Treason of Words

Madam Speaker, Mister Vice President, members of Congress, distinguished guests, and fellow cephalids: It had been a year since my last MRI, and in the strange way of memory, the noisiness of the tube had become exaggerated in my mind. This time, I almost managed to snooze through it, the rhythmic buzzing and knocking and whirring lulling me into drowsiness. But, then, I can sleep almost anywhere, especially when I’m bereft of anything to hold my attention.

A week later, this past Monday, m’lady and I met with Dr Stovall to compare and contrast the new with the old. It seems that in the intervening year, my meningiomic mind mite has been busy. Although I’ve experienced no change in symptoms (yay, carbamzapine!), I’m carrying around even more non-brain material in my head. It’s now approaching a size that raises concern, having grown along all axes. It would seem that now is the time to act, or at least, to plan.

The preferred treatment is surgical removal. While it may seem that having open-brain surgery seems a touch extreme as a first choice, the high probability of a positive outcome seems to merit an aggressive approach. Meningiomas, the literature tells me, tend not to attach themselves to the brain, but rather their source tissue, the meninges.

As you can see, that leaves it a few layers above the actual cortex, although, since it takes up space, and none of the tissues below are what you’d call “rigid” compared with the skull, it exerts pressure on the brain. They are, however, ugly bastards:

from woodcreeper’s flickr set on his own meningioma adventure

Naturally, I find this development is terrifying nonetheless. Lumpy and problematic though it is, I fancy my head, and in fact all my constituent body parts, to be as incision-free as possible. Of course, I equally wish them to be free of dangerous, ever-expanding blobs of doom. So, you can see my dilemma.

Where there is a first choice, though, there is often a second. In this case, the second-line treatment option is radiation. This path would grant me superhuman powers, perhaps permitting me to expel the bugger by force of will alone. Additionally, it will fracture the DNA in the tumor cells, killing them when they attempt to divide. Since it grows at a fairly leisurely pace, divisions clearly don’t happen all the time; therefore, it would take a while before it dies off completely. Of course, it would still be pressing on the parts it presses on now, and may still resume expansion later. There’s also some very, very small chance that it might give rise to other abnormal cellular behavior, likely not the sort that would require great responsibility on my part.

Next week, I’ll be subject to another MRI to see where my brain’s oxygen concentrates, better defining the edges of the tumor. That information will be added to the stack of facts and probabilities that I already have, and over the course of the next several weeks, work its way through several stages of Bloom’s Taxonomy en route to a decision. Watch this space!

I wrote this up for the company newsletter; we’re trying to recruit members for our chapter of Toastmasters. It’ll be interesting to see if this attracts anyone.

The promotional literature for Toastmasters generally presents a litany of reasons for joining up: there’s the appeal to the shy, that they might become more confident; the paean to enhanced leadership skills; and always the promise of camaraderie and bonhomie. While worthy reasons to explore our bold, competent and amicable group, they don’t capture the opportunity Toastmasters offers that caught my eye. I’ve not been shy in front of an audience in decades, being an officer lacks appeal, and being gregarious has never been a personal goal. What I was seeking, although I didn’t realize it, was a place to give a speech. Backing up a bit: I was a competitive debater and speaker back in my school days. Adult life, though, doesn’t have much to offer in terms of opportunities to exercise rhetoric and oratory. At Wavemakers meetings, though, there is an engaged audience and a critical ear every week, focused on making you a better speaker. Not only does it indulge my love of spoken reason and clever phrasing, it also allows for competition. Although I don’t always throw my hat in, twice a year, a speaking event starts on the club level and progresses well beyond. If you want to break out of a shell, learn to lead or just make friends, please come visit; if you already love to speak, I’ll see you there.

It’s always a bit of a chore explaining just what it is that I do at work. It still amazes me the fraction of the public who, upon hearing the word “parcel,” first think “package” instead of “land.” I blame UPS. Folks will ask, often in lieu of understanding, whether I enjoy what I do or not. Oh, I do enjoy it. It feels worthwhile; a project that should have been undertaken ages ago, but is just now becoming really do-able. It always feels like we’re advancing the state of the art. These are all things I like about my job, my career, if you will. Few ever ask, though, what I don’t like about it. There’s not much, really. As order-phillic as I am, I even kinda like the chaos that our many priorities bring. Petty as it is, the thing that bothers me most on a day-to-day level is comically mundane.

I work in a modest office building of four stories, all of which are part of our company or parent company. It’s a great place to work, clean and tidy, and regularly updated to look nice and modern. The cleaning, though, can get out of hand. We have a custodian, a young lady who makes the rounds to the common spaces during the day to prevent small messes from becoming big ones; this is especially true of the restrooms, where things can go seriously awry with disturbing speed. Therefore, she makes several stops a day in each of the four sets of privies. You’ll hear the clank-ka-clank of the cart on the tile outside the door, followed by a polite knock and an inquiry about the occupancy of the room. All the guys respond with some variations of “Just a minute” or “occupied.” This will happen from time to time, and I think nothing of it. Some days, though, it’s like she’s got my number. Some sort of potty synchronicity will arise that has me either rushing to vacate or turned back by her yellow CLOSED sign that bars the door. I’m never sure which way she’ll go, either; men first or women, up a floor or down. I have developed a coping strategy, though. My cube is on the third floor; assuming she’ll proceed one floor at a time, the best bet when I see that sign is to head for the first floor, which is the least likely to be cleaned next. I can do my business in peace.

Plus, it gives me an excuse to raid the receptionist’s candy tray. Win-win!