Howling at the Moon

Finally, the day came to meet Dr. Greene. It ended up that he, like many specialists, was in great demand. So much so that he'd spend a day in one office, then the next day in another. I later found out that this sort of rotation isn't all that uncommon.

Of course this meant that we drove to the wrong office for our first meeting. After a harried rerouting, we found ourselves in Dr. Greene's office. Despite the complaints of the anonymous Internet poster, the office looked fine. Really.

He turned out to be a nice guy. He was an average, doctor-ish, nondescript looking guy. Quiet, but don’t you want someone calm doing your brain surgery? I don't want Rip Taylor digging around in my skull.


He had me do a few “look this way” type of exercises, then asked me to take off my shoes. My wife and I exchanged glances for a second. Hers was one of terror.

A word about my feet. They are flat. Really flat. I’ve worn arch supports (actually the same ones) since 1984. I have calluses on my toes that are so thick you can strike a match on them. My toenails, depending on when you catch me, often look more like talons. As they did when Dr. Greene asked to see my feet.

“Oh God,” my wife said.

“What?”

“Your feet,” she laughed, then shook her head. “They’re so nasty.”

“But they’re my only form of defense against predators,” I said.

An ever-so-slight smile flashed across Dr. Greene’s face. He asked me to perform a few more movements to determine what type of damage the tumor had done. Since it was in the center of my brain where all sorts of functions converged, anything could happen. Turns out I was okay for the most part. My balance and motor skills were okay.

Only thing is that he wanted to get a second opinion. He referred me to Dr. Thompson, the radiation oncologist who would be part of the team that would treat me. Dr. Greene and Dr. Thompson were going to compare notes and discuss the various methods of treatment to figure out what was best.