The Boiling Point

This is a sample chapter.

Sample Chapter

THE BOILING POINT 

The blueprint was simple but loaded. Move back to Newburgh, find a restaurant gig, save some money, align my ducks, and head out west. Completely change my life and my environment. Roll the dice. Hope for the best. But the universe consistently found a way to modify a misguided course. It only hurt when I tried to push against the grain. 

I had a fairly clear idea of my time frame. I calculated the amount of money I would need to get a car and still maintain enough of a cushion for the first few months without steady work. There were a number of loose ends and unanswered questions, but that made the move even more exhilarating. It also helped that I was at the frayed end of my Buffalo rope and was more than ready for a change. 

Mom still believed my final destination was New York. Telling her that I was leaving was going to be the stickiest part of my plan. This wasn’t a three-hour trip to Ithaca or a six-hour ride to Buffalo. This was the other side of the country, and for us, it could have been the other side of the world. It wasn’t for a semester or a week in the summer. This was for keeps. 

I knew I needed to handle the news with care. She understood my desire to leave Western New York, and she supported my passion for pursuing a life in the arts. The city was only an hour away, and I’d already established a certain level of familiarity with the boroughs from my days at the record label. But it was no place for the weak- willed, and you ate what you killed in Manhattan. Living in New York was romantic, but living in LA was doable. I didn’t have the luxury of prolonged decision making or money to burn. It was time to come clean. 

Shortly after I got settled at home, I asked Mom if we could go to a small intimate bistro in town to talk. She knew me too well not to be suspicious. This was a serious discussion, and there was a definite weight to my words. I was pretty nervous, but the resolve behind my decision helped me get the message across. I wasn’t sitting on the fence. My heart was already in LA. 

It certainly wasn’t easy. We both shed some tears and tried to let the gravity of the situation register. She said she knew how much I loved California and she understood my need to be back with my core support team. There was emptiness and a void inside that desperately needed to be filled. She didn’t want me to suffer anymore, and if that meant letting me fly, she was willing to bear the pain. It was a shock and a slap in the soul, but she heard my voice change when I got back from my last trip. She saw a renewed spirit and enthusiasm normally nonexistent in my isolated tundra. She didn’t want to lose me. But if I stayed, I would continue to be lost. 

The job hunt was relatively smooth. I had a couple of leads but solidified a position as a server in a newly opened Greek restaurant. It was family-owned and operated, the polar opposite of my corporate sports bar experience. I wanted to focus on more personal interactions as a waiter in a warm inviting environment. I liked the idea of being on the ground floor of a business with potential, offering my input and building a mutually beneficial schedule. It was an ideal situation for saving money while working close to home. 

The transition was a little rattling. Although I knew my move was temporary, feeling a certain level of regression was unavoidable. I could rationalize and justify my motives, but it still seemed like taking a step back into the protective shell. The safety was, indeed, a blanket. I wrapped myself in a warm cocoon of familiarity. Living at home is very comfortable, and that’s precisely the problem. 

Almost instantly, my head went back to Keish. It was impossible for me to walk those halls and sleep in that room and not summon the memories of everything we shared. It happened every time, like a visit from some Ghost of Relationships Past. I knew that she was living in the area, but I didn’t know where to find her. We had some brief conversations while I was in Buffalo, and it felt like there was honest potential for a rekindling. But after I canceled plans to see her because of my involvement with Christine, the camel’s back finally broke. 

With my tail between my legs, I made a delicate first move by sending her a laconic e-mail. I didn’t even know if she still used that address, but it was the only line I could throw. I kept the message brief, and that’s saying a lot coming from the king of venting through writing. It was an update and a notice that I was back in town. I assumed the message would be met with a certain degree of resistance, but I couldn’t stifle what was inevitably going to surface. I did my best to be clear and apologetic and crossed my fingers for a response. 

I received a quick reply explaining that she wasn’t exactly sure how I would fit into her life again, but she would take some time to think and call me soon. It was surprising and promising, and I was infused with a nostalgic eagerness to see her. Timing is everything, and I felt this could be a viable second chance. Then, the phone rang on Christmas morning. 

All of the butterflies assembled in my stomach took flight. I couldn’t believe my ears, and most of what I heard sounded fairly optimistic. It wasn’t a wide open door, but Keish had cracked it just enough to let in some light. There was still a piece of her that needed to know if the memories she clung to through the countless storms were still alive. I guess I needed to know too. 

I stopped by her work on New Year’s Day. She appeared from around a corner and I froze. Looking into her eyes after so much time apart was almost too powerful to process. This was Keish. My Keish. Finally. I wanted to hold her and apologize and wipe the slate clean. I wanted to explain and justify and excuse all of my juvenile decisions and shortsightedness. I wanted to make her feel like we were seventeen again, walking through a world of possibilities. Instead, I mumbled a few lame jokes and battled the awkwardness with a smile. But through the fog of silence and self-consciousness, we made plans to get together later that night. A much-needed reconciliation was only hours away and my heart was pounding. 

It was a short drive over the Hudson River to Beacon. Keish was living with roommates, but no one was home. There was a lot on our respective plates, and it took some time to warm up the engines of conversation. The first order of business was recognizing, and ultimately removing, any tension in the room. It was sucking up the oxygen and getting hard to breathe. 

It was a bit of a tennis match, but when we actually served each other some honesty, the discussion found familiar ground. She wanted answers, and I wanted the opportunity to explain. It wasn’t easy. I had a list of misguided actions to defend and more to justify, sometimes even to myself. But with each piece of disclosure, we moved a little nearer to what we knew was still whispering inside. There was a communion that grew from history. We were hardwired to remember. 

She wasn’t blameless, but most of the fumbles came from my hands. We had been a part of each other’s lives, in one form or another, for a long time. We always had chemistry, but rarely managed to align the intensity of our feelings. Immaturity, distractions, and the general business of life all played a part. But I felt grounded and cleansed, and I was ready to stack the bricks again. Our roots were strong. We just needed some repairs. Keish, on the other hand, had a slightly different idea of how to use those bricks. She chose to build a wall. 

The rude awakening that accompanied the arrival of harsh daylight after hours of candles and shadows couldn’t compete with the blatant uneasiness we both felt in the room. We spent the night on a constant swing. Silence broke the chatter. Laughter replaced the sad. We started as a spark and grew to a blaze. Secrets shared, secrets kept. We lost and found ourselves in sixteen hours. 

The mood in the morning was definitely different. I spoke to her roommate, who I had known since high school, but there was a lingering discomfort I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I felt like Keish was rushing to get away from something. I had to hold on to the hope that that something wasn’t me. Through a few forced jokes at her door, I grinned and slinked away. I couldn’t predict the future, and I had no idea what was waiting for me. But I never assumed that exit would be the first in a series of last goodbyes. 

I got back to the house and thought about how unpredictable life can be. The more I obsessed about control, the less real influence I seemed to wield over the trajectory of my course. There is only so much any of us can do to construct the bubble, and the most important thing life can teach us is how easily that bubble can pop. 

Dismissing the awkwardness of the morning was easy. It wasn’t a comfortable setting, and the addition of her roommate only heightened those levels. We just needed to get to know each other again. Yeah. That was the idea. Start slowly. Baby steps and kid gloves. Even though we had just spent the night together, it was time for reintroductions. Our new selves were strangers to the old. This was going to take some effort, but I was willing to put in the work. 

Unfortunately, it takes two to tango. Having more than one person on the same page in a relationship is kind of an important detail. Who knew? As much joy as I got from endless daydream romanticizing, the cold dark reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. After a few follow-up phone calls went unreturned, it finally registered that Keish was not interested in exploring any areas of the pond beyond that initial piece of broken ice. She eventually called to more clearly paint that picture with words. It was also precisely the moment my faith in the concept of love began to wither. 

Maybe it was because I was finally on the receiving end of the rejection, but this hit me hard. I guess I had always been in the power position, and I took that power for granted. I deserved some retribution, but I would have preferred yelling and screaming to severed ties. The whole conversation happened in slow motion. I just kept waiting for her to concede, but my arguments and pleas fell on deaf ears. She wouldn’t cave. She wouldn’t retreat. This was sincere. I was losing the love of my life. 

It wasn’t my finest hour. I hung up the phone, jumped in the car, drove through the pouring rain, and appeared unannounced at her doorstep. A grand gesture of some romantic promise of commitment, I guess. She was confused and a little uncomfortable. From her perspective, we had our discussion, she said what she needed to say, and it was over. Why was I soaking wet standing at the foot of the stairs like an abandoned puppy looking for the leash? 

We talked for a little while in her room, but any effort to explain fell flat. I knew it was pointless to convince the inconvincible. I’d used up far too many free passes in our years together. It was time for my sentencing. I dragged my shackles back to the car and sat in the rain. If I pulled out of that driveway, I knew I would never return. This could be the last time I’d see her. My stomach felt hollow, and I was physically drained from the emotional exertion of the night. Eventually, the self-conscious realization that my car was running and my lights were shining on the wall of her apartment was enough to push me back into the street. 

The recovery period wasn’t immediate, but I eventually cleared some of the emotional residue and tried to refocus on the task at hand. I turned the spare room into a writing/recording space so I could have my own area to be creative. This became a private zone where I could escape, unclutter my head, and expel any residual hurt through healthier outlets than obsession and self-pity. It worked. Sometimes. 

A fairly persistent theme of this narrative has been the shock of those unpredictable bolts of lightning that took the legs of a situation already walking through the mud and crippled them. The stamina needed to routinely sweep up the broken pieces should stand as a testament to my strength and resilience. But I’ve learned that when lightning strikes, something just gets burned. 

I continued my work at the restaurant, saving almost everything I made. Living at home was a fast track for accumulating funds. Add the lack of any social distractions and I had a tasty recipe for fiscal responsibility. My core was all in LA, and I maintained very few ties with any hometown high school friends. I had some intensely close relationships throughout my developing years in Newburgh, but when I left for Ithaca (and then Buffalo), those ties weakened. I’ve never been the best at sustaining connections, especially when distance intervened. 

There are a few select friendships I regret dissolving, and those regrets are something I’ve carried. But a new environment with new scenery sometimes painted the past with a blurry brush. Every step was an original lesson in anticipating what was ahead and remembering what I’d left behind. It was the only way to move forward. 

I attempted to keep my blinders attached and my eyes fixed on the finish line. Unfortunately, a methodical planner is the first one to watch his carefully laid plans crumble under the weight of expectation. Waiting tables was simple. Writing music was inspiring. Planning a West Coast rebirth was rejuvenating. Staying after work to flirt with the pretty bartender felt natural and liberating. Doing all of these things while my brain spun like a vertiginous pinwheel proved to be slightly more difficult. 

I engineered an old excuse train down familiar tracks. I was probably tired. I hadn’t eaten enough. The lights were too harsh. The stress from serving customers was finally getting to me. I’d been exercising a lot lately. The barometric pressure that time of year was a little funky. My allergies were always an issue. But if history had shown me anything, lingering suspicion can’t be rationalized away. Positive thinking can’t shield the strike when you’re slapped with the truth. 

When I first moved back to Newburgh from Buffalo, I made an appointment with a neurosurgeon closer to home. I simply wanted to establish a relationship with someone certified in maintaining and installing my programmable valve. Ironically, the doctor I saw was part of my initial neurosurgical team at Westchester. Dr. T hadn’t operated on me, but he was one of the first faces I saw in the ER during my “sweatpants consultation.” I hadn’t even remembered he was the same man until I read through my old medical records. 

Because I was without symptoms, it was more of a meet and greet than an actual office visit. But my peace of mind seemed to grow exponentially when a medical contact was one phone call and a few miles away. I was feeling good, so there was no real need to take action or raise any flags. He ordered a CT scan to get a more updated picture of my CSF levels, shunt placement, etc. He reported to my doctor in Buffalo that I seemed to be functioning well, but I didn’t have the scans taken until a few weeks later. With hydrocephalus, a world of security can crumble in a few weeks. 

Mild headaches and stress-induced strain were usual visitors, but these bouts with dizziness seemed to be something more significant. I couldn’t ignore the fact that I wasn’t myself. It was like a faint beer buzz or the lightheaded rush from holding my breath for too long. That was my everyday indication that the clouds were gathering. It was tolerable, but uncomfortable and confusing. I needed answers, but didn’t want them. I could feel the downward spiral inside me descending like a staircase to oblivion, and there was too much familiarity with that kind of fall. 

After the doctor read the results from my CT scan, a phone call for a return office visit came as no surprise. There were daily fluctuations in intensity, but it was absolutely apparent that I had something very wrong with the waterworks. To say that I was eager to see a neurosurgeon about anything is probably inaccurate, but I couldn’t keep pretending the storm would pass. At least I could get a game plan organized and begin my search for an ounce of optimism. 

Common sense wins again. The heightened fluid levels did, in fact, signal a probable malfunction. Although Dr. T’s news was somewhat expected, I couldn’t fully process what I was hearing. Confusion. Denial. Anger. Despair. The path lying before me was crawling with landmines. Still, no alternate routes were available. I was about to knowingly walk into the eye of the storm. How did I get back here? How long would I be unfastened from my life? Why must the noose around my neck constrict every time I find some wiggle room to breathe? My neatly woven plans were about to unpleasantly unravel. 

However, the fact that this diagnosis was based solely on a perusal of my CT scans provided the thread of hope I needed that a physical exam might offer some workable solutions. A long shot was still a shot. The cards were stacked, and the symptoms were persistent. 

But the evolution of technology in the medical field is rapid. A deluge of questions flooded my head. Could some advanced drainage technique buy me more time with this current valve? Have shunt revisions become simpler or have the recovery periods gotten less punishing? I couldn’t close the pipe dream door completely, but the outlook was bleak. 

Speed was always a factor, and this episode was no exception. Dr. T suggested I travel to Columbia Presbyterian because they had a more extensive neurological facility. Insurance was a major issue, so my options were limited. A possible workaround was to find a surgeon at Westchester Medical where both the doctor and the facility accepted my coverage. Luckily, he had a colleague he believed might be a good fit. After Dr. T arranged a meeting, we raced to find some answers. 

I don’t remember his name. I probably erased it from my memory. It was an encounter I hoped to instantly forget. Obviously suffering, I walked into his field of vision and he stared at us like we had just interrupted his snack time. Apparently, speaking to someone in need was too heavy a burden for him to bear that day. He abruptly ordered an X-ray to look at the shunt placement, and my intuition said to run. I didn’t feel comfortable with him, and I didn’t trust his judgment or willingness to help. Then we learned that neither the hospital nor this doctor took my insurance. Instinct wins again. The pot boiled over. 

That was enough frustration to spin the sanity ship into orbit. I turned on my heels and headed to the car. I may have needed help, but not his kind of help. My tolerance for incompetence was thoroughly exhausted, and I still had no answers, no plan, and no way to numb the pain. It was easy to run away, but it was hard to know when to stop.

I went there with the smallest thread of hope that my valve could be adjusted or, at the very least, I would be given some options. Instead, I was left more alone and lost than ever. I’d felt those little fuses blow before, and this was another example of a malfunctioning brain with far too much on its plate to process. I didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t go back inside. I just needed to leave. Mom started the car, and we drove to nowhere. 

It wasn’t only this incident, but a general realization that my condition was a cycle of hope, loss, regret, anger, damage, and repair. This was another straw in a familiar hay bale of paused dreams and stunted aspirations. I stared out of the window, contemplating, spinning, and lost in disbelief. My options seemed more than limited, practically nonexistent. I could not continue to be a passenger on this ungovernable seesaw. I was cornered. My eyes lost focus. Trees floated by the edge of the parkway. The car felt smaller. Sunlight blinded me from every angle. Oxygen vanished. The anxiety/panic fusion started to surface. Then, the phone rang. 

Dr. T heard what happened at Westchester and called with the reassuring mix of concern and levelheadedness that I desperately needed. I wasn’t scolded for leaving. He didn’t put the sole onus on me to take care of my personal health. He refused to simply wash his hands of the situation, shrug his shoulders, and wish me luck. Instead, he was sympathetic and audibly irritated with the way the encounter was handled. He felt his colleague dropped the ball by not delicately addressing the issues of someone in such a fragile state. I couldn’t have agreed more. 

To help reconcile things, he scheduled an introduction with the man who would eventually save my life. We had no idea that day that suggesting a consultation with his partner, Dr. K, would set specific wheels in motion that would not only allow me to alleviate the burdens of actual physical pain but would ultimately give me the confidence to leap from that perch of apprehension and finally fly. 

We traveled to Northern Westchester Hospital with renewed hope and brighter prospects. Finding someone who was willing to work with me to shape some type of attack plan could help me stop feeling like a pinball bouncing from one opinion to the next. I needed a tactician with skill and a cheerleader with some heart. That combination was difficult to find in a world of left-brainers. But there was one rare dancer who moved to a slightly different beat. 

Dr. K didn’t look like a neurosurgeon. He had thick hair, modern glasses, and an easy confidence that read more capable than cocky. He had the appearance of a painter, a liberal activist, or some type of bohemian sculptor. The sincerity of his smile and the generosity in his eyes helped warm his face, and I immediately took a step back from the ledge. There was this sensation of instant comfort. I’m not sure why I felt I could trust him so completely. I just knew. My initial reactions are generally proven correct, and this was another example of intuition pushing me down the right path. 

He ordered a shunt X-ray to determine whether the tubing was coiled or twisted and a CT scan to inspect my CSF levels. Even though the CT machine was inoperable that day, he examined my valve and determined it might not even be a malfunction. The levels weren’t dangerously high, and the valve seemed to depress and refill with fluid. I was sent home and told to return the following day when the CT machine was working. 

He also reset my programmable valve to a lower setting to see if the body required a slightly different pressure environment. This was usually a tedious process. The powerful magnet used to adjust the levels from outside the skull was imprecise and often yielded unpredictable results. This was no exception. After three attempts, the new setting was achieved. Fortunately, it was a painless exercise. The only drawback was the disproportionate amount of trips to the X-ray machine to verify that the valve’s settings were modified. But a little radiation never killed anyone, right? 

We returned the next morning to get the CT scan. That pretty bartender, Jess (who’d now become much more than a work flirt), joined us to hear what I hoped would be some encouraging news. I felt a little better than the day before, so I clung to the possibility that the slight adjustment was some perfectly hidden fix to stop my slide. The effect from pressure fluctuations could be deceiving. Sometimes the smallest change could drastically tilt the scales, for better or worse. 

These scans showed very little variation from the films taken a month earlier. On one hand, this was a good thing because the levels had not significantly increased. However, my hopes of an immediate solution were quickly squashed when it became apparent the valve adjustment was ineffective as well. Dr. K was still hopeful that the debris or excess protein obstructing my flow would eventually pass. He asked that we wait a couple more days, but I was told to call his office if I experienced any exceptional changes. Back home. More waiting. More worries. 

Unfortunately, the sleeping giant in this scenario continued to be the insurance situation. The rapidly disappearing sand in my hourglass compounded the stress factor and added some additional weight to an already head-heavy time. As soon as I made the decision to stay with Dr. K, I knew I had to secure insurance from a participating provider. Because it was so dangerous to have a lapse in coverage with a preexisting condition, the transition from one company to another was a tightrope walk. At times, it felt like obstacles were deliberately put in place to sabotage the switch and limit my ability to follow established guidelines. It’s not my intention to use this book as a soapbox, but I experienced a health insurance system mired in procedural red tape and confusing medical jargon. For those of us struggling with illness, the additional emotional toll of having to plow through endless fine print was not the medicine we ordered. 

The pain and dizziness continued to escalate, so I finally called Dr. K’s office two days later. There was an error on the part of his assistant, and he never received the message, but Jess followed up with him later that evening. He was concerned that the pressure had not equilibrated and asked that I report back to Northern Westchester the following morning for another valve adjustment. If at first you don’t succeed... 

The valve was dialed down, but it wouldn’t refill with fluid. It was sluggish to empty a few days earlier, but now seemed completely uncooperative. Dr. K tried to tap it with a syringe, but no CSF escaped. This meant there was definitely a blockage. A procedure to reestablish flow was imperative. 

Ironically, there was no shortage of personal leakage. With my head down, feeling the pressure of Dr. K’s hands trying desperately to tap the valve, I welled with tears and summoned every shred of mental strength I had to drive the repair. But mind over matter fell short as I fell apart. One straw too many. One wish too weak. 

Dr. K, visibly disappointed, delivered the news with a mix of empathy and optimism, but it felt like the last ounce of my stockpiled resolve had washed away with the track of tears painted on my cheeks. Emotionally collapsed, I did my best to play the part of the sturdy survivor, but even I didn’t believe my performance. 

Although there was only a fraction of faith that whatever I was experiencing could be corrected without surgery, the actuality of my position was more weight than the elevator could handle. The cable snapped. Freefall into what I could only describe as an abyss. No light. No sound. An endless black hole where the aspirations of everything I dreamed I could once be descended and died. I needed a rope or a pulley because I was dropping along the line and I couldn’t find a foothold. Fear thumped logic. Frustration hammered optimism. Still, the small spark in Dr. K’s eyes was enough of a distant flicker to pull me from the fringe and rescue my soul. 

Timing was never optimal, but this was particularly inconvenient. Constantly quenching my passion for music, I’d gotten Jess tickets for both a Broadway show and a concert later that week. I hate breaking plans and even asked Dr. K to delay any procedures until after the performances, but he wasn’t willing to take chances. Looking back, I’m grateful he refused my request. Walking around the streets of New York with a malfunctioning shunt probably wasn’t the best idea. 

Sometimes seeing the big picture escapes me and morphs into unrealistic confidence. Sometimes it’s overly grounded and crushes me under its weight. But when it comes to questioning impulsivity, experienced medical minds are normally more fitting purveyors of advice. 

The surgery was scheduled, and Mom, Jess, and Joyce gathered to play the waiting game. We were under the impression that this procedure would be another valve replacement, but shortly before I was wheeled into the OR, Dr. K explained that the blockage was likely between the valve and the tubing. This was not my standard dysfunction. He dialed the device back up to its original setting, hoping that the removal of the debris would reestablish flow with the working valve. 

Earlier in the room, I had some moments of reflection, shifting from introspection and nervous anxiety to despair and sadness. It was common to experience the full spectrum of emotions while the minutes ticked down. There was always some visceral breaking point when my perspective of the future became so bleak and shortsighted, I couldn’t find any light in the tunnel. A brief stifled breakdown normally followed such revelations. But I was usually able to gather myself before the surgery started. Be strong. Be brave. Push down the fear. Hold it together for everyone else. Put on the face. Maintain. Never let them see you sweat. 

The procedure went well, and Dr. K described the significant amount of debris as a kind of algae obstructing the flow in my tube. I was groggy but communicative. I revisited answers to questions I’d asked multiple times, finding it difficult to retain information. But these moments of disorientation were fairly typical for me after anesthesia. I was unaware that I was behaving unusually or having any trouble comprehending. Dazed and thoroughly confused, I only learned about my behavior from those who were lucky enough to witness my bewilderment firsthand. 

Recovery time. Again. Picking up the pieces after my skull had been sliced and diced seemed to get more complicated every time. I don’t know if it was age or simply my body’s inability to constantly bounce back from adversity, but I felt shaken and strained. Routine CT scans said the fluid levels were finding a balance and the ventricles were slowly returning to an acceptable size. But something felt very wrong. 

The nightmare of my third ventriculostomy still hung heavily in my memories. That was the last time I’d had a procedure and felt like my body was broken, regardless of what the scans had to say. That incident was enough to make me leery of positive test results eclipsing self-monitoring. It was probably a mix of equal parts gun-shyness and common sense, but I found it increasingly difficult to ignore the constant pulsations and pressure in a seemingly healthy head. 

Excess blood in the ventricles acted as an irritant, and Dr. K’s explanation for the palpitation was that this blood needed to work its way out of my brain and back into circulation. The thumping headaches made this waiting game less than thrilling, but I continued to trust his counsel. As much as medical technology advanced over the years, one simple fact remained unchanged: neurological surgery hijacks the body. My system was going to have to heal and recover on its own timeline, even if that meant tolerating some pain and discomfort. 

Mom and Joyce drove home, and Jess stayed with me overnight. It was a testament to her nurturing nature that they felt so comfortable leaving me in her care. Jess was an incredible, unflappable source of support. There were very few people in my life that could so effortlessly handle the heavy stuff. Most friends and family tried their best to offer emotional encouragement, be a physical presence, or just empathize. These are critical aspects of the healing process, but the aptitude needed to tackle the tangled web of hospital politics and packed physician schedules took a certain gumption that was more instinctual than learned. 

Jess had the perfect balance of everyday sweetness and assertive ambition. She walked the thin line between being determined and being domineering. There were moments when we literally had to stop a speeding surgeon in his tracks and insist he give us five minutes to answer a few questions. Jess always got those answers. It was difficult to avoid a negative response when playing the part of the patient’s voice of concern, but she did it so magically. That sturdy backbone is what attracted me to Jess more than anything. A single mother who refused to ever bow in defeat sculpted my psyche, and that example is what helped me recognize corresponding traits in my partners. I love strong women with an agenda and a destination. Jess had that laser focus. 

My lack of rebounding continued for the next few days. It became a guessing game as to why I wasn’t feeling better or ready to be discharged. I couldn’t seem to shake the dizziness or escalating head pressure. There was this incessant pulsing at my temples, in perfect time with my heartbeat. But instead of a calming, rhythmic patter, the pulses got louder and hammered harder every hour. Like a hostage in hospital sheets, I grew agitated and uncomfortable. There was no escape. No respite. I was caught in the waves, just riding out the storm. Feeling hurt carried with it a suitcase of burden. But helplessness trumped pain. 

Walking was getting increasingly difficult. I knew staying mobile was a smart thing, but the spinning and nausea told me otherwise. I attempted short strolls in the hallway with Mom and the nurses, but even after putting my best “old man with a walker” impression on display, I was left drained and fatigued. Making headway was met with frustration, and sometimes I even felt worse as the days progressed. My healing curve had some serious gaps, and official answers were hard to find. The only constant was confusion. 

Adding to the strain of the situation was Mom’s attempt to stay strong and positive in the face of this hardship. She buried her sadness and stress so she could appear brave. But the weight of having to hide the heaviness wasn’t healthy. The days felt so uncertain. The balance between stable confidence and complete collapse was teetering on the head of a pin, and she never wanted an emotional outburst to be the final push on the fulcrum. A mask of muscle to cloak the hurt. She would rather suffer the pain herself than let me see the internal wreckage. There was no better example of a mama lion protecting her cub. 

Food was another issue. I had a regular history of dropping weight during my hospital stints, but this particular stay seemed more severe. It was never deliberate. But I don’t have much of a love affair with eating in the first place. Sprinkle in some pain, nausea, and insomnia, and the idea of putting anything in my stomach loses its appeal. Unfortunately, my thin frame and high metabolism joined forces to turn skinny to skeleton. It always looked worse than it felt, but the shock factor was a lot to handle for a few of my visitors. 

Getting a full meal down my throat was cause for celebration. Moms love for their sons to eat, so my resistance to adequately nourish my body was a comic push and pull that normally ended in laughter. We both realized the absurdity of a middle-aged woman trying to stuff mashed potatoes into the mouth of her grown son. It was hilarious and preposterous. But with enough fight, I usually acquiesced. It was hard to know what was best for my health when I was feeling anything but healthy. 

There were more valve alterations, more X-rays, and more wondering what could possibly be happening inside my brain. Dr. K tried some aggressive adjustments to test whether my troubles were entirely pressure related or just the body’s attempt to heal in a dynamic internal environment. At first, the change in pressure seemed to help with my balance and stamina, but when that momentum ended and the symptoms resurfaced, the notion of a pressure correction cure-all was dismissed. Swimming in a sea of variables, attempting to narrow the field of possibilities, was a punishing practice. It seemed even science wasn’t always an exact science. It was enough to make my head spin. Pun intended. 

In the middle of this hurricane of uncertainty, Dr. K said something that forever changed the trajectory of my course. During a nightly room visit, he casually mentioned that he believed a third ventriculostomy should have been successful. He felt that my condition and particular anatomy made me a perfect candidate for the procedure. Having actually looked inside my head, he was speaking from a fairly educated vantage point. He inquired about the first time it was performed and asked exactly what went wrong. I tried to be as clear and concise as possible, untying the knots within the rawness of those memories. But that incident left emotional scars that still stung. It was a dark time, and the mere mention of the episode sent me back to a pretty vulnerable space. 

We were both aware of the complexity of the surgery, but the ability to eliminate the need for a shunt would certainly solve a lot of my problems. If my CSF carried excessive amounts of protein and that protein was the primary culprit responsible for the valve malfunctions, circumventing the need for a shunt altogether would be a permanent remedy. It was some heavy food for thought, but it was a meal I was in no condition to swallow at the time. I kept the idea in my back pocket and continued to watch the waves. 

On the morning of my sixth day in the hospital, Dr. K came in to tell us I would be discharged. The situation wasn’t improving, and he felt that just sitting in the room waiting things out didn’t make much sense. He said that my healing would continue to take some patience. The brain is like a sponge and it requires fluid to function. Dr. K felt that the excess blood still needed to be absorbed by the body, and that surplus blood was what played a role in the headaches and intracranial pressure. He also mentioned that the locking stiffness in my neck was a kind of chemical meningitis. All of these ailments would improve with added rest and time, and I was asked to monitor the situation from home. 

I devoted the four days before my return appointment to staying occupied and rediscovering my routine. I spent some active hours outside of the house, seeing a movie, going for walks, and testing the limits of my tolerance for movement. I certainly felt better away from the antiseptic halls and fluorescent lights of the hospital, but the pressure remained an issue. The consistent dizziness reinforced my opinion that the settings needed to be altered. 

During my office visit the following Monday, Dr. K agreed to reduce the setting by 10°. He believed I would have problems if he went any lower. This was more trial and error, and the only constant marker was how I felt. I knew tweaking the levels was my only option, but it was never an arbitrary practice. 

For whatever reason, modifying my valve’s settings, getting consistent X-rays to verify the adjustments were correct, and waiting to see if my health improved, all seemed like perfectly normal and sane responses to what I was experiencing. Tactical and implicit, I met each step of this process with a sense of possibility that there was some magical number waiting to take all the worry away. Hanging hopes on a lotto ticket beyond my control may not have been the most efficient means of preserving morale, but it got me through the day. 

Removing ideas from my head, even in their infancy, was an almost impossible task. Notions bounced off walls like a manic game of pinball, and there was nothing I could do to quiet the bells or dim the lights. I could argue it was a form of focus, but it registered more as compulsion. This propensity for cerebral hypervigilance had regularly gotten me off my a*s, but it also made for an interesting 

romance with insomnia.
So ever since Dr. K first mentioned the idea of trying another third ventriculostomy, I couldn’t stop thinking. The fact that I was extremely frustrated by my predicament helped add wind to my obsessive sails, but it was the logical core of my brain that was cognizant of the fact that all these procedures formed a queue on a definitive timeline. There was only so much the body and mind could bear. I wasn’t getting younger, and each revision seemed to carry with it an extended recovery period and an entirely unfamiliar set of complications. The unpredictability of life on a wire was more than I was going to accept, so a surgery to stop all the speculation started looking like an attractive proposition. 

Author's Note

This book is already published and available on Amazon. I am looking to expand my readership, so I welcome feedback and/or suggestions about how to reach those who could most benefit from a true story about perseverance, courage, and relentless tenacity in the face of monumental adversity. I told this story to help others. Please help me reach them.