Many people have asked me if I’ve gone through the stage of asking, “why me?”. I don’t know. That seems like a stupid question. Who’s going to answer and will it change anything? Maybe I have, but I just don’t remember it. I can remember nights where I couldn’t get to sleep. While on heavy steroids I remember having some strange dreams. For example, I’m still waiting on the Mexican peddler to stop driving his truck up and down that street lined with parked cars. Or the night I spent in the Tucson dessert. But, I don’t remember asking “why me?”.
I’ve known for years of my medical issues, but the current circumstances have meant further inspection. What do I mean? Well, Mark Twain (or someone famous) once said, “The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”
I used to think it was to raise three beautiful and intelligent children. Obviously, I’d done that. But is that why I was born? I used to think it was to be a salesman and build long lasting relationships. I’ve done that and those relationships have weathered some pretty heavy storms, but is that why? I know I was meant to be married to Connie, but that’s probably not why I was born. Or is it?
I don’t want you to think that I’m a deeply intellectual thinker. Nothing could be farther from the truth. But there have been many times where a cup of coffee, bottle of beer or lunch by myself have left me to my thoughts. While my thoughts aren’t always pure they are real. It’s caused me to pause, if nothing else.
Last Tuesday, at 6:30 AM, I was forced to pause. It was time for my annual MRI. This was another reminder of the year that has passed since my surgery. As I laid on my back for the first 25 minutes, I started to think about why I was still here. A person with my history has to wonder. Before the second round of “pictures” they injected me with contrast (i.e. dye). This dye is notorious for making me nauseous for 10 seconds and then, before I actually get “sick”, it’s gone. Then I sneeze and we’re good. They strap me back in, slide the helmet over my face and slide me back into the doughnut. For the next 25 minutes I’m even more perplexed. How many people have the experiences that I do? Probably a lot. How many of them tell the world about it? Probably not a lot. Is this a gift or a curse?
Good news! The initial report from the family doctor is that everything is “normal” or at least like it was a year ago. It’ll be interesting to hear what Dr. Spetzler’s team has to say. There’s still part of me that hopes they’ll say, “come back in and we’ll remove the other CavMal.” It would be nice to put a bow on this chapter of my life and get on with the healing process. I doubt that will happen. Most people aren’t keen on “preventative” brain surgery.
Why was I born? I don’t know. Maybe I should tell my story to more people. Who would listen?
Do you know why you were born?