Tap Into America

Your brain is swimming in fluid. It's the same fluid that runs through your spine. The doctors recommended a spinal tap to check my spinal fluid to make sure there weren't any other tumors floating around that they'd missed. They wanted to have a complete picture of my situation before they did much more.

Up to this point, I knew a helluva lot more about Spinal Tap, the movie, than spinal tap, the procedure. All I knew was that they were supposed to be excruciating. Hooray. Off I went.

I did the usual change into the drafty cotton apron thing and got wheeled around on one of those beds you always see on TV. Everyone I met was very serious and somber. I wasn't expecting Rip Taylor to be hooting and hollering, throwing confetti everywhere as I was wheeled into the room but damn.

Once I was in the room they asked me my name and birthday for about the tenth time and explained the procedure. They'd insert a needle into my spine and withdraw some fluid they could later use to check for cancer cells. Gulp. Okay.

An older doctor in his early sixties came in and introduced himself. I wish I could remember his name because it turns out the man's a maestro when it comes to spinal taps. More on that later.

They asked me to turn over on the bed and hang onto the big steel bars mounted at the end -- the same kind you see in restrooms and other areas for handicapped people. I'd need those to hang onto while they tilted the table to get my spinal fluid. Turns out your spinal fluid's more like corn syrup or tree sap than water -- very viscous and thick. Tilting the table allows the fluid to flow a little faster. Gulp again.

Oh, and if I wanted, I could just look up on this screen at the end of the bed and watch the needle go into my spine. Gulpity-gulp.

Peter O' Drool

But first, more tests. Since my tumor was so rare, the doctors wanted to find out as much as they could before beginning treatment of any kind.

This was good and bad. Good in that I didn't have to undergo surgery or chemo. Bad, because I was still on steroids, which made me surly and only able to sleep for an hour or two at a time.

It also meant more specialists. The next in line was a neurological opthamologist (try saying that one five times fast). Once again, I couldn't see him for two weeks. In the meantime, my left eyelid was beginning to droop, making it look as if I was either perpetually winking or about to fall asleep.

The sleeplessness was really getting to me, but I tried to make the most of it. Since the tumor was pressing on my optic nerve, there was a chance that I could lose some or all of my sight, either due to the tumor or treatment. Since I had some time, I decided that there was no time like the present to see as many classic movies as I could in the event I might be blind or have poor eyesight for the rest of my life.

I went on a tear. Citizen Kane (terrific), a slew of Hitchcock (Vertigo was overrated, North by Northwest was not, Frenzy is an overlooked masterpiece), Bullit (dated and weak), To Kill a Mockingbird, Sunset Boulevard and so on. Since I wasn't sleeping, not only did I suddenly have time for Lawrence of Arabia (amazing), I could also watch the commentaries. This crash course was one of the best things about that waiting period -- not only was I able to catch up on the classics, but I was able to learn about them as well. Netflix made it even better, enabling me to watch obscure movies or documentaries I'd always been curious about but didn't want to buy and couldn't rent at the usual physical outlets.

It was a welcome distraction from the discomfort and the drama that was about to come.

Dr. T

I was introduced to Dr. Thompson, the radiologist. He was quite serious, very direct and to-the-point. His thick salt and pepper hair showed his age. But after a minute or two he warmed up. Turns out the man can talk about seemingly any topic, and over the course of my treatment we did. Primarily food, wine and restaurants, but we also discussed Italy, firearms, skiing and the philosophy of Ted Nugent in detail. He’s a well-rounded guy.


He’s also extremely passionate about what he does. He’d seen my MRIs and had begun digging through the medical journals to see what the current school of thought was in regard to the treatment of tumors like mine. Since they were so rare, there wasn’t much.

Initially, both he and Dr. Greene were leaning toward a one-time radiation treatment. Medicine has advanced to the point where they can target radiation to a fraction of a centimeter. They would do this with a single, high blast of radiation right at the tumor. In order to avoid zapping a slice of my brain, they’d hit it from multiple angles with something called a Gamma Knife (anyone need a band name?) that, when all the beams met, would burn whatever area they were focused on.

Though I had only a few office visits with Dr. Thompson at this point, he called frequently to keep us updated on his findings and thoughts regarding the tumor. He’s one of those guys where once you’re in, you’re in, so he’d frequently get so excited that he’d revert to medical-ese to describe aspects of the tumor and differing methods of treatment. I, as listener, was just along for the ride on his rocketing train of thought. It was charming and endearing.

I could understand the appeal for him. He didn’t run into tumors like mine every day. This was a challenge.