Brain Salad

Just woke from a wretched stew of a dream. Jen and I were at work — the joint was a combo of all the bad elements from the last two places we’ve worked together. Management was utterly clue-free, chaos and bad tempers abounded and, of course, the place looked like it was going the way of the Titanic without the extra added benefit of iceberg catalyst.

In the midst of all the wild, stressful bedlam, the scene shifted. My work mates and I were now all in a waiting room at MGH where I had an appointment with one of my brain crew, Doctor Michael McKenna.

Mike, suited up in his baby blue surgical scrubs, stepped in, hugged me and gave me the not so awesome news — surgery was standing in the wings, waiting for it’s cue. We just needed to wait for the stats from one last test. Results wouldn’t be ready for  eight or so hours but, for some dream-logic reason, we had to hole up right there, in the waiting room, waiting and waiting.

One of my co-workers, in an attempt to lighten the mood and promote her handicrafts, began modeling the light, airy floral print summer dresses she’d designed and sewed. Tremendously thoughtful of her — watching her fashion show surely took my mind off my brain.

My furry alarm clock landed on me just as I was, in the dream, looking around, thinking ‘wow, all these wonderful friends and acquaintances are here with me, helping me get through this crazy ass, nerve-wracking, nightmare inspiring time.’

What brings this phantasm to mind? Eh, I’m entering that MRI time of year. Summer. While making plans for visits to my Pop, vacas with pals and art viewing day trips (Lowell, NYC, North Adams!), I always keep in mind that everything's tentative. Being able to do all these nifty keen-o dealios is dependent on how I score on these upcoming tests and, ya know, these are exams that I can't study for.

So, there’ll be evaluations, analysis and appointments with McKenna, Plotkin, Lassell, Schoenbaum and...and...I’m sure I’m forgetting someone. I’m not expecting nasty news but, ya know, these meningiomas and schwannomas are sneaky motherfuckers.

I’ll relax (as much as I ever do) after that final meeting with Plotkin.
Still...You Turn Me On — Emerson, Lake and Palmer