“Live every day as if it’s going to be your last, and one day, you’ll be right.” – Malachy McCourt
Much of January of this year for me is a black box. It is very reminiscent of this SNL sketch with Tom Hanks. I can remember some things vividly, like getting wheeled in for a CT scan of my brain at 1 AM in the hospital after my first DBS surgery. I also remember being woken up for neurology checks all night long. “Mr. Andersson, can you push against me with your right foot? Push! Now, pull away from me with your right foot. Pull!” I have no recollection of other things, like the fall and two seizures I experienced soon after arriving home, the corresponding ambulance rides to the emergency room, the additional scans and tests, and numerous conversations with various doctors and nurses. The notes are all there in my electronic medical record, but there are considerable gaps in what I can recall. Yet I know what essentially happened. I can see the dent in the drywall next to my bed, which my head made.
After coming home from the hospital, I have no recollection of watching Ken Burns’s ten-episode series on the Civil War with Annika and Malin, though I have seen pictures of me sleeping in front of the TV while it was playing. I also have no recollection of the homemade shortbread cookies that a dear friend dropped off. I am told that I raved about them and consumed them in massive quantities until they were gone. I vaguely remember being quizzed by Jennifer and the girls from time-to-time to see what little information I could retain. This experience for them must have been in equal parts hilarious and distressing. Finally, I also vaguely recall “using” the walker that the neurologist ordered to assist with my ambulation. I would simply pick up the walker and zoom all around the house at takeoff velocity, occasionally knocking pictures off the wall, which I still sometimes do. Boom! Crash! Here comes the papa!
My takeaway conclusion from this unusual experience is this: the list of things I need to be happy is much shorter than I previously thought. To be content, I need:
– family
– friends
– health insurance
– a roof over my head
– food and water
– some clothes
– a computer
– Wi-Fi
I have literally stumbled upon the essence of life. As Richard Rohr puts it:
At this stage, I no longer have to prove that . . . my group is the best, that my ethnicity is superior, that my religion is the only one that God loves, or that my role and place in society deserve superior treatment. I am not preoccupied with collecting more goods and services; quite simply, my desire and effort – every day – is to pay back, to give back to the world a bit of what I have received. I now realize that I have been gratuitously given to – from the universe, from society, and from God. I try now, as Elizabeth Seton said, to “live simply so that others can simply live.” Rohr, Richard. Falling Upward (p. 121). Wiley. Kindle Edition.
Deep Brain Stimulation
I am happy to report that I am starting to enjoy the benefits of DBS. It promises to improve the management of my symptoms and improve the quality of my life in meaningful ways. And I have a remote control for my brain. How cool is that!?