Published 11th March 2015
Last wesnesday I went to meet my neurosurgeon for the first time.
I liked him immenseldy, apart form the fact that he had the thankless task of explaining to me that I have a malignant brain tumour, and a pretty horrible one at that.
Before I say any more I must ask you to excuse my spelling, I do know that I am writing things incorrectly (honestly) but I have decided to leave the erroress on this first blog so that you can see how this tumour, whom we have christened Bob, and who resides in the speech area, on the left frontal lobe of my brain, is affecting me. Actually, it’s not a true representation because, if the spelling is close enough, spellcheck is correcting it automaticaly.
If I were speaking to you I would probably be a little worse than my spelling implied. I would be saying something like: “I have chlishend this blain tumour ‘Bob’, and he relies in the left frontal cortex. ” In my mind I san stay it all perfectly, indeed I keep offering to read things aloud with disastrous consequenses. As soon as it comes out of my mouth I know it is wrong, so I try to correct it, but it may take several attempts before I hit on a version that I know is the right one, and usually end up in fit of the giggles.
Sometimes, when I’m on a roll it flows almost perfectly, (like when I am yeyying at my teenage son) so i have resalised that maybe I am just being too ambition or cerebral (pun intended) with my speech. There seem to be certain consonant blends that cause more trouble than others, and there are often simper worlds that I could subtiute. The other day, I was talking about the choice of musict you are offered when undergoing an MRI scan (to drown out the appalling banging sounds). I explained that I did not choose classical as it is so diverse: you could, I explained, get anything from “motzart to rasmcan… rebidan.. racchdand…..redachan…… ” ( at which point i realised the folly in even attempting to tackle Rachmaninov) and finished with the far more manageable “….Bach!”
So, back to the plot: my lovely neorosugeon (Whom I am calling Nigel to protect his pivacy and retutation) plans to remove Bob for me. I am to be awake, and will have a laptop on which to type, so that he can judge how much tissue it is possible to remove without causing me unnecessarty function loss. The operation will take 4-5 hours but he assumes me time will fly. (i just hope he will keep the conversation flowing, as my side is likely to leave a lot to be desired.)
Having listened to the technical bdetails, the possible side effects, hazzards and risks (raging from death to severe speech loss and worse) I braced myself as I asked him how long I would be in hospilay. He replied, “Oh, you’ll be out the following day!”
So, I am to have brain surgery under local anaethetic as a day case.