Fuck, I keep telling these white coats they've got the wrong brain pictures and I'm ready for a stroll - our hills here, while not so spectacular as Yosemite granite, just got about 15mm of Autumn snow and I'm in need of a few days shuffling along through some good stuff.
Anyway, they claim both CT scan and MRI are in fact mine, and the white fuzzy bit in the right temporal lobe that's causing concern needs to be
dealt with, so I've got to stick around.
Some updates are in: I go in to hospital today for all the legals, on Wednesday for another CT scan and a Lumbar Puncture (they were so much more rock'n'roll when they called them Spinal Taps) - another tool in helping them determine if there's cancer involved.
I am now a 'Category 1' Public health system patient and that means they must do pretty much anything my surgeon deems necessary, and quickly.
I'll be operated on within the next 2-3 weeks: at which time he'll be taking tumour sample tissue for the biopsy, aiming for maximum removal of it, while making a trade-off there in decision making about potential stroke/functionality.
We have a very good understanding on that point: he knows my greatest fear in all this is not to be able to keep up with the witicism of the Murrell sisters or trans-Pacific pitchforks from Seppo Dave.
"I'm not a brain surgeon myself," I told him last Monday, "but I value some modicum of awareness/alertness/intelligence in this life: don't make me fuzzy out of all this, blank stared stoner who looks as though he's had 7 bongs and wandering the aisles in the supermarket looking for a can of beans."
It's an important point to make when the tumour is fairly close to the carotid artery's Mekong Delta of arteries and capillaries, some of it perhaps even nestled in among these little fuckers: any one of which if knifed will cause some impairment: whether it be a minor left side eyelid
thing, or dragging my left leg around for the rest of my life or, worst case scenario, dead.
I have for the first time experienced how blessed we are in this country with our public health system (oh yeah, since I forgot to renew my private hospital cover about five years ago): my neurosurgeon, is the right man - I figure rolling into dodgy towns at 2pm with 12 kgs on the back and no immediate plan, along with 16 years in journalism have given me some sort of instinctual understanding of the right eyes . . . In a small west coast of island village pub the old man in the corner would say to this surgeon: "I like your face".
He's a listener too, and we have a good understanding on that point about stroke risk - and also about potential impairment/dulling from anti-seizure drugs. I get to have the surgeon of my choice, and the hospital must act fast. I think he's probably saved me about $30,000 by calling me 'Category 1 Public'.
And yep - while you're putting two and two together - those little seizures of the past 18 years: he suspects, but has no evidence, that in fact back then there may well have been some little packet of cells stirring up, well under the resolution of the CT or MRI (his words: "there's many thousands of cells that can group under the 1mm range of the MRI").
If that's the case, it could be good news for my outlook: the tumour is just 20mm now, and that would make it very slow growing.
Another good bit of news from the week is that there's absolutely no swelling or fluid around the tumour - no impairment and a healthy sign about the benign/malignant question.
Right now I'd like to see that word benign in skywriting - blasted out the back of an F18 hornet.
On a hippy note I've seen it and heard it from my friends the blue wrens, king parrots, honeyeaters - and I just don't feel unwell.
I'd like to think that this hiking through wildflower meadow type would be sorta kinda in tune enough with his body that if he were fighting disease it'd let me know, and I'd be listening.
It's a bizarre ride: and not all evil. I'm starting to see some of the richness that comes from these shitful life dramas, mostly in terms of relationships.
My Kim and her Nixie have been just gold - beautiful. Remarkable in fact. I've been awe struck by the giving, the solidity that in turn most certainly helps me keep my shoulders straight through this tricky time.
My parents, well, at 38 and with my own home it's almost embarrassing:
they're making sure I know they're still guardians and amazing at it. They keep finding ways to say "you're covered - don't worry" and it's beautiful.
I have a nice calendar of dates for beach walks (about the only activity I can really do without risk of injury if I pass out again) with friends from all eras. There's no 'peripheral' friendship here, no back stalls to this theatre.
The first couple of days after being told I had a tumour I needed quiet time to fish a couple of the words out of the manky soup of thought/emotion in the brain: that ramble of scribbles as mostly many words about fears given the different scenarios: stunted, dulled, impaired, fuzzy, malignancy dead etc among them
The words now being scribbled (just jotted, no order and non sensical) are more about that richness of learnings and strengths: embarkation, awakening (with a question mark and not to be hijacked by some missionary) consolidation, embracing, rallying, maturation.
Then there are words perhaps akin to the Burning Man experience: reinvention (already a fact requiring thought/planning - laws in this state mean I won't be able to drive until I can show at least 2 years without another general seizure), distillation, redefining, savouring, 'birth of the TRUE observer'/'death to the procrastinator/cynic'.
We'll really know what we're dealing with after the biopsy of course, but right now I hold to the reinvention course: no need to jump on a flight for last stodge masters supper yet until I'm told otherwise.
I'll beat this fucker, "no different to burning off a wart" to use my lifelong mate Scotty's assessment of the situation.
In the meantime planning that next hike in Argentina is underway:
Jim's procrastination is about to be lanced.
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