar to my grandfather's WWII poems. In any case, this is my first non-mandatory attempt at this type of verse since grade school. So...

In the entryway the shoes were scattered
leaving not much room to walk.
Waiting for the early morning ride,
all was quiet, there was very little talk.
So down on my knees while still awaiting
I began to arrange the shoes.
To others I would turn over all control,
what else was I now to do?

My mother observed that this was odd
this task I had pursued.
It was not the endeavor that was in question,
rather the timing and the mood.
I paused, reflected and then responded,
"Right now there's nothing I've left to do.
So considering this and future uncertain,
I might as well arrange the shoes."

In the wee hours of the morning,
solemn and quiet was our drive.
Background songs of calm were playing
but the comfort it did not arrive.
In the city on top of the garage we parked
taking in the dawn and the skyline lights.
As my father fidgeted, a bit more I waited
but no stalling would set this thing right.

Inside the hospital to inpatient surgery I went
to follow procedures for admitting.
ID, organ donor, living will, and insurance,
to many things I was committing.
Name, date of birth, and why are you here
confirmed this was not a chance event.
Ready for me they regrettably were not
so into the cold waiting room I went.

To surgery prep, healing hands of friend Betty,
and family well wishes, I soon bid my farewell.
Now alone in a bay of a large cold chamber
on bad thoughts did my mind tend to dwell.
Try as I might to invoke inspiration
my spirit it slumped and my chin it did quiver.
But soon came my way a soft-spoken man,
soothing assurances he did warmly deliver.

In walked a doc three vials in hand
after greetings he confidently proclaimed,
I'm here to make you happy but first I must know
just a few things such as your full legal name.
I'm Wonky Walk Girl from a year of the Snake
who's come due to a bean in her brain.
This unnamed intruder will be getting his due
my alleged smarts I just hope will remain.

Now at this point I must readily admit
that drunk on the rhymes I might be.
In addition to this recollections that follow
possess a distinct lack of clarity.
So wrap up this tale I certainly must
before it all turns to complete whack.
Suffice it to say more events came my way
until all did indeed turn to black.

Part II: Home Improvements (The Recovery Room)

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